“They would come right past here,” my husband exclaimed on hearing this.
“That they would,” Dr. Landry agreed. “If the rumors are true.”
“I will inform my meeting,” my husband said, solemn and pompous as an ass. This is how rumors turn into dead negroes.
After supper Dr. Landry agreed to examine Walter, who was described as “a boy we have here.” My husband expressed the hope that some use might be made of the child as a servant, which was entirely news to me. My heart raced with anger, then I imagined Walter pitching dishes out the window and dumping mashed potatoes on the carpet, a thought I found so amusing it calmed me down. They agreed the examination would take place in my husband’s office, and Sarah was dispatched to bring the creature there. I made my excuses to the gentlemen, and said good night to the doctor at the dining room door, but instead of going to my room, I went back to the table. After a few minutes, Sarah came in to clear up. She was doubtless vexed to see me still sitting there.
“Pour me a glass of that port the gentlemen found so edifying,” I said, and she did. Then I sat quietly for some time, drinking the port and thinking over the news the doctor had brought us. What interested me most was the success of Sally Pemberly’s lawsuit against her husband. She divorced him some years ago, because he was so cruel even the servants pitied her. He then ran up large gambling debts, bankrupting himself as well as his family. Sally sued to have her marriage portion, which was considerable, exempted from his creditors and restored to her. By some miracle, she has won. Now she has her own income and she is free of her detestable husband. Fortunate woman!
I WOKE UP with a start, thinking someone was standing next to my bed, but there was no one there. Had I heard a sound? The room was black. I could make out the curtains at the window but little else. At once I remembered the man. I pulled back the net and sat on the edge of the bed, groggy but determined, shaking my head to clear it. Then I went to the window.
It was like looking into the inkwell. I could make out the shape of the oak, but only as texture, like black velvet against black silk. Was there something among the roots? I dropped down to my knees, as I thought my white shift, my light hair, made me visible, and gazed long and hard. Still my eyes failed to penetrate the darkness. Did something move, there, near the house? Listen, I told myself and I closed my eyes, listening as what had seemed like silence unraveled into different sounds, the buzz of insects, the clock in the hall, something scratching in the wall, the rustling of leaves and branches, and then, just beyond my own heartbeat, not near or loud, but sudden and unmistakable, the sound of a rifle shot.
My eyes flew open. I jumped up and ran for the bedroom door, but I tripped over a footstool and fell headlong across the carpet. As I got to my feet, I heard a shout from outside, then my husband’s voice, cursing. I opened my bedroom door just as his door was opened. A lamp sputtered, someone came out into the hall. It was Sarah. I stepped behind the door, laying my cheek against the wood, listening as she hurried toward the landing.
Another door opened, the doctor’s. He spoke to her, she answered, but I couldn’t make out what they said. There was more light, the heavy sound of my husband’s boots, then his voice. “They’ve set the mill on fire,” he said, and Dr. Landry replied, “I’ll dress and join you.” My husband was halfway down the stairs. “Stay in your bed,” he called back. “There are hands enough.”
How could the mill be on fire? I’d just been looking toward it. I felt my way to my dresser, lit the lamp, and went to the window. It was true. There were no flames, but there was a deep red glow to the blackness in that direction. I heard shouts downstairs, my husband appeared on the lawn, running, and from the quarter two men bearing torches came running to meet him. The doctor’s door opened again, his footsteps faded as he hurried downstairs. After a few moments he too appeared below me, walking briskly toward the fire.
My heart smote me. It was this way that night: the sounds of doors opening and closing, the clatter of boots on the stairs. But it was different too. It was clear and cold. When I woke up and looked out my window, I could see the flames and smoke billowing up above the trees. I never did see Father leave the house, and I never did see him again. I heard Mother’s voice, then a man’s voice I didn’t recognize, more doors closing, someone riding away. I leaped from my bed and ran into the hall calling for Mother, but she didn’t answer. I found her in the parlor with our housemaid Celeste; they had only one lamp lit between them and the room was cold. Mother’s crochet hook glinted amid the lace she was frantically working. Celeste was darning a sock. I wanted to throw myself in Mother’s lap, but I knew she would scold me. “What is happening?” I said. Mother looked up, hollow-eyed, her mouth in a grim line, shadows from the lamp playing over her cheeks. She’s frightened, I thought. She’s more frightened than I am.