“Of course,” Josephine said. “Of course, Flora.”
She gave her two dollars in case she found any bargains.
—
Flora told Enid that she was getting up very early the next morning.
“I have to go to a sale in Hampton. Don’t get up with me.”
—
Jasper Tuck stood close, both hands on her.
“You want them to think no one else will have a miniature like theirs,” he said, twitching at the dress, adjusting the tabs across her chest.
They left at daybreak. Flora noticed spider webs strung from the grass, so heavy with dew that some strands had separated and now drifted, forlorn remnants. They drove to Summer Street and waited beneath an elm tree until the milk wagon had passed by, making deliveries, and maids had begun to open front doors.
The horse fretted, lifting his hooves, stamping them down.
—
A maid not much older than Flora opened the door. Sleep crusts in the corners of her eyes, rough-pored skin, teeth like crooked clothespins. She frowned at Flora, then glanced past her at the miniature house on the veranda.
“Yes?”
“May I speak to Mrs. Dunfield?” Flora said. “I’ll wait here. I don’t need to come inside.”
A shadow quivered across two milk bottles. The girl came onto the veranda and picked up the bottles before vanishing back inside.
Mrs. Dunfield came to the door. A white dress of cotton lawn fell around her slender frame. Her eyes were quick, comprehensive. She studied Flora, then checked beyond to see who might be waiting in the street. She frowned upon noticing the miniature house.
“Good morning, ma’am.” Flora had no idea what to say next. She felt thick, garish, perspiring in the petticoat and velvet underdress, this white wool gown, which, she suddenly realized, was inappropriate for this late August day whose heat sounded in the spreading throb of insects. She could not say I am Josephine Galloway’s servant. She could not say I am Mr. Jasper Tuck’s assistant. She could not say I am a Home Child who was saved from the auction. She could not say I am running Mrs. Galloway’s boarding house and taking care of my sister who we have just rescued from dire circumstances.
“You are the girl who spoke at the tea meeting, aren’t you? With Mrs. Galloway? You are the girl she rescued from the pauper auction. Flora, isn’t it?”
Flora had not foreseen this.
“Yes, ma’am. Flora Salford.”
“Will you step in? My, it’s going to be a hot day.” The woman’s eyes, though, remained on the miniature house. “What is that?”
“It’s a miniature house being made for the MacVey sisters.”
“Why yes, indeed. Oh, my goodness. It is exactly the same as their house, isn’t it?”
“I am helping make it,” Flora said. “I made the windows and some of the…” She took a breath. “I was sent to see if you would like to buy one. He would make an exact copy of your house. There would be nothing else like it, not anywhere in the…”
She felt the pent words drain and die. Her neck quivered.
The woman came out onto the veranda and let the screen door fall shut behind her. She looked closely at Flora. Then she motioned to two white-wicker rocking chairs, shaded by a trellis of clematis.
“Come,” she said. “Sit down.” She set her hands together, palm to palm, and pressed them between her knees. “Tell me. Who is he?”
Flora leaned her head back to expose her sweating neck. The wicker was damp, cool. The green floorboards were freshly painted.
“Mr. Jasper Tuck. He makes miniature houses.”
“I heard of someone…down near the coast? A man going from house to house…”
“No, it’s not him,” Flora said, quickly. Whoever he was. Surely Mrs. Dunfield had misheard. “Mr. Tuck is from up north.”
“Where, up north?”
She recognized what she had felt, when, instead of throwing corn to the chickens, instead of making the kitchen fire with the good, dry kindling, instead of serving oatmeal to the boarders, she had removed her apron and her brown gingham dress in Mr. Tuck’s workshop and submitted to putting on the dress he’d picked out for her.
Shame.
“I don’t know the province. It’s what he told Mrs. Galloway when he came to the boarding house.”
“Who are his people?”
New Brunswick was like a vast house with interconnecting rooms, hallways, closets with familiar contents, parlours filled with friends and relatives. She had learned to say, I’m a Salford. My people are English.
“He’s not from around here. He says he has no people.”
“What’s his name?”
The wrong questions, she thought. Not—How much does it cost? How long will it take to build? Will it look just exactly like my house? It had never occurred to her that she would not sell a miniature house to this woman of evident wealth.
“Mr. Jasper Tuck,” she said. “His parents were killed in an accident.”
“Were they.” Mrs. Dunfield plucked at a thread in her cuff. A cat jumped up onto the veranda railing and wove its way on cloud-quiet paws.
She shook the thread from her hand and reached over to touch Flora’s sleeve. “Whatever you’re doing to help this man, I would advise you stop.”
—
Flora went down the street and fetched Mr. Tuck.
Mrs. Dunfield stood like a dark ghost behind the screen door as Mr. Tuck and Flora carried the house down the pathway. They moved awkwardly, arms extended, as if carrying a body.
—
She had not considered that they would be returning in broad daylight. All the twenty-minute ride back, she slumped on the seat, sweltering, the armpits of her dress soaked. As the horse turned up the lane, she hoped that Josephine would be busy at her desk, that Enid and Ellen would be in the kitchen. The harness was outlined with a yellow froth
