smoke.”
5
“Hannah?”
The old housekeeper looked up from the bowl of peas she was shelling, then started to pull her weight up from the battered easy chair she’d long ago moved from her room into the enormous kitchen.
“Don’t get up,” Carolyn told her. “I was just wondering if you’d seen Beth.”
“She was right here till after breakfast,” Hannah replied, sinking gratefully back into the depths of the chair. “Helped me with the dishes.” She glanced up at Carolyn over the rims of her half-glasses. “She’s a mighty nice girl, that daughter of yours.”
Carolyn nodded absently, and Hannah’s gaze sharpened slightly. “Something wrong, Miss Carolyn? Have I done something to displease you?”
“Of course not,” Carolyn replied immediately. “You’re wonderful, and I don’t know what I’d do without you.” She hesitated, knowing she should probably leave Hannah alone in her domain, then lowered herself onto one of the straight-backed wooden chairs that sat at the kitchen table. Her fingers began nervously twisting at a button on her blouse. “I … I’m not really sure,” she went on. “It’s just that …” She let her voice trail off, afraid that whatever she might say would sound somehow disloyal to her husband.
But Hannah, her face imperturbable, nodded wisely, and finished the sentence for her. “… it’s just that things up here aren’t like you thought they’d be, and it’s not as easy as it looked?”
How did she know? Carolyn wondered. Is it all that obvious? Instinctively, without thinking about it at all, she reached out for a handful of the peas, and began shelling them.
“You don’t have to do that, Miss Carolyn,” Hannah said quietly, but there was something in her tone that made Carolyn look at the housekeeper. As she’d suspected, Hannah’s eyes were fixed on her, as if challenging her to speak her mind clearly.
But she won’t ever ask me anything, Carolyn suddenly realized. If I need to talk, I can, but she’ll never initiate a conversation.
“Yes, I do,” Carolyn replied, making up her mind. “I have to do something. I’m just not used to sitting around all day with no work to do. And I’m afraid I’m not good at lunches, either,” she added, remembering the few times she’d accepted invitations from the wives of men her husband had grown up with, only to spend a few miserable hours listening to them chat about people she didn’t know and places she’d never been.
“I’m good at fixing lunches,” Hannah said mildly. “But I’m afraid I’d have to agree with you about them fancy luncheon parties. Some of us just can’t abide that sort of twaddle.”
“Beth couldn’t abide facing breakfast with the family this morning, could she?” Carolyn asked pointedly.
Hannah’s lips pursed, and Carolyn was afraid she’d asked the old servant to step beyond some invisible limit.
“She’ll get used to things here,” Hannah said at last. “She likes it out here because it’s familiar.” She glanced up again, and there was a slight twinkle in her eyes. “She tells me when she lived on Cherry Street, the family practically lived in the kitchen.”
“What family doesn’t?” Carolyn replied, then rolled her eyes as she realized the ridiculousness of the question. “Never mind. That was a stupid thing to say.”
“Not so stupid. Mr. Phillip used to spend a lot of time here when he was a boy. In fact,” she added, “sometimes I feel like I raised him myself. Anyway, he certainly turned out the way I’d want a son to turn out, if I’d had one. And I have to say, it’s nice to have a child in my kitchen again. Particularly one who already knows how to wash dishes and take out the trash.”
She fell silent, and Carolyn found herself wondering exactly what the old woman was trying to tell her.
“What about Tracy?” she asked. “Doesn’t she ever come out here?”
“Only when she wants something,” Hannah replied, and though there was nothing condemnatory in her voice, Carolyn noticed that the old woman’s eyes stayed on the bowl of peas as she spoke. “Tracy’s a different kind of child. Takes after her grandmother, if you know what I mean.”
“I’m afraid I do,” Carolyn replied. “She — well, she seems determined to make Beth feel as if she doesn’t belong here.”
Hannah opened her mouth, then seemed to change her mind. But an opaqueness came into her eyes, and Carolyn knew that now she had gone too far.
“I wouldn’t know about that,” Hannah finally said. “But as for that little girl of yours, I have an idea of where she might be.” Her eyes drifted toward the window.
Following Hannah’s lead, Carolyn gazed out the window. Barely visible through the treetops, she could make out the marble ring that surmounted the mausoleum.
“The mausoleum? Why would she have gone up there?”
Hannah shrugged. “She might not have. But there was a bit of a ruckus down at the stable a while ago, and I’ve noticed that when people want to be alone around here, they often go up to the mausoleum.” Her eyes met Carolyn’s once more. “If she wants to tell you what happened, she will. But don’t push her, Miss Carolyn. She’s doing her best to fit in. Just let her do it her way.”
Then, as Carolyn hurried out the kitchen door, Hannah went back to shelling her peas. But as she worked, she wondered if either Beth or Carolyn would ever be allowed to fit into this house. If it were up to Tracy, she knew, they wouldn’t.
Tracy would die first.
Beth sat alone in the coolness that pervaded the mausoleum despite the growing heat of the morning. Her tears had long since dried, and she’d spent a few minutes reading the inscriptions on the backs of each of the chairs that surrounded the marble table. Now she was perched on the edge of Samuel Pruett Sturgess’s marble chair, staring out at the village she’d grown up in.
From here, Westover almost looked like a miniature village — like one of the tiny model-train layouts her father had taken her to see at a show in Boston last year. She could see the tracks coming around the hillside, crossing the river, then disappearing behind the mill and reemerging to curve in a wide arc around the village until they disappeared into the distant hills.
But it was the mill that interested her most. From where she sat, the old brick building was framed exactly between two of the marble pillars. The town itself was mostly to the left of the mill, but from this vantage point the mill was precisely centered below her.
In fact, if the seventh pillar — the pillar that had once stood opposite Samuel Pruett Sturgess’s chair — hadn’t been broken, the mill would be completely invisible.
For a while, she’d sat trying to decide whether the mausoleum had been built the way it was on purpose, or if, after the whole thing was finished, someone had noticed that if one of the pillars was broken out, then old Mr. Sturgess would be able to look down at his factory from his chair.
For that’s the way it had struck Beth.
It was almost as if the table was for all the dead Sturgesses to meet around, as though they were still alive, and had business to discuss, and the oldest of them — Samuel Pruett Sturgess — was sitting where he could watch over the whole town, and especially his mill.
Then, while she had been pretending to be Mr. Sturgess, she had seen it.
It was a flash, like some kind of explosion. Suddenly, it had seemed as if the mill was on fire.
At first she’d thought it was the sun, reflecting off the windows of the building.
But then she remembered that all the windows were boarded up, and there wasn’t any glass in them.
Now she was staring at the old building, waiting to see if it would happen again. So far, it hadn’t.
“Beth?”
