She found she could not tell Carrie the degree to which she loved, as well as depended upon, Flora. Or how she and Maud and Flora and Ellen murmured to one another about Enid—delighted to see that she had stopped pleating her skirt on her knee, thrilled when they noticed she had begun to look people in the eye, improve her grammar, smile. She could not tell Carrie that on some mornings she woke to her loneliness and felt as lost, as vulnerable, as Flora and Enid.
“I don’t know what will become of any of us. Them, me, Ellen. My own daughters. I can only go on, day by day. Keeping food on our table and a roof over our heads.”
“Men’s laws left you in a pickle, of course, and now you avoid working out your own situation by being pleased with the improvements you see in the girls.”
“There is only one way that I can see of to work out my situation, Carrie. Simeon’s will could not be found, and because of that, I have nothing. He would not have wished this upon me, but those are the facts and cannot be changed. I will live in this house the rest of my life, unless all three of my children decide to sell it. Which I heartily hope they will not. But if they did, and should I relinquish my dower right, the portion I would receive from the sale would pauperize me. I am doing the only thing possible, running a boarding establishment. It is an invaluable help having Flora and Enid here. I hope it is a help for them as much as it is for me.”
Her face grew hot. Mr. Fairweather. Divorce. His desire to spend the rest of his life with her. The fearful sweetness of the moment, which she could not resist nurturing.
Carrie, misinterpreting the blush, leaned forward and touched Josephine’s arm. “Oh, Josephine. You know, I believe I spent too many years of my childhood with only my mother. No playmates. My father was of necessity a stern man. I did not learn the niceties of conversation. I am too direct. I’m sorry.”
“It’s not…” Embarrassed, Josephine leaned to peer out the window. She had seen a movement on the lane, a flash of green, and thought it could not be Mr. Tuck’s coat, as it was too bright.
—
Enid listened but heard no sound. She opened the door and slipped into the workshop.
In the corner where she had changed into the dress, just where she’d expected it to be, she found her white satin ribbon. Ellen had given it to her and she wore it like a necklace, treasured it. It lay between a wicker wastebasket and the wall. Farther back, in a corner, she saw an object—box, book, wallet, spectacle case—clearly lost, in want of rescue. She scrabbled into the darkness, lifted something cold, smooth, heavy. A paperweight? A toy?
A brass duck.
She squatted, cleaning it on her skirt.
It was so unlike Mr. Tuck that she knew immediately that it must have belonged to one of the children, Maud, perhaps, or George. Perhaps they’d forgotten it while visiting Mr. Dougan. Oh, he kept the place spotless, Ellen had recollected. Loved to oil the harness, the bridles. Mr. Galloway had a nice riding horse. Mr. Dougan, he kept those stirrup irons shining like the best silver.
Enid had once possessed a cloth doll with wooden head, arms and legs. She could not remember it, but Flora told her that Ma and Papa made it for her. It went missing in the workhouse, Flora said. Some other little girl stole it. You cried for days.
She held the duck in the palm of her hand until it was warm. She rubbed the round circle of its eye until she fancied it looked happy and recognized her.
Back in the house, as Enid climbed the stairs, she heard Flora laugh, probably at something Ellen had said. Farther off, the murmur of voices in the parlour. She went to her bedroom, dropped the ribbon on her bed. No one wanted the duck, she reasoned—she’d only brought it into the house where it belonged, although it was hers now. She tucked it under her pillow with only a bit of the beak showing. So you can breathe. Later, she would find a better hiding place for it.
She went back out to pull the last of the turnips.
—
At four-thirty, Ellen put a hand to the small of her back.
“Must go lie down,” she said.
Flora stooped to slide a sheet of biscuits into the oven. “I can make the pie.”
“You got to crumble the savoury fine and pick out the stems. Remember Mr. Sprague. Needle in my throat, he said.”
Ellen went upstairs. Passing the door to Flora and Enid’s room, she paused, noticing the ribbon on the bed. She saw something else, curious. She stepped into the room and lifted the pillow.
—
As Flora put the finishing touches on the supper table—cut-crystal saucer of pickles, silver-plated butter dish, knife inserted in its prong—the boarders were coming down the stairs. Returning to the kitchen, she noticed that light had drained from the sky, the barn roof a silhouette against the cooling blue.
“Where’s Enid?”
Maud was sitting in the rocker, patting the cat. “Haven’t seen her. I thought she was upstairs washing her hands. I’ll call her.”
She jumped up, went out.
The cat, offended, rubbed against Ellen’s ankles. Ellen, revived from her brief rest, was spooning mashed potatoes into a bowl; she stamped a foot. “Go on with you.”
Maud returned, shortly. “She’s not upstairs.”
“I think she’s in the garden,” Josephine said. She was stirring a custard.
“I’ll go check. It’s not like her to be late.” Maud was in the hall, shoving her arms into a woollen sweater.
“But
