The Island of Doves (14 page)

Had the wretch gone behind his back and sold it? What reason could she have? She didn’t want for any comfort here. Then another thought occurred to him. What if she had not fallen into the river, but jumped? What if she set out in the rain that night determined to end her life? Would she take the necklace with her as a talisman, hoping she would soon see her mother again? He tried to picture Susannah succumbing to that dark impulse but could not. For in whatever ways she was unhappy with him in this house, this life, Susannah loved the world. Her work in the greenhouse was ongoing, her little plants depending on her. She would not take her own life.

•   •   •

R
everend Webster presided over the memorial service. He prayed, and the congregants prayed along with him, that Susannah would somehow miraculously return to them, and if it was God’s will that she should not, the reverend prayed that she would sleep peacefully in her watery grave.

Edward sat in the front pew as he always did and felt a hundred pairs of eyes boring into the back of his skull. There was a curiosity in them, a morbid fascination. Would this man so central to the business of the city allow himself to break down, to succumb to grief? Had he loved his wife deeply? Would he marry again—and when?

With his head bowed in prayer, Edward could nearly hear the chatter crackling in the minds of the people sitting around him.
What of the circumstances of Mrs. Fraser’s death? Why was she out walking alone?
The town’s gossips were surely in their glory. Edward glanced from side to side. Eliza Beals, accompanied by a nephew resembling his uncle Wendell, sat with her plump arms in her lap and worried a handkerchief in her fingers. Sylvia Root was stoic and sad next to Nathaniel, who glanced nervously at Edward, then nodded when their eyes connected. At the very back of the church, under the shadow of the choir loft, sat that peculiar nun, Sister Mary Genevieve. Had Nathaniel invited her?

It was only appropriate that she would attend the service, of course, since she had been there when Susannah died.
That’s her
, the gossips would be saying.
She’s the one who saw Mrs. Fraser go down into the river. She’s the one who raced to Hawkshill to give the awful news.

He looked back again at the shadowed nun, and though he could not see her face he saw the fabric of her veil sweep forward off her shoulders and understood that she was bowing her head toward him, a gesture of supplication or sympathy or blessing. It made his skin crawl, and not just because he was wary of her religion. Something was odd about this whole business, Edward thought. Something nagged at him about the nun, her story of Susannah’s death, all of it. She was keeping something from him.

The reverend read a psalm.
Hear my cry, O God. Attend unto my prayer. From the end of the earth will I cry unto thee, when my heart is overwhelmed: lead me to the rock that is higher than I.

Edward laced his fingers together to keep them occupied and glanced impatiently at his watch.

After the service, he walked across town and into the woods to the rectory cabin next to the Catholic church, expecting to meet this Father Adler, the priest Sister Mary Genevieve claimed to work for. But instead he faced the nun herself when she opened the door. A brief flash of panic crossed her face, but she brought it back under control. Edward wondered, fleetingly, if the priest and the nun were lovers. The prospect amused, then appalled him. He felt he was corrupting from the inside out.

“Mr. Fraser,” she said, stepping aside to invite him in. “How can I help you?”

“I’ve come to speak to the priest.”

“I’m sorry, sir. He is away in Lockport for a baptism.”

Edward stepped inside and removed his hat. The ceiling hung just a few inches above his head, and in the dim light the nun’s face floated before him. Behind her, near the hearth, was a small white statue of the crucified Christ, his elongated face ghoulish and contorted in agony. Edward couldn’t help but stare at it—contemplating it, as the nun would likely say—and wonder who had carved it so painstakingly from soapstone. These Catholics and their fetishism, Edward thought. He felt he’d like to break the statue with an ax.

“I wonder if you can tell me, Sister,” he said, exaggerating his deference, “whether Mrs. Fraser was wearing a necklace when you saw her fall?”

The nun shook her head. “No, sir, I couldn’t say. As you will remember, it was raining that night and your wife wore a heavy shawl.”

“And when she fell, you said you heard her cry out?”

The nun hesitated. “Yes, sir.”

“You heard her scream?”

“Well, I—”

“That is
not
what you said the night you came to Hawkshill. You told me then she made no sound.”

“Perhaps,” the nun fumbled. “Perhaps my memory is failing me. It all happened so fast.”

Her eyes, he could see, were not really black after all but very dark brown, with flecks of umber. “Do you doubt what will happen to you if I learn that you are deceiving me?”

Sister Mary Genevieve held his gaze, though her face was full of fear. “No, sir, I think I know very well. But what reason in the world would I have to lie?”

Refuge

T
he northbound steamer traveled up Lake Huron, and as the paddle wheel churned the water Susannah watched the shore with its endless expanse of cedar and beech and maple stretching on forever, not a clearing or a house in sight. It felt as though the boat were taking them not just deeper and deeper into the wilderness but back through time, so that she could see everything that men had done to the land be undone, all the ways in which they had broken it be unbroken. Susannah knew it should have terrified her, and yet she was not afraid. The trees, the bears, the wolves—whatever creatures waited in that forest—were absolutely indifferent to her existence. And that was something else altogether from a man who meant her harm.

Detroit had done something to her, loosened the strings that held her fear tethered in her chest. She could have died there at the hands of the man with the knife, and yet she had survived. In fact, she had survived every day since she had married Edward Fraser, despite everything. The wind off the water was cold and fresh, and she inhaled it as if she could take the whole lake into her body. But the relief would be short-lived. Escaping Buffalo, she knew, was only the first leg of this journey. Edward might be only a few days behind her. And even if she had succeeded in leaving him behind, she had no idea what to expect of her future.

The journey from Detroit had taken nine days. The boat moored at the north end of Lake St. Clair to take on wood, which cost them a day. Bad weather delayed them further as they crossed Saginaw Bay, as did an argument between a steward and an Indian on shore over the sale of a fresh-killed deer. The steward had offered to pay in whiskey only, but the Odawa hunter wanted money. Several men got involved in trying to sort it out, including the only white man ashore for a hundred miles, who tended the Thunder Bay lighthouse.

But finally the journey came to an end. Susannah registered the scent of the island before she saw it creep over the horizon as dusk took hold of the sky: wood smoke, the mossy smell of earth. There were three islands, in fact, two of them densely forested. The third had been cleared on the southeast shore and had the marks of a long history of human use. This island at the end of the world, in the middle of all this nothing, was lit up with gas lamps and lined with bridle paths and cabins and a white church with a belfry. A dock jutted out from the middle of the flat brown beach, and it was crowded with a dozen canoes and two schooners. A line of rude cabins surrounded by tall fences stood beside Indian dwellings clustered around small fires. Behind the small cabins was a row of more permanent homes, and, behind those, farther up the bluffs, was the military fort. There flags whipped in the wind like something alive. But Susannah heard no bugle, saw no marching. It had been twenty years since the war with the British. A lone soldier stood in a lookout, his arms draped over a rail, smoking a pipe.

She couldn’t have imagined a place like this, in all of her avid daydreaming, and no words would come when Father Milani explained that they had to be quick in departing the boat, for it would soon press on to Chicago. Susannah stepped down from the dock to the footpath as if stepping into a dream.

She followed Father Milani to a large white house, and several dogs in a wooden enclosure began to make a terrific noise, barking at the newcomers. But they went silent when a woman in her midforties came out to the porch and shouted a command. She too was a singular sight. She wore a narrow black skirt over red leggings, a calico blouse fastened at her throat with a silver brooch that complemented the gray streaks in her coiled braids. They ascended the porch and approached her, Father Milani making the introductions as the woman he called Madame Fonteneau took Susannah’s hand.

“Miss Dove, welcome.” Susannah tried to cover her surprise at the woman’s appearance. She was an Indian, or part Indian, at least, with dark eyes and a wide brow. When the nun told Susannah that Madame Fonteneau was wealthy, she had imagined a white woman, of course, in fine clothes and jewelry—someone a little like the woman Susannah Fraser was supposed to have been. But it seemed that perhaps wealth meant something different here. “You have journeyed a long way. Please come inside and get warm.”

Father Milani stepped toward the door to follow them inside, but Madame Fonteneau turned back to him. “Thank you, Father, but I’m sure you have much to attend to at the church, having been so long away.” She held his gaze a moment. Susannah watched something pass between them, as if Madame Fonteneau were daring him to ask for her deference so that she could deny it. Perhaps she knew something about the priest’s drinking habits. All the swagger Susannah had seen Father Milani display on the boat disappeared in the woman’s presence, and he nodded.

“Indeed, I have much to do,” he said, not quite able to meet her gaze. “I am sorry to have to decline your hospitality.”

Magdelaine held up her hand. “Before you go, tell me—did you encounter any problems on the boat? Do you have any reason to believe Miss Dove was followed?”

Susannah held her breath as she waited to see whether the priest would tell her about Wendell Beals and the detour in Detroit. She didn’t want to conceal the truth, but Madame Fonteneau was an intimidating presence. Susannah feared she might wash her hands of the whole endeavor if she learned of the setbacks on the journey, that Susannah hadn’t followed the nun’s instructions to the letter.

But Susannah needn’t have worried. Father Milani had no interest in prolonging a conversation with a woman who clearly had nothing but disdain for him. “Our journey was long and uneventful,” he said. “Miss Dove was a patient traveler.”

He touched his hat and bid them good evening, then started back toward the lane. Magdelaine opened the door and gestured for Susannah to step inside. The front hall was spare but warm and dry. A lamp sat on a small table at the far end, casting everything in a soft yellow glow.

Inside Madame Fonteneau gestured apologetically. “This really is my son’s house,” she said. “I only live here to appease him.”

Susannah untied her black bonnet and pulled it off, then cleared her throat, unsure how to say what needed to be said. “Madame, I cannot tell you—”

“Magdelaine.”

Susannah gave her a confused look.

“Call me Magdelaine, please. If I may call you Susannah?”

Susannah nodded and took in the sitting room. There was a thick carpet and a stack of books resting on a table beside an armchair. A flowered pillow embroidered with yellow thread sat in the chair. Four pairs of moccasins warmed beside the stone fireplace, and in front of the window a dove rustled in a cage. Magdelaine and Susannah stood at the base of the staircase that led to the second floor. Thick drapery shrouded the window on the landing.

“Thank you,” Susannah whispered, trying again to express her gratitude. “Thank you for taking me into your home. What you have done for me—”

Magdelaine waved the rest of the sentence away with her hand. “Don’t thank me until you decide whether you like living here in January, when there is snow up to the windows and the lake tries to blow the island off the edge of the world. We’ve prepared a room for you upstairs. I know you must be tired, but first, come meet my son.”

Susannah’s mind raced to keep up with Magdelaine’s words. January was nine months away. All through her journey from Buffalo she had thought only of escaping from Edward and surviving from one day to the next. Now that she had made it safely to the island, now that the worst of the danger seemed to be passed—at least for the moment—the wide-open expanse of the future was coming into existence. How long would she need to stay here, and where would she go next?

They went into the kitchen where a man who looked just like Magdelaine was washing his face and neck over the sink. He dried off with a towel and turned to them.

“Miss Dove, may I present my son, Jean-Henri Fonteneau.”

Susannah held her bandaged hand back against her skirt. Jean-Henri took her other hand and gave her a warm smile. “Miss Dove, welcome. We are all so relieved you have made the journey safely.” Susannah noticed that while he shared his mother’s features, his face was softer than hers, though still handsome. Magdelaine was stern, exacting, but Jean-Henri looked merely preoccupied.

“Try not to get too accustomed to his company,” Magdelaine said. “He will soon be off to Montreal.”

Jean-Henri’s shoulders deflated slightly, but Magdelaine seemed not to notice. She pulled Susannah farther into the kitchen. “And this,” she said, putting her hand on the arm of a young woman who stood at the table chopping onions, “is Esmee.”

“Your daughter?”

“No,” Magdelaine said. “Esmee is far more indispensible than that. She runs this house, sews, feeds us, washes our clothes. We would not last a day without her.”

Esmee smiled at Magdelaine, then turned to Susannah. “Welcome,” she said quietly. Her eyes lingered a moment, and Susannah felt the woman examining her face, the loose strands of her red hair that fell across her shoulders. Esmee’s eyes flicked up to Jean-Henri, as if to measure his response to the newcomer, before they turned back to her work at the table.

“You must be very weary,” Magdelaine said. “Would you like me to show you to your room?”

Susannah nodded, suddenly aware of her exhaustion. She could feel it all the way down in her bones.

“Esmee,” Magdelaine said. “Will you please bring some hot water upstairs for Miss Dove?” On the boat Susannah had only been able to splash cold water on her face and hands, but she hadn’t gotten clean. Her fingernails were dark with grime, and she knew she smelled of sweat. The notion of clear hot water and a fresh cake of soap, a thick clean cloth, made tears form in the corners of her eyes.

Esmee pulled a brass pitcher and bowl down from a shelf above the sink and ladled steaming water into it from the pot that boiled on the fire. She climbed the stairs, her steps careful and silent, and Susannah and Magdelaine followed her.

The room contained a narrow bed with a wooden headboard and a thick wool blanket. A small dresser stood against the opposite wall and the dark window reflected in its mirror. Susannah could see the pier, hear men singing around a bonfire on the beach. “Now, you will need something to wear,” Magdelaine said. Esmee set the water on a table and went out of the room as Magdelaine pulled open one of the dresser drawers and removed a freshly pressed linen shift with fine white edging. Behind the wardrobe door hung a few simple calico dresses, and she pulled one down. “I hope these will do until we can make you something better.” She held the dress up to Susannah’s shoulders. “I am afraid it will be a little big.”

Susannah would have been happy to wear a flour sack if she could remove the black wool dress once and for all. “This will suit me just fine.”

She sat down on the blanket, pressing her palms into the soft feather bed. Magdelaine glanced out the window for a moment, still wondering, Susannah knew, whether Edward might be lurking outside the house. She pulled the chair in the corner over to the side of the bed and sat down across from Susannah. “I know you must be very tired.”

Susannah nodded. Her head felt so heavy she could barely hold it up.

“But we must speak for a moment about your journey. Father Milani seemed confident that you were not followed on the boat. Do you feel safe now that you are here?”

Susannah swallowed. It had been so long since she had felt anything resembling safety. “I know that I am safe here, but I still feel afraid. It’s hard for me to believe that I’ve really escaped him, that he isn’t searching for me.”

“Perhaps your wariness is justified. Boats arrive every few days, and your husband could be on any one of them,” Magdelaine said. “Until we can confirm that he believes you are dead, we must be very careful.”

“I will do whatever you think is best,” Susannah said.

Magdelaine glanced at Susannah’s bandaged hand. “Would you like me to call for Dr. Biddle to come take a look at that?”

“No. It looks worse than it is.”

“Did
he
do that to you?”

Susannah sighed, feeling her eyes well up once again. She was so tired—tired of being afraid, tired of holding back when she longed to weep.

Magdelaine’s jaw tightened, and she seemed to measure her words. “That time is over now. No one is going to do anything like that to you again. Do you understand me?”

Susannah nodded. She thought of what the nun had told her about Magdelaine’s sisters, how she had lost them both. That had happened long ago, but the anger in Magdelaine’s voice was as fresh as if it had happened yesterday. It was clear that she was determined to protect Susannah from meeting the same fate. It had been so long since someone had looked out for her, the very feeling made her dizzy. She wanted to sink into Magdelaine’s embrace and the safety it offered.

Magdelaine stood up. “You need to rest now. In the morning we will talk about how you plan to spend your days. But know that you will stay here until we are sure you are safe.” She lit the candle beside Susannah’s bed. “There are more of these in the drawer. And books downstairs. I will send Esmee up with some food, if you can stay awake long enough to eat it.”

Susannah shook her head. “I don’t think I can.”

“Very well. Tomorrow, then. Sleep well, Susannah.” Magdelaine slipped out of the room and pulled the door closed behind her.

Susannah’s eyes were heavy, her head nodding like a doll’s as she pulled the soiled dress off. She carefully unwrapped the soiled bandage from her fingers and peeled the splint away, then washed her face and arms with the hot water and white cloth Esmee had left. With the last bit of strength left in her body, she pulled back the blanket and collapsed into bed, her toes curling in satisfaction for one brief moment before she dipped into the blackness.

•   •   •

I
n the morning, long after the sun rose, Susannah finally woke and sat up with a start before remembering where she was. She changed into the fresh shift folded on top of the dresser and pulled on the calico dress. It hung loose and comfortable around her waist, so much lighter than the dresses and corsets she had been accustomed to wearing back in Buffalo. In the kitchen, Esmee stood barefoot with her back to the door, kneading dough at the table. Her feet were wide and brown, and though the rest of her body was slight, the feet seemed to announce a kind of stability. Susannah traced in her mind the narrow arches of her own feet, white and smooth on the bottom from a lifetime of slippers and rides in carriages.