Necessary Evil (15 page)

I didn’t know what
to make of the situation and the suspense was getting more and more difficult
to live with. So throwing caution to the wind, I made myself ask him. We could
hear Aunt Susanna chatting away with Jacob in the kitchen, her laugh and his
echoing off the gray cabinets. There was no way they could hear our conversation,
but I still lowered my voice.

“When you came
here the other night, you practically accused me of forging the Beaumont
letter. Have you told Aunt Susanna?”

Even in the
process of creating the Beaumont letter, I’d never been able to bring myself to
call my act “forgery” before. I’d thought of the process as one would think of
installing a security system, and the fact that I was breaking into a house
that was not my own to install it had simply been shunted to the side.

“My dear
Madeleine,” Randall said. “There was no ‘practically’ about it. I know you did
it. And, no, I did not tell your aunt or her friend.”

My heart was
pounding in my ears and my hands were cold. The accusation was so stark and
raw.

“Why didn’t you?”
I asked hoarsely. “You, with your so-called devotion to the truth. Why haven’t
you told everyone?”

“I could, but it
wouldn’t help my search very much. Having amateurs underfoot won’t help me
anymore than it would you, you know. Besides, I thought there was more to gain
by keeping you in my corner. Was I wrong?”

Again, he wore
that innocent look.

No, he wasn’t
wrong. In that instant, I knew I’d do almost anything to keep Aunt Susanna from
finding out that I’d tricked her. How Randall had figured that I’d react that
way was anyone’s guess, but the second condition was clear: as long as I
cooperated, Aunt Susanna wouldn’t learn the truth from him. As long as I
cooperated.

“I understand you
perfectly,” I said. If I could have spat venom, I would have, but he would have
had to be deaf to misinterpret my tone.

“Excellent,” he
said. “Well, I have to get dressed. I’ll see you later tonight?”

I didn’t answer,
but brushed past him to the kitchen with my heart thudding in my ears.

Orientation went very
quickly. Jacob seemed comfortable around the barn and animals and even
correctly identified several pieces of tack.

“I had to clean
them all the time when I worked in Epping,” he told me, as we toured the tack
room. “My boss was kind of a snob and didn’t like to ask the clients to do it.”

“Our students all
clean their own tack,” I said, pushing aside the memory of Mrs. Fontaine. “But
we help the younger ones.”

“Like, that’s a
good idea, you know? It’s good for them to do it. Keeps you grounded, like my
grandmother says.”

He was brighter
and more talkative than I had expected, and in the short space of time proved
that he was at least superficially competent with the animals, polite to the
riders, uncomplaining about the mucking, and strong enough to heft bales of hay
without breaking a sweat. More than once I found myself thinking,
Thank God
Lindsay isn’t here to see this.

Despite his
enthusiasm, I didn’t like the idea of leaving Jacob alone on his first day.
Leaving him to clean out the empty stalls, I went inside and voiced my concerns
to Aunt Susanna. She immediately promised to hobble out to the stables and
oversee his work while I was at the vet’s office, and insisted when I
hesitated.

“Professor Randall
is going to be reading all day and I’ll just be in the way here,” she said.

“Did Randall
actually say that?”

She brushed off
the remark. “Oh, Maddie! Just go. I’ll watch the boy. It’s a nice day to be
outside, anyway.”

I bit my lip, but
there was really no choice. I was already running late. Exacting a promise from
my aunt that she would call at the least provocation, I raced upstairs to
change and back down to grab my keys from the office desk. I pulled up short
when I saw Randall, in dress pants and a button down shirt, sifting through the
book shelves. I’d forgotten that I was supposed to pull out Uncle Michael’s
things for him.

Randall had
already moved into my office. He’d cleared the big office desk, putting my
piles of folders in a stack on the floor, and littering the surface with his
own stacks: accordion files with yellowing labels, archival photo albums, a
laptop, a netbook, a tablet, and a small sound system. Books were pulled out of
the shelves and restacked in messy piles, and his mug of coffee sat on top of
the floor safe.

“I got started
without you,” Randall said.

Since when have
you done anything else?
Somehow, I managed to keep the thought from
verbalizing.

He was bent over a
large green, water-stained hymnal that I recognized. Uncle Michael had bought
it at auction, thinking it might have an alternate lyric version of
Come,
Grateful People,
Come
. It hadn’t, but it remained
in the pile of other books he’d collected from the period. They made an
eclectic collection, ranging from the cloth-bound, worn church hymnals to
battered prayer and political meeting tracts to personal prayer books like a
miniature New Testament or the itsy-bitsy
Dew-Drops
daily reader.

I decided not to
comment on the state of the desk or the room. I went behind the desk, pulled
open a drawer, found the filing cabinet key, and went over to lock it.

“I don’t have time
to get the research out for you,” I said. I found that it was already locked,
then remembered that I had done so last night, when Aunt Susanna first offered
him the room. “Will you be all right on your own?”

“I think I can be
trusted,” he said, and when I looked at him, he nodded at the filing cabinet.

Locking it had
been instinct - even I wasn’t rude enough to do it so pointedly - but
considering my past behavior, it must have looked that way. I flushed, but
decided against explaining. It would only sound like an excuse. 

“All right,” I
said. I went over to the desk and was about to replace the key when I thought
how silly that would look. So I pocketed the key, found my car keys, shut the
drawer, and headed for the door, slinging my purse over my shoulder. “Aunt
Susanna knows where everything is. She’ll be out in the barn with Jacob most of
the day, if you need her.”

I stopped in the
doorway, realizing that I had just volunteered her services without qualification.
I turned. “But I must warn you – Aunt Susanna is still recovering from surgery,
so she can’t be running errands all day. She needs lots of time during the day
to rest and relax. And it’s best if she avoids the stairs altogether.”

“Slavery,” Randall
said dryly, “has been outlawed since before the end of the Civil War.”

“Right…” I said,
hesitating. I had to leave, but I felt guilty about doing so. Aunt Susanna was
used to a quiet house with little activity and plenty of time to rest and
recuperate. How would she handle this first day with guests, especially a
potentially demanding one like Randall?

“Since you are
still here,” he said, taking off his glasses and scanning the bookshelves
through squinted eyes, “can you point out that diary for me? I wanted to start
on that right away.”

I glanced at my
watch, stopped myself from sighing, and went over to the safe. I put my hand on
the knob and gave him a pointed look until he turned back to his book. I knew
the combination by heart, but some disquiet threw me off and it took me two
tries before it opened.

There isn’t much
inside to interest the average burglar. On the top shelf are photos, memory
sticks, and paperwork for the few horses we own. But the bottom shelf is
stuffed tight with genealogical records that Uncle Michael found too valuable
to risk losing in a fire and too useful to tuck away in the bank.

Among these was
Mary’s diary, a small, slim notebook of crumbling black leather and with the
vestiges of gold embossing along the spine. How Mary had come to own such a
handsome volume was beyond our explanation – but the real gold, as my uncle
liked to say, was on the inside. She had filled the book with pages of elegant
script in a variety of inks, some as vibrant as the day she touched paper,
others so faded it was barely legible.

Without thinking,
I slipped the book out of the bag and tenderly ran my finger down the rough
edges of the paper. In my mind’s eyes, I could almost see Mary Chase, bent over
the book by candlelight, writing while her son played before the fireplace and
her husband smoked his pipe. Or did she write during the day, when she and the
serving girl worked long hours in the kitchen, while the men were out in the
fields or fighting back the ever encroaching forests? Was it a secret hobby,
her solace during the long monotonous days, or did her family know and
contribute to the journal? Somehow, I always thought the former. Whenever I
tried to picture Mary, I saw her as a woman with dark hair and large soulful
eyes, ever looking towards a horizon she could never pursue.

I wasn’t the only
one who waxed poetic about the diary. Next to Alexander’s letter, it had been
Uncle Michael’s most prized possession, and he treated it with as much respect
as one would the Declaration of Independence. Holding it in my hand, tasting
the scent of wood fires and old paper, I could almost hear his low, booming
voice:

Think of it,
Maddie! We have access to the thoughts of a woman who died almost a hundred
years before I was born. Through her writings, we can touch the past, and learn
about people who would have been long forgotten if not for her. That’s the
power of the written word – it bridges time and brings back those who are gone.

I wish it could,
I thought, my eyes
suddenly moist.
Oh, how I wish it could.

“Have you read
it?”

Randall’s voice
sliced through my reverie, pulling me back into reality with a wrench. He was
crouched beside me, so close that the cover of the book in my lap was reflected
in his large glasses. I felt as though I’d revealed something, and
embarrassment washed through me.

“My uncle did,
several times,” I said, getting to my feet quickly. “He knew parts so well he
could quote them to me. He thought there might be something in it that would
clear Alexander. I don’t know why he thought that. It ends before the incident.
At best, it’s a character study.”

“How about you?”
He tapped the book gently. “What did you think when you read it?”

“I haven’t. Not
the whole thing, anyway.”

“No?” Randall
sounded surprise.

“No. Some of us
live in the here and now. The past is interesting, but it’s dead.” Slipping the
book back into the bag, I held it out to him. “And there’s little practical
value in the dead.”

He took the bag,
his eyes strangely concerned. “There are many who would argue that point.”

“Probably,” I
said. “People who have little else to do but dig up the bones of the buried.
Those of us with responsibilities cannot afford the time to play in the past,
Professor. The living must take priority. I have to go. If you need me, you
have my cell phone.”

“Oh, I shall be
quite comfortable here,” he said, as I headed for the door. “When will you
bring me that letter of Alexander’s?”

I paused in the
doorway. “When I have time,” I said. “You have enough to keep you busy here for
a while, don’t you?”

“Oh, indeed, but
the letter – the letter is key. The sooner I have that, the sooner we’ll have
the solution.” He smiled knowingly at me. “The sooner I’ll be out of your
hair.”

I drummed my
fingers on the doorframe, reluctant to make promises, but having to admit that
the latter was an enticing idea.

“If not today,
then tomorrow.” When he turned away, satisfied, I added, “You take care of the
diary.
That
is a very valuable and irreplaceable old book. It requires
delicate handling.”

He looked at the
book in his hands, startled, then a slow smile spread across his face as he
recognized his own phrase.

“I will,” he said.
“It’ll be returned unharmed.”

“I’ll hold you to
that,” I warned. Then I hurried out into the hall. Once again, I was late for
work.

June 1
^st
,
1858

Another letter
from Alexander. He reports that he is well, yet his writing isn’t as lively as
it is when he is happy. I think this is because he knows that it is not only I
who reads his letters and he is naturally cautious. Doubtless he knows, without
my telling him, that I write with the same restriction. How hard it is to shape
one’s mind and words to the rule of another! It is only in this book that I
feel the freedom to express myself as I truly desire.

I cannot say this
to anyone, but I often long for Alexander’s return. I love Avery as a son, and
O., of course, but they have their work and I have mine, and the two spheres
are worlds apart. I long for my son, who understands me as no one else seems
to. Our minds, hearts, and tastes are so alike that we can speak volumes
without saying a word and yet words are as comfortable and easy as walking. But
I should not complain, for that is being ungrateful. Life is a hard thing and
not many have the advantages that I do.

He is working for
a merchant and reports that the work is good, the pay fair, and he is
comfortably situated, except that he has not time to read as he used to. He
misses his books, though he will not say so. I am arranging to send him a
parcel with a few volumes in it, including a new copy of the little prayer book
that has brought me so much comfort – God willing, it will reach him without
damage. I’m ashamed to say that it is a wrench to part with the books. With
hard times falling on the farm, O. will not replace them and without good
books, I feel as though my soul will starve. But perhaps I can borrow some from
my kind neighbors and, in any case, God will provide, if only I am wise enough
to wait for His providence…