The Mapmaker's Children (17 page)

“Hurry, dearests!” Auntie Nan's voice echoed down the hall. “Winifred, help the Browns dress.” She paused at Sarah's open door with George by her side and a beagle in arm. “My goodness, has this young man had you pinned in conversation? Frederick,” she lightheartedly admonished, “give a young lady a minute's peace and help your old aunt feed the babes before we leave for dinner.”

Freddy nodded respectfully to Auntie Nan. “Poached,” he said before exiting. “That's my preference.”

“Isn't poached soft boiling outside of the shell?” Sarah curtsied.

Freddy winked with his back to his family, then joined his father.

“Winifred will be up shortly. I hope the room is to your liking,” said Auntie Nan.

“It's exceptional. This painting in particular.” Sarah pointed.

“Aw,
The Tempest
.” Auntie Nan's large bosom rose and fell dramatically with a sigh. “A favorite of mine, too. So full of passion. A man and woman eternally divided by a tributary. A mother's devotion. A child's need. A storm of desires in one fixed portrait.” Her voice trailed, and she ran her ringed hand over the dog's head, then faced Sarah. “Art is a fairy tale for the eye. This was painted over three hundred years ago, and still it speaks, tells a story, and leads us to our own.”

For once, someone had put to
words
what Sarah felt and knew to be true.

“If I could do it all over again,” Auntie Nan declared, “I'd pick up a paintbrush. Even if I hadn't the talent, I would've liked to learn to replicate the masters. But then, I might've lived my life in imitation and not as myself. What a bore that would've been!” Her wide smile returned, and she grasped Sarah's wrist with a warm shake. “Now look who's blabbering.” She released the girl and marched straight out, closing the door as she went.

Sarah returned to the painting, hearing Auntie Nan again:
A man and woman eternally divided by a tributary
…like the River Styx. She envisioned Mr. Santi on one side, gazing across with earnest devotion. Auntie
Nan on the other—only she hadn't the child at her breast. Sarah imagined a beagle there instead and giggled alone in the room. It helped ease the pang of regret needling her chest. She'd never be that woman on the riverbank, in life or the hereafter.

A
T THE
Atwood and Bacon Oyster House, Sarah had the Virginia roasted fancy oysters, in honor of the Hills. Freddy had the half-shell Capes, in honor of New England. They shared a silent grin and a lengthy discussion of the eggs featured on the menu: boiled, fried, dropped, and served on toast, grits, wheat berries, or alone. No soft-boiled or poached, however. So they stuck to the house specialties and left the eggs for another time. George, Auntie Nan, and, most especially, Annie were flummoxed by their banter. Her sister thought it off-color to discuss food at such length.

“Mother and Ellen barely have enough on the farm for one full meal a day, and here you are, talking eggs and oysters and European tea,” she'd seethed from behind her upright menu.

“Blasted, Annie!” Sarah had whispered back. “Who said anything about tea!” Then she'd lowered her paper menu and ordered the same as Auntie Nan: a sarsaparilla, which she greatly enjoyed.

Annie had crackers and milk, and Sarah thought that far ruder than her egg talk. They were guests of a prominent Bostonian widow and at an
oyster
house, for heaven's sake. One could not simply nibble milk-sodden wafers. When George pressed Annie to try a half plate of oysters, her sister explained that she hadn't an appetite, which Sarah knew to be the truth. Annie had nearly stopped eating entirely since coming to Concord. Her cheeks were hollow as a rotten pumpkin.

To make up for her sister, Sarah ate her oysters with extra butter and lemon, drank her sarsaparilla cup, and hooted laughter without restraint when Freddy's tower of shells toppled over to the floor. The waiter bid them not to worry. It happened all the time.

In honor of summer's arrival, the restaurant's chef had added a new dessert: ice cream. Hand-cranked on a modern freezer machine by the
lauded confectionary next door. The specialty of the night was a three-in-one flavor called
Neapolitan
: vanilla bean, chocolate, and strawberry.

“Please bring Miss Sarah Brown the complete Neapolitan,” Auntie Nan instructed. “All great artists must have a palette of choices, especially now that you are to study with Miss Mary Artemisia Lathbury.”

The only person Sarah had told of her salon studies was Freddy. She was flattered that he'd shared.

George nodded with approval. “I have sung Miss Lathbury's hymns. A Renaissance woman.”

“The very kind I like,” said Auntie Nan. “One day, I'll commission you, Sarah, to paint for me. Perhaps a doll with your own features so I might have the pleasure of your company always.”

“Don't be greedy, Auntie Nan,” teased George. “Annie and Sarah must first return to New Charlestown. Priscilla and Alice are on the precipice of transgression. Envy is one of the deadliest of sins.” He turned to them. “We'd be honored to have you visit again.”

Annie's body went rigid. She'd sworn she'd never go near the place where their brothers and father perished. But Sarah didn't think of Harpers Ferry and New Charlestown as sharing a locality. She wouldn't like to see the old Charles Town jailhouse again, but the Hills and their neighbors lived in a place apart from the bloodshed, murder, and civil unrest. When she thought of New Charlestown, she was welcomed by the memory of the hearth's blaze, hyacinth petals, and Alice's smiling doll. It was a bastion not only for Sarah but also for those traveling on the UGRR.

And there was Freddy. Beside him, Sarah felt a momentum that carried her unlike any amity she knew. He believed in her, her talents, and the abolitionary mission, and she was certain they could accomplish a great many things to make her father proud.

“We'd love to,” Sarah said, accepting.

George thumped the table. “Splendid!”

Freddy beamed.

Annie fidgeted with her black ribbon necklace. Despite the tight knot at her throat, it had slipped down to her collarbone.

The waiter arrived, carrying a silver platter of colorful ice creams
mounded in matching bowls. The dishes mirrored one another, giving the illusion that there was twice as much: chocolate, vanilla, strawberry—strawberry, vanilla, chocolate. Reflection after reflection, like the legion of dolls in Auntie Nan's parlor. Sarah ate with unabashed delight. Not a sprig of mint left behind.

S
O LATE
did they make their way home that only the stars lit their carriage drive; the streetlamps had been capped out. Sarah was sorry to see the night end but full to delirium with the firsts of many kinds.

A tired Winifred greeted them at the door. “Ma'am, the…cargo arrived and are waiting to be properly stowed for the night. The dogs are in bed.”

Auntie Nan turned and gave George a serious nod.

“It's late. I'll take care of the delivery.” He kissed his aunt's cheek.

“Thank you, nephew.”

“Good night to you both.” He bowed to Sarah and Annie, then quickly followed Winifred to the back servants' quarters.

“Freddy, would you escort Sarah to her room? I'll do the same for Annie, since hers is on the way to mine.”

It was dark in the house. Sarah could not decipher halls from walls. Auntie Nan said good night, then escorted Annie up the stairs, talking the whole ascent about the use of mint in digestion. Annie, no doubt, felt torn between her affinity for herbs and her aversion to discussing her benefactor's bodily functions. Sarah couldn't help smiling. Her sister needed to step out of her tight corset, and Auntie Nan was just the kind to snip the laces.

Freddy extended the crook of his arm, and she took it confidently. Her mind whirled. A delivery at this time of night was no doubt more than toys and fairy business. George's earnest attention made that quite clear. But she couldn't ask outright. Not here, in the middle of the stairwell, with the first-floor shutters cracked open to let in the briny air and who could guess walking about outside.

So instead, she asked, “How is your Gypsy?”

“Up to her usual—chasing the chickens and stealing food from Siby's table.”

Aw, Siby. Sarah warmed at her mention. “And the Fishers?”

Freddy's happy countenance dropped. “They are well, considering the troubling times in our southern states.” They took the stairs in matched strides, then slowed on the vacant upper landing. He lowered his voice and broached the subject she had hoped he would: “It is part of why we are here now. The business of slavery is causing quite an upheaval, especially after your father's raid and execution.”

Sarah stopped. It was a night of boldness, so she spoke in turn: “Tell me, Freddy, what does your parish have to do with the abolitionist mission?”

Freddy smoothed the top of her hand with his thumb. “Neither my father nor I would ever use the
church
for anything but God's holy work. As a
family
, however, we are committed to the equality of all mankind.”

His answer was like a bee circling a flower without rest. Sarah furrowed her brow but did not remove her hand. She understood his caution, but he knew exactly who she was: Sarah Brown. It was time she knew him, exactly.

“You and your father work with our friends in the UGRR, do you not?”

Before they could move forward together, she needed to hear him say it without symbology or codes or interpretations.
I do
or
I do not
.

Her heart ticked out the silent beats.

“We help the cause of freedom by many means.” He leaned in close, smelling faintly of chocolate ice cream. “The transportation of men and women out of oppression and abuse is one.”

“Is Auntie Nan involved, too? Is that what tonight's delivery was—runaway
slaves
?” She whispered the word, a hex on those it tried to irrevocably define.

“I oughtn't speak anymore. Not here and now,” said Freddy. “It isn't safe for you.”

“I've never known safety in my whole life.”

“If I could have it so, I'd protect you for the rest of mine.”

“I want to help here and now. Tell me what I can do.”

Her heart pounded fiercely. But he ignored her impassioned demand. They walked toward her room in silence. At the door, he paused.

“My father and I are well aware of your proficiencies. You are our chief mapmaker, Sarah. Mr. Sanborn and Miss Lathbury do not put their confidences in just any student. Tonight, what you can do is enjoy the hospitality of my aunt. All is well, my dear.”

He kissed her knuckles, and her head spun slightly, high on sea breezes, ice creams, and secrets shared. Before she could stop him, Freddy withdrew down the dark hall, fading with each step until finally gone.

Alone in her room, she paced. The Hills and Auntie Nan were conclusively part of the UGRR. Auntie Nan's collector shipments were a cover-up for forwarding runaways north to Canada. The dolls had to be part of the operation, too. Just as the Jefferson County guard had said: smuggled weapons and messages.

God had already determined that she follow in the path of the Brown men and take up the spear of action. With renewed determination, she vowed to paint her maps more precisely than all of Galileo's star charts. She stared again at
The Tempest
, barely able to make out its dark river winding to the canvas horizon.

Outside, a spark was followed by a thunderclap. A summer storm.

She fell into bed, exhausted from the power of it all. The rain falling off the eaves lulled her fitful mind to sleep, and she didn't stir until Winifred knocked on her door carrying a breakfast tray.

“Morning, miss.” She set the serving tray beside Sarah in bed: a pot of tea, buttered toast, and three soft-boiled eggs in silver cups. Beside the plate was a vase with a pink rosebud and her copy of
Flower Fables
, a note tucked within the front cover. Sarah recognized the familiar handwriting.

Dear Sarah
,

Thank you again for lending us Alcott's beautiful book. I hope this breakfast makes up for my absence. The delivery we spoke of briefly last night has required our expeditious departure. Auntie Nan promises to return you to Concord in the most elegant and modern of carriages
.

Our time together in Boston was all that I had hoped for and more, a pleasure I'd like to repeat as soon as possible. With your family's consent, you and Annie are enthusiastically invited to our home in Virginia this September, should that time frame suit your academic schedule. The trees will be changing their colors. The Blue Ridge is at her most beautiful in the autumn. A landscape for artistic inspiration and one we would all greatly like to see you capture
.

Please write me your answer straightaway so I may arrange your travel with dependable friends. We are eager to see you again. New Charlestown awaits you, as do I
.

Affectionately yours
,

Freddy

N
EW
C
HARLESTOWN
, W
EST
V
IRGINIA
A
UGUST
2014

E
den briefed Cleo on Vee's visit while they mixed up a pumpkin dog-biscuit recipe from
The Holistic Hound
later that afternoon.

“They bayoneted baby dolls. Vee called it a doll massacre.”

Cleo gasped, less in horror than intrigue.

“She came by during her ice-cream-truck rounds—you know, with her dad and the broken pelvis, she's had to take on being the driver, too. Pass me the eggs, would you?”

Cleo carefully did so, then finished measuring out the flour. “My grandpa said one of Vee's brothers ought to have come home to help but Montana is clear across the country.”

Eden remembered Cleo mentioning Mrs. Niles's death, but she didn't know Vee had siblings. “Brothers?” asked Eden, giving the cracked eggs a good beating.

“Two. They met a pair of barrel-racing sisters at the rodeo, hitched up fast as lightning, then moved out west to start a dude ranch together. Vee left, too, for a while, but she and her husband got a divorce. Her ex moved to Boston, and she came home for keeps. My grandpa says he's sure they had good reason, but he also says it's too easy for folks to get the split ticket from Uncle Sam. Ms. Silverdash says that's not judgment. It's ‘eternal optimism.' ”

There was truth in what Cleo said. It would probably be faster for her to serve Jack with divorce papers than to submit the National Register of Historic Places form. A sad reality, considering she'd lived with Jack for seven years and in the house for only three months. Time again proving itself an arbitrary critic. A marriage and a house both accrued memories,
vaulted secrets, but at what point did you say
I've had enough of walking on splintered wood
and move out? Was it eternally optimistic to think a fresh coat of paint might make it right?

Cleo had left the biscuit bowl to inspect the key, so Eden finished mixing the wet ingredients into the dry, then dumped the dough onto the marble countertop for the rollout.

“Vee's right,” said Cleo, turning the metal over. “It's too smooth to be as old as the doll. I think they used mostly rusty stuff—iron and copper—back then. Too small for a human door. Too big to be a toy. And did you see? I rubbed off the dirt, and there's a tiny number stamped on one side.”

Eden moved over to her, hands covered in flour. She bent down low to get a good look. “Thirty-four?”

“Only time I see keys with numbers on them is when they're official business or something.”

Eden didn't like the sound of that. If the government owned the key and whatever the key unlocked, then it could possibly claim ownership of the doll. She huffed. “Maybe it's somebody's lucky number—like instead of a name.”

The theory was weak. Cleo frowned.

Eden changed the subject: “What's the cookbook say is the next step?”

“ ‘Cut biscuits with dog-bone cookie cutters,' ” Cleo read, but Eden hadn't any cookie cutters. Dog, bone, or otherwise.

In a flash, Cleo used a paring knife to trace a perfect bone biscuit in the rolled-out dough.

“You can draw?”

“Ms. Silverdash taught me,” said Cleo. “She does all kinds of art. Not just drawing and painting. She makes her own pottery cups, and she sews the coolest costumes for Halloween. Oh, and what she calls ‘floral flair.' She puts pretty flowers together, basically. Plus her dioramas—she'll teach you if you ask her. She teaches everybody 'cause she went to college. Everybody teaches everybody there. It's how it's done.”

“Well, those are amazing.” Eden nodded to the sketches in the dough.

Cleo looked up at her, hopefully. “You think?”

“Even better than a cookie cutter. It's got character. Cric
K
et Bis
K
ets—with
capital
K
's for Cric-
K
et and the vitamin
K
in pump-
K
ins! Pretty as a magazine ad.”

This was her kitchen, she reminded herself, not a marketing pitch room.

“Gourmet CricKet BisKets!” Cleo clapped. “Can we really call them that? Even though we got the recipe from
The Holistic Hound
?”

“A recipe is just a formula for people to follow. What counts is how
you
make it. The final product is going to be a little different for everyone—every time, too.” Eden shrugged. “Have you ever seen the numbers on the bottom corner of a painting?”

Cleo nodded.

“That means it's a limited-edition print of the original ‘recipe.' A maker's mark of exclusivity.”

“Like this?” Cleo carved a
C
into the bridge of one doughy dog bone.
“C
for
Cricket.”

“Exactly! And a fine maker you are, Miss Cleo.”

Cleo swished her ponytail back and forth and continued to draw on the rest of the dough.

When she finished, Eden transferred the bones onto a baking sheet and into the oven. Within minutes, the smell had transformed the house. Gone were the bitter solvents and tangy wood varnishes. It smelled like Thanksgiving dessert pies from Eden's youth: apple, pumpkin, peaches, and berries. Her parents always invited friends over to cook on the holiday, and it was the one time a year their home felt whole. Nostalgia for something she'd never had but dreamed of made her inhale as deeply as she could.

Then Jack walked in the front door, a day early from Austin.

“ 'Ello?”

To Eden's surprise, his call coupled with the spicy baking scents brought on the sort of childhood glee she'd felt when her father had returned from his office in the city.

“Smells amazing in here.” With his navy blazer over his shoulder and a saunter to rival John F. Kennedy's, he came into the kitchen. “What's all this, Eden?”

“We're baking!” proclaimed Cleo.

Jack looked toward Eden with a curious smile. “Are you?”

“Uh-huh. Pumpkin.” She held up the spoon like a magic wand.

“You never cease to amaze.” He winked, and her stomach fluttered.

“First batch will be done soon. Care to try?”

“Be our unbiased taste tester, Mr. A,” said Cleo.

“I'd be honored.” He bowed to the women in knightly fashion.

Cleo giggled. “Everything sounds like King Arthur when you say it.”

“Jack's got blue blood,” said Eden. “It's in his family crest. He's British royalty.”

“No joking?” Both of Cleo's eyebrows raised high. “Well, dang, what are you—a prince or stork, duke of somethin'?”

“A York, you mean?”

“York, stork, dork, pork,” she rhymed. “Whatever you call it over there.”

“Yes, quite right,” he agreed.

This made Eden laugh, a light thing that washed over her like a bubble bath.

“Nothing so grand, darling,” Jack continued. “An ancient cousin married a lady far above his station hundreds of years ago. Thus, our family became regality by one drop of noble blood.”

“Really—that's all it takes?” Cleo scratched at her nose, leaving a flour thumbprint.

He nodded. “And a wicked smart man he was. I took his example to heart.” He gestured with his chin to Eden.

A bolt of lightning shot through her core, and she didn't fight its heat. She couldn't deny the power he had over her. When they were good, they were so very good together.

He laid his coat on the kitchen island.

“Oh, don't just toss that there,” she said before she could stop herself.
It might get flour on it
, she thought but had already bitten her tongue.

His grin dropped. “Where do you want me to put it?”

She registered the tone of annoyed tolerance. It put her on the defensive.

“Where everybody else would put their coat—in the closet,” she snapped. “It's not like it's a completely
unreasonable
request.”

Cleo went quiet by her side. The love spell broken. Jack obeyed and took his jacket to hang it up.

Hearing him, Denny came bounding down from upstairs. He'd gone out to run an errand earlier that day, returning hours later with a Chipotle drink cup in hand. That and Indian food were Jack's preferred take-out options. The closest Chipotle was thirty miles east, in Sterling, Virginia, and she wondered what errand had required Denny that far away. She would've asked but didn't want to henpeck him with questions. He'd been moody since arriving, brushing off her every attempt to corner him about why. Something was troubling him. If he wasn't ready to tell her, perhaps Jack could tease it out.

So Eden stayed silent while Denny greeted Jack and led him away to the living room, despite her desire to call him back:
Jack, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to snap. Look, do you see? The biscuits are done! You promised to taste what I made
.

Instead, the two men went for a walk with Cricket while she and Cleo finished baking. The walk kept them out past
Wheel of Fortune
to
Jeopardy!
, so Cleo went home. She didn't mind missing Pat Sajak but was not about to forfeit her Alex Trebek earnings. With the house empty and the kitchen cleaned, it was just Eden and the doll's head.

She went up to read in bed but couldn't focus, going over and over the same paragraph until the front screen door clattered and ESPN whistled up through the floor. Denny made his way to the guest room after midnight.

She knew she ought to invite Jack back into their bedroom. It was half his. Making him sleep on the couch after a long workweek was plain callous. If she offered him a good night's sleep, it didn't mean she was forgoing her plans. It was merely being considerate. The fact was, Jack had treated her better than what she'd witnessed in ninety percent of marriages. She loved him, and he loved her…it just wasn't really working with
them
. At the very least, he deserved a mattress under his back.

She was about to go down and make the proposal when a new thought
came to her:
What if he doesn't want to sleep beside me?
How awkward would that refusal be, and it was a very, very plausible response. Maybe they were better apart, as simple as that.

She left him downstairs and didn't sleep a wink herself. Instead, she studied the plaster medallion ceiling. When the bedroom's remodeling plans had been drawn up, Jack had said the cascading texture around the center fixture was called a “skyscape”; it simulated an eddy of stars around the moon at night and rays crowning the sun during the day. It looked like rows of teeth to Eden.

At dawn, she heard Jack talking to Cricket on his way to shower in the downstairs maid's bathroom. She worried if he had a towel. She hadn't put any on the rack. Then she envisioned him standing naked in the steam, beads of water dripping to the floor, and a sensation she hadn't felt in some time awakened and stretched: yearning. Not to lie together and make a child, but for him—just him. She turned on her side, brought her knees to her chest, and stuffed the feeling into a ball as if it were one of those rain ponchos that folded into itself.

At the sound of footsteps on the stairs, she panicked.

Don't come in here
, she thought, and then:
Please, please, come
. She couldn't have it both ways. She held her breath when the shadow of feet paused at the door and a hand knocked.

Not Jack but Denny stuck his head into her bedroom, and she was met with too-bright morning light and unexpected remorse.

“Sorry to wake you, E, but I got another errand in the city. Didn't want to just disappear.”

Eden sat up and pushed a fuzzy wave of hair off her face. She must've fallen asleep. Briefly. Somehow.

“Cleo came,” Denny continued. “We gave Cricket a couple biscuits for breakfast. Looks like you're the new Queen of Doggy Dishes, sis.”

“I'll make business cards.” She swung her legs over the side of the mattress and willed them to be strong. Her ankles popped. Her knees tweaked.

She couldn't remember when it started, but it seemed the morning pains had increased over the last few years. Old age was like a creeping
vine, spreading long, toothed leaflets over everything. While her body felt a hundred years old, it had the attitude of a snarky teenager, arguing with her at every turn. She rubbed at the smart in her kneecaps and rolled her ankles until they conceded.

“Jack's gone?” she asked.

“Yeah, he left for the office a few minutes ago.”

“What's going on in the city—” she began, but Denny was already out the door, calling back, “Gotta run, good luck at work today!”

Whatever business Denny was attending to, it was more than she'd had in the past three months. It was Friday. She was starting at Ms. Silverdash's at noon and was excited to be an active member of a community again.

Eden turned the wooden wand on the bedroom's plantation shutters to welcome the day. She couldn't recall having opened them since moving in. A hoary old maple met her, one tangled arm outstretched to the window. So close, the veins on the bear claw leaves looked like road maps.

A squirrel popped out of a hollow and scrambled down the bark to the garden, where Cleo sat Indian-style between the rows of plants, a breakfast can of Dr Pepper by her side, the
Frommer's Mexico
guide in her lap. Eden watched her move her finger over the pages, turning slowly, transcending the world around her for the one within the pictures. Eden wished she could take Cleo to Mexico, walk with her through the exotic flower stalls, buy her a chocolate-scribbled
garabato
, and see a flamenco performance. She'd like that. It could be reality. It wasn't an outlandish request. Not like wanting to go to outer space, ride a dragon, or break a curse with a prince's kiss. People took family vacations all the time.