mermaids are out and we get to talking,” Emeline finishes triumphantly.
Before I can tell her that it looks like rain, Ada inches her way to the table, clutching a letter in her trembling hands. I catch Mother’s eye. We used to have a bustling household that included five servants, a cook, a gardener, a host of rotating tutors, and drawing, painting, and dancing instructors. It was hard enough to hold on to the tutors before, but then the rumors started and one by one they all resigned. Now, we only have Joe and Ada, and I have taken Emeline’s education into my own hands.
“Ada, what do you have there?” Mother puts down her napkin and holds out her hand for the letter.
Ada is a slip of a thing, and her perpetual nervousness has only intensified since all the trouble began. Only a couple of years older than me, she’s been with us since I was Emeline’s age, and sometimes feels more like a sister than a servant. She hesitates before surrendering the envelope. “Letter from Mr. Charles, ma’am.”
Catherine’s knife clatters to her plate.
Mother’s face freezes, and she drops her hand like a lead weight. She gives a little sniff, and turns away, folding and smoothing her napkin over and over. This has been Mother’s way of dealing with everything lately; if she pretends there’s no problem then it simply doesn’t exist.
“Give it to me,” Catherine whispers.
Mother gives Ada a tight nod, and Ada slowly extends the envelope; she jumps as Catherine snatches it and runs back up to her bedchamber.
Emeline narrows her eyes. “Charlie did a bad thing,” she says.
Mother doesn’t say anything, but begins peeling an orange as if it’s responsible for all our family’s woes, juice squirting onto the tablecloth. I will her to explain everything to Emeline, to take some control. Her head is bent low, fingers digging into the pulpy flesh. I wait. But as usual she says nothing.
“Charlie didn’t do anything bad,” I say. “Those stories weren’t true. Look.” I point out the window at the gathering clouds. “It might not be the best day for the pond, but we could take the carriage into town and take a peek at the shops.” What kind of shops there are in a little village like New Oldbury I have no idea, but I want to get out of the house. We’ve been here only a day, but it already feels too full of ghosts of a happy family that might have been.
* * *
The town center proves to be that in name only. A run-down dry goods store with peeling letters advertises coffee, and a little white church sits at one end of the town green. That’s it. No theaters, no gardens and, worse yet, no bookshops. Yet there’s something charming about the simplicity of the square and the dirt roads that wind up and around it; there’s no stink of fish wafting off nearby docks, nor cobblestones caked with horse droppings. I take a deep breath and smile encouragingly to Emeline. Here’s our fresh start, not in the suffocating walls of Willow Hall with all its pretensions, but in the blue sky above it, the little town surrounding it.
It doesn’t take long for our fresh start to lose its rosy glow.
Two middle-aged women walk arm in arm, stopping to watch us unload from the carriage, Snip nipping at our dresses. They share a whispered word or two, and then creep a little closer to get a better look.
The first woman lowers her voice and leans in toward her companion. “Those are the Montrose girls, you know. The family just came from Boston.”
“Oh?” The other throws a glance back at us over her shoulder, greedily drinking us in. She remarks that Catherine is a true beauty with her auburn hair and green cat eyes. “Wasn’t there some unpleasantness, some scandal involving her?”
The first woman puffs at the chance to explain, to be the one who knows all the sordid details. “Well,” she says, “the whole business makes my stomach turn, I can hardly speak of it.” But that’s a lie, she’s thrilling at the taboo of it, reveling in the currency of a juicy story. “The middle one had to break off her engagement because of it, poor thing. She’s so plain and it was such a good match too. Not likely she’ll find anything better, not likely she’ll find anything at all now.”
My heart drops at the oblique mention of Cyrus. I’ve hardly thought about him these past weeks, except in passing flashes of anger. I don’t miss him. I don’t care what he thinks. But their words sting because they’re true; the only reason we were engaged was because our fathers were business partners. I’m not like Catherine who could have her choice of suitors.
“Yes,” the other commiserates, impatient, “but is what everyone’s saying true? It can’t possibly be.”
They’re too far away now, their voices too low for me to hear anymore, but I understand enough to know what she’s saying. She will embroider it a bit of course, make Catherine younger, more wanton. When she’s done they’ll both go home, feeling very well about themselves indeed.
My eyes bore into their backs as they walk away until Emeline tugs at my sleeve. Thunder rumbles in the distance and I put on a brave face for her, taking her by the hand. If Catherine noticed the two women and their sharp eyes, she doesn’t say anything, instead she fans herself with her gloves and looks around at the little town. “I can’t fathom why on God’s green earth Father had to choose this forsaken place over all others. There isn’t even a dress seller.”
He chose it because of the river that runs through the town, powering the mills. Father doesn’t know the first thing about milling—he made his fortune on a series of brilliant speculations—but he has a keen nose for business and knows a good investment when he sees it. The river towns up this way weren’t affected the way the city was during the war in 1812, and a quick profit can still be turned. Knowing this, he had planned to build a small office, and Willow Hall as our seasonal residence. I doubt Catherine would care, let alone understand any of this, so I just point to the little shop across the street. “Maybe they sell ribbons there. Shall we look?”
Mother had wanted to make calls on some of our new neighbors, so I give orders to Joe to return with the carriage in an hour. Joe grumbles something about rain, but there’s nothing to be done for it so I lead Emeline across the street, Snip tugging at his leash, Catherine trailing us.
Inside the shop it’s musty, a comfortable smell of old leather and dried tea leaves. Emeline leaves Snip tied up outside, and he whines as the heavy glass door swings shut, his claws scratching at the window.
“He’ll be fine,” I say, directing her attention elsewhere. “Look there.” Behind the counter a variety of silk and lace ribbons hang from spools. They’re pretty, if not a little faded, but Emeline doesn’t notice and is already running over to look for a pink one.
Catherine, who tried to feign indifference at first, is beside Emeline, unable to resist the prospect of a new trifle. I watch her running the silk through her fingers, holding different colors against her auburn hair.
The shopkeeper, an affable enough looking man with thinning brown hair, leans over the counter and gives Emeline a smile, the kind adults give children when they aren’t quite sure how to interact with them. “It’s not often I have ladies of such quality in my humble little shop,” he tells her. “I’m very flattered indeed that you and your lovely sisters have chosen to patronize me on this gray day.”
Emeline looks up at him with unmasked curiosity, studying him. I can see the wheels in her head turning as she tries to decide what he means by this. Before she can say anything, I hurry to her rescue. The shopkeeper
