Whisper Falls (9 page)

“Susanna?”

I paused. “Yes, sir?”

“If you are wise, you will keep my secrets.”

Susanna hadn't shown up tonight.

Maybe she was avoiding me, which would be understandable since I'd been such a jerk to her. Or maybe her master had detained her.

Or maybe the falls had stopped working.

I needed to chill before worry made me crazy. She would show up again. I just had to be patient.

To get my mind off the
why
s, I climbed to the rec room and looked for something to do. There were plenty of distractions: a pool table, an old-fashioned pinball machine, a monster TV, and a laptop attached to every peripheral known to humanity.

I stared for two minutes, realized I didn't feel like playing games, and sat down in front of the computer.

My customers needed bills. I ran a professional operation here. After logging in, I updated my accounting system and emailed the invoices.

Cool. Another ten minutes burned.

The restlessness returned.

It might've been different if my best friend were around. But since Carlton had to spend part of his summer vacation with his dad, I'd be on my own for the rest of June.

Bored, bored, bored.

The computer pinged at me. It was an incoming video call from my sister. I clicked ACCEPT.

Marissa had a determined thrust to her chin. “So, tell me about the girl.”

“Hello to you, too.”

“Oh, please. Such a stupid diversionary tactic won't work.”

I made a sour face at the webcam.

My sister stuck her tongue out in response. Very mature.

“Fine, Marissa. Which girl do you mean?”

Her eyes widened. “How many do you have?”

“None.” I was reluctant to mention Susanna. Talking about her would be a conversational minefield. And there was the whole
does the portal still work?
problem.

Damn. I wouldn't consider that possibility again. Done. Erased.

“I understand Alexis is history.”

I'd be glad when
talking
about Alexis was history. “You called Granddad.”

Marissa tossed her head. “Why haven't you mentioned the breakup to me?”

My cursor hovered over the KILL CALL button.
Oops, how did that happen?
“I haven't told you about Alexis because it's not important.”

“Yes, it is.” She leaned closer to the camera, staring at me like a fixated cat. “She was your first love. Granddad and I are worried about how you're handling it.”

“Alexis wasn't my first
love
. And I'm handling it just fine.”

“Good. So tell me about the other girl. I promise I won't say anything to Mom.”

“You aren't speaking to Mom.”

“Minor detail.”

I considered Marissa's request. It might help to discuss Susanna with someone, and my sister was far, far away. Plus, there was the KILL CALL button for emergencies, and I had the absolute best shit on Marissa that ever existed. Blackmail was a beautiful thing.

“If you say anything, I'll tell Mom and Dad about Fletcher.”

Her mouth pinched. “They know about Fletcher.”

“Yeah, but they don't
know
about Fletcher.” And my folks would be interested to find out that Marissa was living with her boyfriend while
he
attended grad school and
she
supported him.

“They'd better not find out.” Her eyes had a nasty squint to them.

“If I hear anything about Susanna come out of Mom's mouth, the next word out of mine is
Fletcher.”

“Deal.” She pounced. “So, her name's Susanna?”

“Yeah.” It was nice to discuss Susanna. It made her more real.

“How serious are you?”

“She's my friend.”

Marissa settled back in her chair. “Ah. That serious.”

“No, really. We're friends. Serious is the wrong word.”

“What's the right word?”

“She's important.”

“What's your important friend like?”

Images of Susanna flashed through my brain. Climbing the rock wall. Sitting statue-still on a boulder. Wiggling her fingers in the falls with a little kid's delight.

“She's like no one you've ever met.”

“I've heard that one before.”

If only my sister knew. “Susanna is quiet.”

“Is that good?”

“Yeah.” Quiet was great. It was one of the best things about being around her. Everything she said was interesting. One hundred percent. No stupid stuff.

“Is she hot?”

I frowned. “Yeah, I guess.”

“You guess?”

I thought about the way Susanna looked. So many things contributed to hotness. Her hair was hot, but her body had to count, too. And under all those layers of clothes, it was hard to say.

Then there were her smiles, which were amazing to the point of surreal. “Susanna is pretty. It's just not a good enough way to describe her.”

“Oh, man. You have it bad.” Marissa laughed. “How old is she?”

Should I remind my sister we were just friends or would it be a wasted effort? “She's seventeen.”

“Same age as you. Where does she go to school?”

Damn, I'd stepped on the first landmine. “She doesn't.”

“Graduated early?”

“Dropped out.” An involuntary dropout, which would remain unsaid.

Marissa wrinkled her nose. “How long have you been dating?”

“I met her a few days ago. And we're not dating.”

“All right. How often have you hung out?”

“Maybe a couple times.”

“That's all?”

Could I change topics without making Marissa more suspicious? Probably not. I'd do my best to explain Susanna's master, even though it wouldn't be easy to do in twenty-first century terms.

“Her employer is an asshole.”

There was a pause. “How do you mean?”

Could I trust my sister? Maybe it would help to talk it over with someone. I just couldn't accept that there was nothing Susanna could do about Mr. Pratt.

“Her employer knocks her around.”

Another pause, longer this time. When she spoke, her voice was soft and incredulous. “Does he abuse her?”

“Yeah.” What a horrible word. But my sister was right. Hitting? Knocking around? Why had I used terms like those? Susanna was
abused
.

“What kind of job does she have?”

I should've thought this through before I said anything, although it was better talking to Marissa than Mom. Marissa was far, far away.

“I think she takes care of kids.”

“Mark,” she said, leaning so close to the camera I could only see her from the nose up, “do something about this. Turn him in.”

Her statement twisted like a dull knife in my gut. “I can't. She won't go along with it.”

“Have you seen the…?” She waved her hand, at a loss for the correct phrase.

“Scars or scabs?” I looked down at my balled-up fists.

“Yeah. Both.”

There was a huge, sucking gasp. “You have to do something.”

Me? Like what? If the citizens of Worthville lived with it, what could I do from two hundred years away?

“It's complicated. There are extenuating circumstances.”

“I can't believe I hear you saying that.”

“Please, Marissa. Trust me.” How had Susanna's acceptance of her abuse seeped into me? If Fletcher were treating my sister that way, I'd beat his ass before drop-kicking him over to the cops. With Susanna, I'd strutted around like a pissy little kid, told her she wasn't doing enough, and walked away. Why had I given up so easily?

All this emotion made me ache. “I want to do the right thing, but I don't know what that is. I have to research the law, and afterwards…it's complicated.”

“What's complicated?” She frowned, her eyes big and round. “Is Susanna an illegal immigrant? You can't tell the police because you could get her deported?”

“Something like that.” I gave Marissa a tight smile and grabbed the mouse. The cursor hovered over KILL CALL. “Sorry, Big Sis. Gotta go now. Later.”

Click.

The conversation with my sister guilted me into action. I brought up a browser. Time for a little investigation. But where did I begin? How did I explain to a search engine what I wanted? There were so many keywords to choose from. Post-Revolutionary labor laws. Colonial abuse. Eighteenth century Wake County. Indentured servants in the late 1700s.

Probably I should try the last one.

There were hundreds of links, and nearly all dealt with the
convicts-from-England
type of indentured servants. Not the
hej-honej-let's-get-rid-of-a-kid
type.

Did all indentured servants get contracts with the same terms? The same length of service?

It was another thing to investigate.

Okay, I'd try
Wake County 18th century
next.

Five hits later, I discovered something that captured my attention. Something I hadn't been looking for. Something none of the research I'd done so far had turned up.

The 1800 census documents for Wake County listed Worthville and its residents.

The 1810 census did not.

In the first decade of the nineteenth century, Worthville vanished from the records.

Sunday morning teased us with a light, sweet breeze, but we were soon to learn it was a cruel joke. As the day wore on, the sun blazed ferociously through the treetops, its heat stifling even in the shade.

I followed the Pratts down the trail to the village, my stomach twisting with each step. The meetinghouse, never pleasant for servants, would be miserable long before the worship service ended.

We emerged from the woods and joined the townsfolk streaming to church. In the distance, the slight forms of my mother and sister, arrayed in their finest gowns, trudged along the Raleigh Road, little puffs of dust in their wake.

I hurried to my mistress's side. “Mrs. Pratt, may I speak with my family?”

“Certainly. But don't delay.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

I ran toward my mother and sister, anxious to say my piece. “Mama?”

Her gaze met mine briefly and skittered away. It was always so. My presence seemed to embarrass her, although I couldn't be certain of the source. Perhaps it was because she was ashamed that a Marsh was indentured. Perhaps it was because her actions were to blame. She would never share the reason for her discomfort. I would never ask.

I fell into step beside her. “I would like to have a word with you.”

“Of course.”

My sister danced ahead.

“Phoebe says you are to marry Mr. Shaw.”

“He has asked. I have not decided.”

“She believes the Shaws plan to move into your house. She expects to tend his children.”

“That is Mr. Shaw's wish.”

“Do you believe Phoebe will mind children well?”

My mother wrung her hands nervously. “She can learn.”

The sheer foolishness of the response stunned me. “Are you willing to risk the health and safety of the Shaw children while Phoebe learns?”

My mother didn't answer, her pace slowing as we approached the meetinghouse yard.

I spoke quickly, before my time ran out. “You know as well as I that Phoebe's true talent lies in needlework. She has a delicate touch with stitches and a good eye for color and pattern.”

“She is indeed clever with her hands.”

“Might we find someone to apprentice her in spinning and weaving?”

“Mrs. Drake is the only lady in Worthville who will teach lessons in making cloth, and she cannot take Phoebe.”

“Have you asked?”

“I have.”

We halted in unison and watched my sister. She talked nearby with the Foster daughters, her hands gesturing rapidly. With a cry of delight, she returned to us.

“Mama, the Fosters have invited us to dine with them after church. May we go?”

“Yes, that would be lovely.” Her smile faded as my sister ran off. “You are right, Susanna. Phoebe is still too much of a child herself, but I don't know how to convince Mr. Shaw. He expects her to be useful.”

I swallowed the anger threatening to clog my throat. “He cannot choose her future if he's not her stepfather. You haven't given him your decision. Perhaps your answer should be no.”

Her gaze strayed to where my sister held hands in a circle with her friends, chattering all at the same time. Mama's face softened. “Perhaps you are right.”

My mother strode past me to join the Fosters and Phoebe. I watched her go, hopeful my logic had made an effect.

The Pratts had already stamped up the steps in two pious columns and marched down the aisle to the front pew—their pew, as no one else dared to take it. In my mind, positioned as it was before the pulpit, no one else wanted it. Mr. Worth spat when he preached.

I took up my position in the back, where the indentured servants stood throughout the entire worship service. While our Heavenly Father might love us equally, it was apparently not a belief of His congregation.

In preparation for the service stretching before me, I leaned against the wall and stretched my legs as my gaze wandered among the heads of the worshippers. I easily found the Fosters on the same pew as my mother's gold-and-silver coronet of braids and Phoebe's bouncy curls.

Someone slipped into the spot next to me.

“Good morning, Polly,” I said.

“Morning, Susanna.” She gave me a tired smile, her plump face wan.

“Are you unwell? Shall I find Mrs. Butler?”

Hot fingers gripped my wrist. “No, please. Say nothing to my mistress.” Polly stared at me with wide, despairing eyes.