Father climbs into our buggy, and the horse takes a fewskittish steps. “See to the butchering and fill in that old well. Otherwise,pack your bags and get out.”
Back within the house, I recognize the parlor maid’s heavytread downstairs, moving in my direction. Martha enters the bedroom a shortwhile later, smelling strongly of linseed. The oil has saturated her clothingto such a degree that I do not know how this woman has escaped spontaneouscombustion. Someone needs to warn her to change into a clean uniform or avoidall sources of fire.
“Got worried when you didn’t ring,” Martha says. “Thought you’dfallen asleep in the bath.”
I hold up the velvet gown, and point to the pile ofunder-things on the chair, beckoning for her assistance. It takes time to laceup my corset, tie on the petticoats and bustle, and affix the long row ofbuttons on the morning dress. Finally, Martha hooks me into a sturdy pair ofankle boots. She drops a shawl into my gloved hand and quickly clears the roomof wet towels before taking her leave.
I throw on a cloak, pick up my cane, and step into the hall. Themore genteel section of the manor lies to the right. I proceed in thatdirection, hoping to use the central staircase without notice. And luck is withme! The way is clear. After reaching the main floor, I turn toward the drawingroom and listen to my mother playing Moonlight Sonata on the piano. Itis perfectly executed, with the precise blend of technique and expression. Ihave no idea why, but even as a girl, it made me wish to weep. Is it the steadymovement forward, the subtle persistence? Or just the lyric purity that touchesmy soul? Beethoven is one of Mama’s passions—as well as Liszt and Brahms. Shefavors the German composers over their Italian and French contemporaries. Itseems a waste of her talent not to love and play them all.
As the final note is struck, I leave my mother to her music—gladthat she feels deeply about something—and walk toward the library. It should beempty since my father prefers to do his correspondence and business in hispersonal study. As I enter the library, it smells of hot-house flowers, furniturepolish, and freshly-baked gateau. Chocolate, I think. Our dining room andkitchen are just down the hall, and evidently Cook is baking somethingdelicious today.
The dessert makes my mouth water as I pass through the library,and I remind myself to have some when I return. Then I remember that Cordeliais not here and abandon the idea. She always sneaks treats to me from thekitchen, but I doubt Martha would do such a thing. Reaching the French doors, Iopen one and stroll out onto the patio. Weak November sun kisses the top of myhead, and I smile at the sky. My parents are oblivious to these dailyexcursions for the most part. As long as I appear to follow their rules—keep tomy set of rooms, don’t cause problems with the servants, disappear when companycomes—they stay clear of me.
Our arrangement works well, in my opinion.
Mahogany cane in my right hand, I reach out with the left, palmforward, and count the steps that I walk. Slow and steady progress, that’s agirl.
It is a hundred feet from the patio to the formal rose gardens,most likely dreary and dormant at this time of year. Next comes the pond, aman-made pool that is fairly easy to circumnavigate if I stay on the rightpath. As yet, I have not fallen in, though I did come close a time or two. Thepond now behind me, I continue forward… beyond the marble statuary, the outdoorchess board, the Italianate courtyard.
I pause and rest, stretching side to side at the waist. Sweetblazes! Corsets do not enhance oxygen intake one whit. Unlike the inventor ofperfumed soap, I do not thank the person who created these blasted things.After a few more stretches, I continue on. It’s still another three hundred andfive feet to reach the maze and the conservatory at its center. Father callsthis section of the grounds Mother’s Folly because it was her idea to put in anevergreen maze. It occupies a dozen acres, has several dead ends, and featuresthousands of manicured shrubs. If one lined up all the twisting paths insidethe maze, they would nearly run a mile. Many a servant has become lost insidethe serpentine puzzle that is Mother’s Folly.
The air grows cool when I arrive at the entrance to the maze. Ipull the hood of my cloak up and give my ears free reign to sort through thelayers of sound on the estate. It is reasonably quiet at the house. Except forMama’s playing—she’s moved on to Schubert. The outbuildings and barn, on theother hand, are full of activity. Washerwomen snap wet sheets and peg them tothe line. The slaughtered pig hangs from a hook, blood dripping—tap, tap, tap—intoa pan. And a scullery maid is busy with the mid-day milking, berating the cowfor kicking over her pail.
Amid this domesticity, I turn inward and listen to myheartbeat. The sounds of the world disappear as I call out telepathically tothe other half of my soul. His response is quick.
Yes, Hettie. I hear you.
I smile at the voice in my head. Sorry if I’m a bother—
A pleasant distraction, maybe, but not a bother.
Could we meet this afternoon?
Reassurance and peace flow between us. I’m just outsidetown. Be there as soon as I can.
He leaves me with that promise, and I turn my hearing outward,cheered by our psychic communion. I stroll into Mother’s Folly, feelinginstantly at home, and run my left hand along the shrubbery. A haven of solitudeand peace, away from spying servants and family troubles. Gravel crunches undermy boots as I follow the narrow path. Move along, I tell myself. Left. Left. Right.That’s it—ignore the false turn and go straight. Around the next corner, nowtake another right. And left once more… Yes. Almost there.
My tranquility is shattered when I hear someone speak. Not aghost this time but a living woman. Voice brittle as dessicated leaves, shewhispers from
