He strode over to the side of the Consulate and, kneeling, parted the long grass to point at symbols carved into the foundation blocks of the house. The symbols were round, like wheels, with segments of other circles carved off-center within so that the overlapping ovals created a petal effect, sometimes five petals, sometimes six.
Lyman, who had never seen the carvings before, looked quickly at Minerva. She sat absorbed, her husking forgotten.
“These are called daisy wheels,” said the man. “They are wards intended to keep evil at bay. They were very popular in previous centuries in rural England, where the superstitious farmers would carve them into foundations or beams and lintels to keep devilish spirits out of their houses. The idea was that evil would become lost in the marks’ twists and turns like a walker in a maze, and thus couldn’t penetrate beyond. Doubtless these marks were carved by the original settlers of this farm.”
“I had thought they were sand dollars,” said Minerva, “carved as some reminder of a day at the beach.”
“Indeed! I see how you could believe that. The resemblance is similar. Nevertheless,” said the man, rising to his feet, “they are nothing quite as lovely. Instead they serve as reminders of how ignorant and irrational our forefathers could be. And yet by clinging to these outdated beliefs, we are little different from those who would burn old ladies at the stake because of a lazy eye or a mole on the cheek.”
Everyone soon settled into the drudgery of the work and the droning of the lecturer faded into the noises of tearing husks and twisting stems. Eventually the lecturer’s throat ran dry and he vanished into the kitchen for a cup of tea. Meantime the others joked and teased and made contests of their husking; and when that failed to amuse, they sang songs. Lyman knew few of the words.
One thing broke the repetitiveness of the day. Minerva had noted that of all their company, there was only a single absence: that of Mr. Sutton. The vacancy was made the stranger by Mr. Presley’s admission that he’d not laid eyes on his cabin mate since late the previous afternoon.
Then, during lunch, Grosvenor came hurrying around the corner of the house with a letter in hand. He announced it had been tacked to the front door and was addressed to the members of Bonaventure. Everyone left off their meal and crowded around Grosvenor while he read it to the company.
It was, as supposed, from Sutton himself, and amounted to an apology and explanation of sorts in which Mr. Sutton announced that he found the labor of the farm too much for his constitution and had decided to retreat to his brokering in New York. He further added that the shame of his weakness prevented him from saying his good-byes in person, and therefore he had skulked away under cover of night. There was no use chasing after him on the road or writing to him in the city, Sutton insisted; his mind was resolute, and he wished nothing more than to put his adventure at Bonaventure forever behind him.
There was a great murmuring at this as everyone agreed this action was most unlike Mr. Sutton’s character, for while he could sometimes make himself boorish on the subject of abolitionism, all concurred it was the very same fiber and tenacity that had made him a leading figure at the farm. Several of the ladies wept into their napkins, upset at their friend’s departure without a face-to-face adieu. Grosvenor did not know what to make of it, shocked by the erraticism of a man he considered steady as stone, and after concluding his oratory, he sat humbled in his seat, refusing to touch his coffee.
Minerva herself found her mood weighted by leaden ballast. Only days before she had discussed with Sutton the vanished John Tyler and been impressed by his devotion to Bonaventure’s future.
The feeling persisted throughout the day, distracting her thoughts as she performed her chores rotely. Sutton’s departure was both odd and yet completely understandable; so contrary to his manner and yet logical in light of his view of the farm’s tenuousness. Here was a new enigma, then: what would Dupin think? Come late afternoon, as she stood in the kitchen with the other women preparing supper, Minerva happened to glance out the window to see the menfolk retiring from the husking, the denuded corn returned to the crib. On an impulse she threw down her paring knife and headed toward the cabins.
Mr. Presley—having just returned home and still fully clothed—was unsure how to react to Minerva’s presence in his cabin; she was, in fact, the first female to ever cross its threshold. She prowled, in his estimation, about the single room, scrutinizing and studying; picking up a redware mug and setting it back down, or fingering through the shirts left on their hooks over Sutton’s bedstead. Truthfully Minerva did not know what to search for either. Meantime Presley watched her, not knowing whether to sit or stand or what to do with his hands.
In addition to his clothes, Sutton had also left several bundles of letters tied with string in the drawer of the cabin’s desk. Minerva hesitated a moment whether to examine them, but then realized they were fair game by reason of their abandonment.
“It is a favorite pastime of Mr. Sutton’s,” said Presley, “or was I should say, to write and read letters at day’s end. I prefer to read educational and uplifting books, myself.”
“I see the letters are bundled by sender,” said Minerva. There were more than a dozen packets.
“Yes. He kept a voluminous correspondence, though I don’t know all of the recipients entirely. I know he has a sister in Pennsylvania toward whom he feels great attachment. Also a good friend
