Alma looked as though she hadn’t had enough sleep, either, and Rachel’s sympathy was for the adults in the house. With so many little brothers and sisters, she’d known what it was to be wakened by an unhappy baby, and she’d spent enough hours rocking or walking sick or teething children to appreciate the situation.
“Mam always diluted oil of cloves with water and rubbed Baby’s gums when they hurt,” Rachel suggested, keeping her voice down. “And she said that a clean, damp washcloth, chilled in the refrigerator, for Baby to bite down on helps, too.”
“I forgot about the oil of cloves,” Alma replied, motioning her inside. “It’s been a long time since Lemuel was an infant. I’ll mention that to Mary Rose.”
“Is she at home?” Rachel intended to ask Mary Rose about Daniel’s abuse, and if she didn’t think the information she received would go anywhere, she would sit Alma down here, today, and admit that she could do nothing about her son’s arrest.
“Upstairs, cleaning the attic. You can go up, if you like. I’m embarrassed to say that it’s dusty up there. I shouldn’t have let it go so long.” She pointed toward the front of the house. “The steps lead up to the second floor and then to the attic.”
Rachel pushed open the door and stepped into the shadowy space to find Mary Rose washing one of the windows at the far end. Like many of the attics in the valley, the floor was constructed of rough-cut boards. The structural beams overhead were hand-hewn and marked with Roman numerals, the numbers once used to assemble the house.
Mary Rose turned to face her with a spray bottle in her hand. “Nothing’s happened to my brother, has it? I had the worst dream last night. Is Moses all right?”
“As far as I know,” Rachel assured her. “I haven’t seen him since the one day.” She drew closer. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I was on my way home from State College. I picked up my wedding gown and just thought I’d . . . stop by,” she finished softly.
“You’re getting married on Saturday, aren’t you? To that English policeman.”
“Ya,” Rachel said. “I am. I just drove to State College to pick up my dress this morning.” She resisted the impulse to describe her wedding gown to Mary Rose. Although it was a simple one, an Amish girl wouldn’t be able to appreciate a white dress with lace and buttons down the back. It would seem proud.
“Was the baby still sleeping when you came in?” Mary Rose turned back to the window and began wiping it. “I have to keep cleaning. We do what we can when she’s not wanting something.” She glanced back over her shoulder at Rachel. “She’s a good baby, but you know how babies are. It makes me wonder how mothers manage when they have a houseful of children.” She smiled, and Rachel realized that Mary Rose had a lovely smile. “I’m surprised you found the time to come all the way out here when it’s so close to your wedding. My own wasn’t that long ago and I remember how exhausted I was in the days just before we were married.”
Had she ever heard Mary Rose talk so much at one time? Rachel wondered if it was because Alma wasn’t in the room. Or, was it possible that now that she was free of Daniel Fisher, her true personality was coming out? It was true that people mourned in different ways, but Mary Rose didn’t seem like a woman who’d been widowed only weeks ago. She seemed almost lighthearted. Driving over, Rachel had convinced herself that Mary Rose couldn’t have had anything to do with her husband’s death; now she was suddenly suspicious again.
The girl finished the window to her satisfaction and picked up a broom and began to sweep the area beneath the window. “Mam has some flowers that we’re going to move up here to catch the winter light. She likes her plants, but there’s hardly room for them on the windowsills downstairs.”
Maybe you should have swept the floor before washing the window, Rachel thought, but she didn’t say so. Instead, she pushed forward, determined to get what she’d come for. “Mary Rose—” She heard what sounded like a squeaking board on the attic stairs and she turned to glance through the open door. The stairway she’d just climbed was dark, and she couldn’t see anything but shadows. She thought she’d heard a footstep on the stairs, but maybe it was her imagination playing tricks on her?
As if answering her unspoken question, Mary Rose said, “This house has been here a long time. It creaks in the wind and the floors settle. Don’t pay it any mind.”
Rachel nodded, turning back to the young woman.
Mary Rose had swept dust into a heap and was brushing it into a dustpan. There appeared to be several old chests and a trunk against the wall, all covered with sheets. Hanging from the ceiling beams were old cords that might once have held curing hams or bacon, but now they merely dangled like so many spider legs. A row of old-fashioned chairs and a small round table waited for the day they might be needed or perhaps sold to some English antique dealers. Near the window was a wooden high chair that seemed sturdy enough but had served many babies.
Again, there was a creak coming from the direction of the staircase and Rachel glanced back a second time. She wondered if Alma was creeping up the steps to listen to what they were saying. If she was that kind of mother, maybe that was an explanation for why Mary Rose seemed somewhat timid. An overbearing mother could do that to a young woman.
“Mary Rose,”
