Fitcher's Brides (12 page)

Amy held Vern by the arm, uncomfortable with the idea of being left here, but more uncomfortable with the idea of wandering through this ghost-plagued house in the dark by herself. It was the arm holding the hairbrush that she held. After they had stood awhile, Vern tried to raise it up again to brush her hair. Even though they weren't facing the mirror anymore, Vern tilted her head and stared as if at her image. Amy relaxed her grip. She reasoned that letting Vern draw the brush would keep her there.

Vern stopped singing and said, “I'm going to have a suitor.”

Amy eyed her doubtfully and answered, “Really, Vern? That's nice.” She didn't think her sister could hear her anyway.

“I'm going to have a suitor soon. I'm going to marry.”

“How—how do you know this?” she asked, but Vern seemed to have finished talking. She drew her arm away to comb the hair on the other side of her head.

The stairs creaked, and Amy tensed in alarm until she saw Kate's golden head pop up. Kate had brought wet cloths and a pail. She set the candle down on the floor, knelt, and mopped at the blood smeared around her sister. She wiped Vern's ankles and feet, lifting them up to clean the blood off the bottoms of them, and raised the nightgown up to clean her calves as well. “She's just covered in it,” she muttered. “Amy, she couldn't have bled this much just from her time. We have to look.”

She handed the cloth to Amy, then with both hands drew up the nightgown.

Vern's legs were red above the knee, all the way to her hips. Amy remarked, “She must have done it, she must have smeared herself like that.” Then she added, “But she couldn't, could she, Kate—look at her hands, there's no blood on 'em.”

Kate took back the wet cloth and wiped her sister's thighs as best she could. Vern shifted as her legs were pried apart, but she said nothing and acted oblivious to the cold touch of the cloth.

“We have to take her back,” Kate said, “clean her up in the room, not here.”

They turned her and impelled her toward the stairs. She looked over her shoulder at the mirror, and smiled. “I know,” she said. “I know he's coming, yes, I believe you.”

“Who's coming?” Kate asked. She looked to Amy.

“She says she's going to have a suitor. Someone's coming to marry her.”

“Where'd she get a notion like that?”

“I don't know,” said Amy. “I reckon the ghost told her. I think she saw him in the mirror.”

Kate went back to the dresser and blew out the lamp. Peripherally, she thought she saw movement in the mirror, but when she looked straight at it, she saw only the shapes of her sisters across the room, waiting for her. She couldn't concern herself with mirrors and ghosts now. With pail in hand, she eased down to the first step, then helped push Vern ahead of her.

They made it back to their room without incident. Vern had gone back to her song. She just repeated one line now, as if she'd lost the thread of the poem: “‘And I will love you still, my dear, and I will love you still, my dear.'”

Kate set the candle down. Then she and Amy drew off Vern's gown. Dried blood painted a swirl on her belly, and wet blood glistened in her pubic hair. Kate wiped away all that she could, until she'd satisfied herself there was no wound and that Vern was not bleeding freely.

Amy produced a menstrual rag and they wrapped it between Vern's legs, then put a clean nightgown on her. Vern let them raise her arms and lower them, let them lead her to her bed, and on her own climbed into it. She closed her eyes, and her singing stopped. She sighed once, deeply.

Amy noticed that she was still holding her hairbrush. “Was she asleep all the while?” she asked.

“I think so. She probably won't believe us when we tell her what she's done.”

“She'll have to. With her nightgown soiled and all.” She looked at the bloodied gown and cloth, then at Kate. “You got more blood on your hands than she did.”

Kate's hands were pink with it. She rinsed the cloth, and wiped them as best she could; but there was blood in the cuticles of her nails.

“It's this house, isn't it?”

“I don't know, Amy. This house, this ghost she says talks to her, having to give up Henri back in Boston—it's maybe all of it. Something seems to be happening to Vern that's not happening to you and to me. We have to watch out for her till we know what's what.”

“Maybe,” Amy said thoughtfully, “the end of the world is starting. Maybe Vern's sensitive to it. To the wearing down of the wall between the living and the dead. Maybe she's going to guide us.”

Kate replied only, “Maybe.” She climbed into her bed. Her fear had exhausted her.

“Shouldn't we tie her to the bed or something?” Amy asked. “What if she goes sleepwalking again?”

“More likely, she'll wake up, find that you've tied her up, and start screaming. You could tie a string to her toe if you want to, but every time she rolls over she's going to jerk that string and wake you up again.”

Amy considered that. “I guess so,” she said, and went back to her bed. Vern's face had already gone slack. It didn't look as if she would get up again tonight.

Amy got into her bed, then blew out the candle.

She lay nervously on her back, thinking that she could never go to sleep now, but soon enough her eyelids were closing, and as she drifted off, she imagined she heard a man's voice singing Vern's whispered song again. “‘
And I will love you still, my dear…
'” It followed her down to oblivion.

I
N THE MORNING, THE FAMILY
breakfasted on batter cakes with maple syrup, and store-bought tea. Vern fried the cakes, and Kate pumped water and brewed the tea.

Before coming downstairs her sisters asked Vern what she remembered of the night's events. She denied that anything had happened and insisted she had slept soundly the whole night through—until Kate and Amy showed her that she was wearing a different nightgown and that the one she'd gone to bed in lay in a bloody heap at the foot of it. She also had a rag tied up between her thighs. She blushed, humiliated by the thought that she'd been cleaned and dressed like an infant. Angrily, she maintained nothing had happened. “You're playing some awful trick on me because of Samuel. You are, you're jealous, both of you.” Her eyelids fluttered as she spoke. It was a habit of Vern's that she couldn't help, a small but significant indicator of when she was dissembling.

Kate was not willing to provoke her sister further. Sooner or later Vern would tell her everything. Not so Amy. As Vern started for the hall, Amy recited as if to herself, “‘And I will love you still, my dear.'”

In the doorway Vern froze like someone turned to stone.

“That's Robert Burns, isn't it, Vern?” Amy asked.

Without replying, Vern raised her head in a clear expression of offense and strode away.

“That was cruel,” Kate told Amy, but secretly was glad of the proof it offered as she was glad it had come from her sister.
She
had to work with Vern in the kitchen all morning.

Amy was to clean up afterwards, and didn't follow them downstairs. She was the better cook, but Vern the surrogate mother had accepted the responsibility of making the meals back when the other girls were too young to cook. Over time she had relinquished most cooking duties to Amy, but there were some foods she still preferred to prepare herself, batter cakes being one of her favorites. When it was bannock cakes or oatmeal, then Amy was more than welcome to cook. When they had rye flour on hand, they took turns making Boston brown bread steamed in molasses—they all liked to make that. Such camaraderie did not flow through the kitchen on this morning. Vern had nothing to say to Kate, least of all any thanks for having looked after her while she walked in her sleep, and Kate couldn't think of a way to persuade her otherwise—in fact, was herself angry with Vern. Silence reigned between them.

 

It was cold throughout the house—nights would stay cold right up to summer—but the kitchen was warm from the stove, and the girls left the door to the dining room open to let the warmth flow in.

The family sat awhile after they had eaten, and sipped their strong tea without speaking. The expectation was that they should take this time to commune with God, to find their individual bearings for the day, and to reconcile what they had accomplished or failed to do the previous day. That the girls had said almost nothing during the meal seemed to have escaped the attention of their elders.

There was still much to do to make the house into a home. Curtains had to be made, and most of the household goods still remained packed. The dressers and other bedroom furniture had been dusted and polished now. The doilies had been found and placed on tea tables, and the remaining rugs beaten and laid down.

Kate excused herself from the table to go to the privy. She had been gone no more than a minute when someone knocked at the front door.

The foursome traded glances, confirming in one another's eyes that they had all heard the noise. Mr. Charter placed his napkin on the table and got up. “Must be someone needs the pike raised,” he muttered as he left.

The girls remained seated with Lavinia, but strained to listen.

The front door opened. Silence hung for a moment, followed by Mr. Charter's voice crying, “Merciful Heaven.” Then a low murmurous voice spoke. The shape of words evaporated but the murmur, like a tune, was hypnotic, beguiling. Their father replied, and his voice, nervously pitched, quick and excited, shattered the effect. “Please,
please
come into our humble household. Let me have your hat, sir, and your stick. Oh, I'll just set them down on the table here, we haven't placed the stand yet, I apologize, we've only just unpacked. I can offer you tea, would you care for—it's store-bought tea, no sassafras or the like—”

Closer now, the voice answered deeply, “Tea would be most welcome, and do not worry about the little niceties, Mr. Charter. They are all of the corporeal sphere, little pleasures and temptations and comforts to make us forget who and what we truly are. You are better off freed of society's tentacles. I should leave such things in their packing.”

Lavinia reacted to the voice as if she'd been stuck with a fork, leaping to her feet, glancing about her at the furniture, at the girls, her face tight as if with anger, but it wasn't anger, rather some emotion more akin to ecstatic anticipation.

Mr. Charter stepped into view, his narrow shoulders high and pushed together, his head bowed so that he looked at them through the hair on his forehead. It was as if he had been squeezed inside the confines of an invisible box.

The visitor stepped through the doorway.

He stood tall and slender, with sapphire eyes beneath sharp prominent brows. He wore black boots to the knee and black trousers above them, and a deep maroon cutaway coat. The white cravat above his red vest looked more dapper than pastoral. His thick dark hair shot with gray was brushed forward into curls about his forehead. His beard, so black that it shone almost blue, was trim and sharp, giving the line of his jaw a machinelike un-naturalness, like the blade of an ax.

He focused on the girls, and his wide mouth curled up at the corners like parchment. “Good ladies, my pleasure,” he said, gently bowing. He held up one hand and added, “Please do not arise from your meal,” though neither of them had attempted to move. Only Lavinia was standing, and she sank back onto her chair as if pressed down by his palm, her face an adoring mask.

“Daughters,” said Mr. Charter, “this is our Reverend Mr. Fitcher.” To the visitor he sputtered, “I—we weren't prepared, sir. I'd hoped but didn't really expect—”

“Of course you didn't.” Fitcher turned his head and his look seemed in an instant to calm their father. “I myself had no certain sense of when I would be unbound. My flock must always be shepherded, Mr. Charter, and I am close to all. I would be lax in my duties were I not to pay your family a visit at the first possible opportunity, for it's the family that will fill the kingdom one by one. The family is the basic unit on which all is constructed. But, my dear Mr. Charter, I understood you had
three
fair daughters.” His look shot like a dart straight at Lavinia and then at the sisters again.

“Yes, yes, I do. My youngest is—is…briefly indisposed. This is my eldest, Vernelia, and her sister, Amelia.”

“Ah, so
you
are the eldest, Vern,” said Fitcher, and he unfurled his index finger and stabbed the air in her direction. “I see. And unmarried, all. I am so surprised. To not know such love as every woman should, before our grains of sand run out. This is tragic, I think.”

“Yes, unmarried, I regret to say,” Mr. Charter replied. “Not through any fault of their own of course. Events in our household…” and he rolled to a stop, unable to express completely the deprivations they had suffered.

“Beg pardon, sir,” Amy interjected, “will it be soon, the new beginning?”

Before Fitcher could answer, Kate emerged from the kitchen. She stopped still in the doorway when she saw him.

“Why, here is my youngest girl. Katherine, this is Reverend Fitcher.”

Fitcher's smile spread wider. “Ah,” he said appreciatively. His gaze fastened on Kate. It was almost tactile, his look: She could feel it slipping beneath her clothes, gliding over her bare skin. She shivered and the sensation abated. A quick glance at Vern found her looking as if she'd fallen into last night's trance.

“Please join us, sir, at our table,” said her father.

“Yes. A cup of tea for the reverend,” Lavinia added.

“Kate, is there more hot water?” Mr. Charter asked as he ushered Fitcher to his chair at the table.

Kate nodded and withdrew. Beside the stove she leaned against the brick wall. Her legs had gone weak and trembling as if she had lost all her energy, and she closed her eyes for a moment. Then she heard the Reverend Fitcher say, “The fruits of your loins, Mr. Charter, are quite beyond compare. Many women dwell at Harbinger, but none as lovely as your three.”

Her eyes went wide, and on the back of her neck the hairs bristled. She knew that honeyed voice. She'd heard it once before—on board the steamship.

Had the man they'd journeyed all this way to join shared ship's passage with them, unaware of who they were? Could that be possible?

He did travel up and down the eastern seaboard, even to the frontier of Kentucky, so her father and Lavinia said. They'd joined his entourage for a time between Boston and Providence. He would have recognized
them
; but of course they hadn't been with her and Vern and Amy when Fitcher encountered them; they'd been all the way across the deck. Fitcher and her father could have missed each other with so many people aboard. Surely that must be the explanation. It could be no more than a coincidence—

“Kate!”

She jumped at the voice at her back. Lavinia had followed her into the kitchen.

“Was the water not hot? What are you doing, girl?”

“I'm sorry.” She quickly gathered her wits. “Yes, ma'am, it's hot. See, it steams on the stove.”

Lavinia glanced at the pot, then solicitously her way. “You look pale, dear. Are you ill?”

Kate might have excused herself by saying so, but she didn't want Lavinia to know anything about anything. She replied, “Not really, ma'am.”

“Well, please put in the leaves and bring it to the reverend immediately.” It was said without the sharpness that usually edged Lavinia's commands. She thought:
My God, he's had an effect even upon
her!

Kate's hand trembled as she carried the china cup and saucer to their guest. He watched her approach. He was speaking, and yet so still that he might have been a waxwork were it not for the sense of power, of energy, that radiated from him. She tried to set the cup on the table, but he reached out suddenly to take it. His hands brushed her own, and she was surprised by their warmth and smoothness. It was as if a sheet of silk had been drawn against her skin. She released the cup and stepped back. A scent of pomade or some perfume came from him.

“I'll be traveling again soon,” he was saying to Mr. Charter, “and would be most gratified if you would agree to accompany me.”

“I?” Mr. Charter's eyes almost flooded with tears. “I would be so honored—”

“And Lavinia—your wife. We shall be journeying to Pittsburgh to bring more sheep into our flock before they can jump into the wilderness and be lost. There are many there waiting to be persuaded, as there are everywhere. And now that time is short, we must do all we can to prepare them. It is a long journey, so do not answer lightly.

“I know your obligations. You feel of course that your duty is that which brought you here—the managing of the turnpike on this road. I would hope that your fair daughters might be persuaded to take over such duties while we travel. You'll have sufficient notice—” and here he paused and thought for a moment, sipping his tea, before continuing. “Well, there's no point in my withholding what I know from all of you any longer, as the community will soon hear the announcement and we will be preaching it as we travel even to the frontier.” He set down his cup. “God has spoken at last to His servant, and I now have the date. This corporeal world is to end on October fifteenth.”

“Oh,” said Mrs. Charter. Mr. Charter didn't move, but the color drained from his face. Vern covered her mouth with her hand to hide her moan. Amy closed her eyes and folded her hands, bowing her head in prayer. Kate, caught standing, had to sit. “So soon?” she asked.

With the smile of one who knows that truths are not always easy, Fitcher replied, “The sooner undone, the sooner God's new plan will be revealed.” He placed the empty cup and saucer on the table. “No mistake, I do know how this news affects you. It's one of the reasons I've withheld it a time. The shock is perilous to many. I, like you, Miss Kate, truly regret the speed with which all is coming about, for I wished to enter the kingdom as a husband, and I have
no
wife. It grieves us all not to have someone's hand to hold when the day arrives. You girls, I'm sure, can lay claim to this feeling. You can't help but be tormented by the thought of going into the next life alone. True, you'll have your family, which is important, but it is not the same love as one feels for a partner, for a spouse, for the perfect mate, as I'm sure your parents would tell you.”

Had anyone else referred to Lavinia as their parent, the girls would have objected. Fitcher's voice made their emotions syrupy slow. Reactions thickened, clotted. Their attention fell elsewhere, to the issue of how little time they had—a fleeting wisp of time.

Time to look for love.

That message coated the reverend's words: They
must
know love before their time came. He was urging them to do so.

Kate's thoughts congealed as in a dream, the world seeming to spin down, and she wondered if the sensation was akin to what Vern experienced with the disembodied spirit in their room—Samuel, the archangel in the attic, or whatever he was—a seductive prompting to take pleasure. The spirit had promised Vern a bridegroom, but where did it expect one to show up?

Here in this wilderness there was little chance of them meeting anyone with whom they might share intimate feelings—little enough chance of meeting anyone at all. Somewhere below these dismal thoughts, the syrupy voice became a low murmur, the hard sounds of speech planed away, leaving sound to buoy every thought, and each floating in the direction of desire…