Whisper Falls (11 page)

Damn, her smiles were like crack.

“You are right. I am fortunate you were the one to witness that. Thank you.” She picked her way over to the cliff.

It was still light out. I wasn't ready to let her go. I had to do something to hold her attention.

“Hey,” I called after her, “I learned something interesting about your town.”

“Yes?” She looked over her shoulder, a foot already poised on a ledge.

I knew how a cat felt when it had a dead mouse to present to its owner. Or maybe, on second thought, that wasn't such a good analogy.

“Worthville disappeared from the census between 1800 and 1810.”

She blinked as if she thought I was joking. “Worthville disappears?”

Shit. Where was my brain? I couldn't have eased that in a little nicer? “Yeah.”

She shook her head in denial, watching me with big, round eyes. A few seconds passed. She slumped to a boulder and laid shaking fingertips to her lips. “Merciful heavens,” she said in a horrified whisper.

Why did I constantly screw up with her?

History had never been my favorite subject, nothing more than dry facts to memorize. Distant tragedies were something my brain acknowledged as sad without penetrating any further. But this was her world.

“Sorry, Susanna. I shouldn't have blurted it out like that.”

Her gaze flicked from place to place, as if seeking answers among the shadows. “When does my village vanish?” Her voice cracked on the last word.

“I don't know, exactly.”

“How does it happen?”

Great show-off I was. Hadn't even bothered to look up the details. What was wrong with me? Like some kind of selfish jerk, I'd told her horrible news just to keep her near me a minute longer.

“I don't know how it happened, either.”

With a choked moan, she rocketed to her feet, climbed to the top of the bluff and paused, a dark silhouette against the night sky. “So you have learned nothing else?”

“Not yet.”

“Then look no more. I don't wish to know.”

With Hector gone, chores consumed me. There were no spare moments to dwell on Mark's news. It was the first time I had ever been thankful for too much work.

“Susanna, we have eggs.”

I turned from the worktable. Dorcas and Delilah stood framed in the doorway, each grasping the handle of the egg basket.

“Excellent work, young ladies,” I said. “Please bring it here.”

Delilah scrambled onto the bench while her elder sister approached me.

“Is it baking day?”

I wrestled a lump of bread dough into a pan before covering it with a cloth. “Indeed, as Wednesdays always are,” I said, mopping my face with the hem of my apron.

Dorcas twisted to and fro, her little girl skirts swishing below her knees. “I should like a tart. Could you make one?”

“I suppose I could.” My lips fought a smile. “If you were to have a tart, what kind would it be?”

There was a hopeful huff. “What kind of fruit do we have?”

“Berries and peaches.”

“Oh.” She perched on a stool by the worktable and clapped her hands, golden curls quivering. “A berry tart would be lovely. What do you think, Delilah?”

Her little sister nodded eagerly.

“Let me see what I can find.”

I crossed to the pantry and reviewed the supplies stacked on ceiling-to-floor shelves. We were still low on all our staples. Most vexing. Mr. Pratt had not fetched more as he'd promised. Until he restocked, I would have to prepare recipes with less flour and spices.

“Would a cobbler do?” I called.

“Merciful heavens, yes,” Dorcas answered.

I laughed to hear her repeating my favorite phrase. She noticed too much.

After measuring the flour, I reached for the sugar cone and judged it with my eye. It would last us through the month. I must be thrifty with the sugar, as well.

An idea stirred, a happy memory of my grandmother's favorite sweet. Much better than a cobbler, in my opinion.

I grabbed a pitcher of milk.

Dorcas sighed with pleasure as she watched me carry ingredients to the table. “May I help?”

“No, little one,” I said with a smile. Dorcas would likely place more fruit in her mouth than in the recipe, “but I would enjoy conversation.”

A shadow darkened the door. “Conversation about what?” Deborah watched us with suspicious eyes.

I clamped my lips together, reluctant to answer the unwelcome visitor.

“Susanna is making a cobbler.” Dorcas leaned her elbows on the table and propped her face in her hands.

Deborah sniffed. “Is Jedidiah's dinner pail ready?”

I added a double portion of berries to the baking dish. “On the bench.”

Deborah snatched up the pail in one hand and held the other out to Delilah. “I'm taking our brother's meal to the tutor's house. Would you like to walk with me?”

The little girl slid off the bench and grasped her eldest sister's hand. They disappeared through the doorway, Deborah's strident voice talking as they went.

I relaxed again.

“Susanna, do you want to hear the news?”

“If you like.” I found a wooden bowl and spoon, only listening with part of my attention. Dorcas needed little encouragement.

“All right, then. Did you notice that Deborah seems upset today?”

Deborah Pratt was unpleasant far too often for it to be news. “What's the reason for her unpleasant mood?”

“Jacob Worth ignored her at the tutor's yesterday.” Dorcas sighed. “I can't wait until she's old enough to marry and leave our house. Then I shall be the eldest daughter.”

“She's only thirteen. I fear you have a long wait.”

“Mama says fifteen is an excellent age to marry for a clever girl. But you are right; two years is quite a long time,” Dorcas said, her lips puckering into a tiny rosebud of despair. She watched as I added flour and sugar. “Do you like cobbler?”

“Very much,” I said, reaching for the milk.

“Do you ever get to eat any?”

I glanced at her face, but it was guileless. She hadn't learned the rules yet. Servants ate only what the family left behind. “Not often. The Pratt children like to eat the entire sweet.”

“Yes, we do, and there are so many of us.” She bobbed her head, her cap slipping. “Three after me. Since you joined our family, you've had many babies to raise.”

I didn't know whether to laugh or ignore her. Dorcas dearly loved stories from her infancy, and she never grew weary of hearing them. I went along—as she knew I would.

“Indeed, I have. You were still toddling when I arrived. You were far too busy to mind if you fell over and bumped your head.”

“I was a sweet baby.”

“The best. Always cooing and beaming.”

“I was no trouble.”

My eyebrow shot up in mock surprise. “I don't remember it the same way.”

She giggled. “I was an easier baby than your sister.”

“That is true.” Phoebe had been delicate at birth. Although not quite six years old myself when she was born, I tended to her and my mother while my father and brothers handled the chores. That period had given me the knowledge to care for babies, a skill which the Pratts had used often. “My sister didn't begin life with your robust health.”

“Susanna,” Dorcas gasped and surged onto the worktable to frown at the bowl, “you are adding too much milk.”

I smiled at the top of her head. “I thought I would make a sonker.”

“What is that?”

“It's a cobbler with too much milk. Sonkers were a specialty in the town where my grandmother grew up. She taught my mother how to make it, and my mother taught me. I cannot share the recipe with anyone.”

“It's a secret?” Dorcas asked in a reverent tone.

“Indeed. My mother and I are the only two in the county who know how to make sonkers.”

“I shall look forward to this treat.” She slipped off her stool and circled around to my side. With lightning speed, she stuck her finger in the bowl, skillfully avoided the tap of my spoon, and tasted the batter. “Mmmm. This will do nicely.”

“I am happy it pleases you.” To conserve the sugar, I had used a small portion. It was gratifying that Dorcas hadn't complained.

“Phoebe is such a fortunate girl. I should like very much to have you for my sister.” She leaned against me, one arm hooked about my waist. “Will you truly leave on your birthday?”

I nodded gravely. “I must.”

“I shall miss you fiercely. Will you write me letters? Will you come back to see me?”

Her questions caught me unawares. Averting my face, I set down the spoon and wiped my hands on my apron. For seven years, my master and mistress had treated me with less care than one of their livestock. I was expected to do my chores with consistency. Accept my punishments with humility. Eat the dregs at the bottom of the kettle with gratitude. Confine myself at night to a leaky, drafty space no bigger than a coffin.

Since they wanted only work from me, work was all they received. I gave them no opinions. No thoughts. No feelings. I saved the best of me for my haven at the falls.

With my time short here, it would be far easier if I could leave without regrets. Yet Dorcas was such a delight, it was impossible to steel my heart against her. Picking up my spoon, I gave her a smile. “I shall only be as far away as Raleigh. We shall visit. And you have three lovely sisters to keep you company.”

“I don't think Deborah is lovely at all. She tattles on me all the time.” An indignant Dorcas continued at length, recounting another event where Deborah's excellence at snooping had earned Dorcas extra hours stitching samplers. Relieved at the change in topic, I nodded at intervals while I finished preparing the treat.

As I lifted the dish of sonker, she poked me in the side. “Can you keep a secret?”

“I suspect I can.” Hiding a smile, I crossed to the stone hearth. Her secrets were rarely interesting enough to remember.

“I think Papa sold Hector because he's a thief.”

“A thief?” I shook my head. “You must be mistaken. Hector would not steal.”

“I heard Papa tell Mama he found a jar of stolen coins hidden in the cellar.”

Her words sent a chill skittering down my spine. A jar of coins? I closed the Dutch oven lid, picked up the pitcher of milk, and walked outside to the cellar. My jar rested on a rickety shelf near the entrance. I lifted it and gave a little shake. It was empty.

Had Mr. Pratt found my missing coins? My mistress had given them to me. Hector hadn't stolen them. Had Mrs. Pratt said nothing in his defense?

It was wicked to press Dorcas for details, but I would do so anyway. I had to know. When I reentered the kitchen, I asked, “What, precisely, did your father say about Hector? Do you recall?”

She pursed her lips. “Let's see. It was something like… ‘Anyone who takes what is mine will find the punishment severe.'”

* * *

My master liked his cobblers to have a crisp crust. Berry sonker would not please him.

I prepared a tray with six bowls, spooned a small portion of sonker into each, and carried the treat to the dining room.

A hiss whistled through his teeth. “Is this a pudding?”

“No, Papa,” Dorcas said. “It's a cobbler with too much milk.”

I nodded in confirmation, gaze lowered, biting my lip against an unruly bubble of laughter.

“Look at me.” His upper lip curled.

I met his gaze and felt an odd sense of power. He wasn't nearly so intimidating perched on his mahogany chair. From this angle, I noted thinning hair and sagging skin. He was simply a man in his thirties, aging without grace.

But the eyes—they remained sharp. At this moment, they flared with irritation and something more. Suspicion?

“Why did you make this particular dessert?”

The children and Mrs. Pratt watched, still as stumps.

“Milk is plentiful,” I said, “and the recipe permitted me to be frugal with the flour and sugar.”

Anger stiffened his jaw. He wouldn't wish to comment on the state of our pantry. It was a rare show of defiance from me, one for which I was likely to pay.

He tapped his lips with a long, bony finger. “A decision both bold and economical.” His glance took in his family. “Who would like to try this pudding?”

The rest of the family ate with relish until each bowl was scraped clean. Anticipating that my master wouldn't be interested, I'd reserved a small amount of the treat from the baking dish. I would take the last bit to Mark.

When I left the kitchen after supper, Jedidiah followed me at a discreet distance. Unfortunately for him, he was too discreet, for I dodged behind a bush, waited for the boy to pass, and followed
him
. He rounded the next curve, scanned the clearing, and peered into the growing shadows. With a snort of dismay, he ran down the path toward the village.

I made my way to the falls and climbed down while hugging a dish to my breast. Pausing at the bottom, I strained to see through to the other side. Neither Mark nor his bike was there.

Perhaps it was too early.

Perhaps he wouldn't come.

It was only when I turned toward the cave that I saw him, waiting in its deepest recesses.

Smiling with delight, I joined him. “You have been brave to venture into the wilds of Worthville.”

“If you don't want me here…” He rose in a show of leaving.

“No, no,” I said with a laugh. “Please, stay.” He laughed with me and sat.

I sat, too, a proper distance away. “Where is your bike?”

“I walked today.” He gestured vaguely at the trail in his world. “I don't live far. If you turn left at the top of the incline, we're about a five-minute walk up the greenway.”