Property(10)

I crept back to the bed and pulled the coverlet over me. He had no business coming up to the house after nightfall. If I woke my husband he would go out and chase the fellow back where he belonged.

Then I thought that perhaps my husband knew he was there. Perhaps he was a sentry, posted to protect us from yet another rumor of revolt. I waited, breathing shallowly, as if the man might hear me. After a while I got up and crept back to the window. I got on my hands and knees and peeped through the bottom pane.

He was gone.



I TOOK A spoonful of tincture to get back to sleep and woke up feeling dead, unable to move my limbs. I heard the clock strike and knew I must get up and prepare myself to appear in the dining room, a thought that made my stomach turn. I lay clutching my sides and panting for a few moments, then, as the sensation passed, I managed to get to my feet. I washed my face at the basin, trying not to see my reflection in the mirror, but I did see it, and it frightened me. I rang the bell, waited a moment, and rang it again. Shortly I heard Sarah’s step on the stair. “For God’s sake, help me dress,” I said when she came in.

She opened the armoire and pulled out my blue lawn morning dress, the lightest, least-confining thing I own. “Yes,” I said. “Put it right over my shift; there’s no time for the corset.” I drank a little water and collapsed at the dresser. “Just pin up the braid,” I said. She took the brush to the front and secured the back with a dozen pins, while I rubbed a little rouge into my cheeks. “What is wrong with my eyes?” I said, for they were red-rimmed and staring, the pupils like black saucers in a band of pale blue. We heard the bell to the dining room. “I best go,” Sarah said.

“Go on,” I told her. “Tell him I’ll be down directly.” When she was gone, I pulled on my shoes and fastened a tucker in the bodice of the dress. “A cup of coffee will bring me round,” I said. Abruptly I remembered the man, but I had no time to think about him. I hurried out across the landing and down the stairs, clutching the rail like a woman in a swoon. As I approached the door, I could hear the clatter of dishes, the steady scraping of my husband’s fork against his plate. When I went in, he was sopping up gravy with a piece of bread. He looked up at me without stopping. I took my seat, turned my cup over, adjusted my skirt.

“Are you ill?” he asked by way of greeting.

Sarah came between us with the coffee pot. Blessed coffee, I thought as the fragrant steam rose from the cup. I took a careful sip before answering. “I slept poorly,” I said.

“It is because you take no exercise,” he said. I waved away the plate of eggs Sarah held out before me. “Just toasted bread,” I said.

“And you eat nothing,” he continued. “It’s no wonder you’ve made yourself ill.” He shoved in the last of his dripping bread, smacking his lips appreciatively. “More coffee,” he said to Sarah.

I dipped my toast in my cup. My head was beginning to clear a little. As Sarah leaned across him, he gave her a perplexed inspection. “Send Walter to me,” he said.

“Oh, please, no,” I exclaimed.

“What objection could you have?” he said coldly.

“My head is bursting,” I complained.

Sarah set the urn back on the sideboard.

“Send him to me,” he said again.

When she went out, he said to me, “Joel Borden is right. You should go to town and visit your mother. Why don’t you write to her?”

“My place is here,” I said. Then the door opened and Walter was upon us, followed by Sarah, who was making a study of the carpet. Walter was wearing only a slip, such as the field children wear. It was too big for him and hung off one shoulder; the skirt came nearly to his ankles. My husband pushed his chair back from the table and called the creature, holding out his arms to him, but the child just ran around the table, as is his wont, babbling and giving high-pitched shrieks for no reason. At length he passed close enough for his father to grab him. “Hold still,” he said, struggling with his squirming catch. “Hold still, hold still, and I will give you some muffin.” He pinned the boy’s arms behind his back with one hand and with the other reached out to Sarah, demanding “Muffin, muffin.” She quickly broke up a few pieces onto a plate and set it before him. This got the boy’s attention. He began a low crooning, straining his head toward the plate. My husband took up a bit and pressed it to the child’s lips, quieting him momentarily. “How old is he now?” he asked Sarah.

“He seven,” she said.

He ran his hand through the boy’s wild red hair. “Doesn’t anyone ever comb his hair?” he asked.