Whisper Falls (26 page)

“…and Mama told him to visit his brother and ask for supplies.”

Mr. Pratt had not seen his older brother in the entire time I had worked here, which was nearly eight years. Mr. George Pratt lived but a day's drive away.

“Dorcas, perhaps you should join John and your sisters at the chicken coop.”

“There is no need. Deborah can tend them without me.” She ran to my side. “Why does Papa hate his brother so? He told Mama we would go hungry before he'd beg Uncle George.”

“Dorcas, hush.” My protest was half-hearted as conscience warred with interest. “You should not gossip.”

“It's not gossip if it's the truth.” Her face crumpled in dismay. “Mama said she would go to Uncle Worth for food. She said she wouldn't let her children starve because Papa was too proud to seek help.”

“Truly, you must stop.” As I looked about for the iron skillet, I marveled at Mrs. Pratt's boldness. My master valued his reputation too greatly to allow Mr. Worth to be approached. But would it be enough to conquer his estrangement from his brother?

“Are we going to starve, Susanna?”

I wanted to reassure her, but our supplies were still too low. With the garden suffering in the heat, we might have to try fishing or hunting if something didn't change soon.

“Your parents won't let it come to that. They will resolve the issue, I have no doubt.”

“Papa told Mama that Uncle George stole his inheritance.”

I held up my hand. “Not another word, Dorcas.”

“Is Uncle George a thief?”

“Don't let your father hear you say such a thing,” I said, pouring batter into the skillet. While I was placing it in the ashes of the fireplace, the shouting stopped.

Dorcas watched me from the doorway, eyes wide with worry. “Susanna, you must hide. Papa has been yelling your name.”

“Thank you.”

I grabbed a bucket and ran through the back door, not stopping until I reached the garden. As I peered through the cornstalks, I saw my master exit the house and march to the kitchen. Moments later, he came out the back and spoke to Dorcas. She shook her head. He scanned the yard and stomped to the house with his daughter following silently. I squatted and hugged my bucket, hoping he had given up his search for me.

Within easy reach were peppers and cucumbers. I picked the ripest ones, all the while reflecting on Dorcas's earlier gossip. Mr. Pratt had never spoken well of his brother in my hearing. But stealing? It was a strong accusation. Mr. George Pratt was the oldest brother. It was his due to receive the entirety of their father's property. He couldn't steal what was rightfully his.

I lugged the bucket to the kitchen and set it on the worktable. Mrs. Pratt would like the cucumber, so I retrieved a knife and a platter. As I bent over the scarred wooden tabletop,
Persuasion
, nestled in my pocket, thumped against the table's edge.

“What was that noise?” my master asked from the door.

Icy tendrils of fear curled down my neck.

“The platter,” I said, my voice hoarse even to my own ears.

“What is in your pocket?” He trapped me between his body and the worktable. With one hotly exploring hand, he felt beneath my petticoat and drew out the book, his face purpling with fury. A shove sent me sprawling to the floor.

“How did you acquire this?”

I stared at him with obstinate eyes, lips pressed together in mute protest.

“Where did you find this…this…filth? From that young man?”

The sight of my adored leather book in his hand enraged me. I scrambled to my feet.

“I want it back.”

He held it high above his head. “Not in my house.”

“I won't keep it in your house.” I lunged for my book. He threw it into the fire.

“No!” The scream echoed, long and loud, in the small building. My gift from Mark. In horror, I watched as flames licked the cover and curled the pages. I ran to the hearth, knelt, and reached.

The next moment, my master was above me. He kicked the iron skillet from the embers, knocking it against my outstretched arm. Hot metal seared my skin.

I fell backwards, landing on my bottom, staring in shock at my arm.

“Susanna?” Dorcas asked from the doorway.

My master said, “She is fine, Dorcas. Run along.”

“But, Papa—”

“Go.”

I looked up, trying to focus, but unspeakable pain blinded me. The air about my master swarmed with a crimson haze that faded to black.

* * *

I awakened on the floor, peering through half-closed eyes at the ceiling beams, my forearm in an agony so profound I thought I might go mad.

It hurt too much to cry. Or breathe. Or think. I begged Almighty God for the pain to end.

Outside, little girls shrieked. In the kitchen, it was quiet except for the occasional pop of the fire. I rolled to my side and lay exhausted, cheek pressed to the rough floorboard, dust tickling my nose. My eyelids drooped.

Please don't let the children come in and see me like this
.

Their terror would be harder to handle than my pain. I struggled to sit and then paused, head swimming, panting noisily. The room wobbled about me, then righted itself. Pain swirled around me like smoke. The smell of it filled my nose, the taste filled my mouth.

Cradling my burned forearm against my belly, I scanned the hearth with desperate eyes. Remnants of the book rested crookedly in the ashes. My heart shattered at the sight. A gift from Mark. My beautiful book.

Stumbling to my feet, I staggered into the pantry. With a quivering hand, I knocked the top from the jar of honey and dripped some on the wound.

The suffering didn't abate. Honey might encourage healing, but it did not alter the pain.

Mark had medicine. Little orange pills. I would go to him.

I plunged down the familiar path to the falls and hopped through to Mark's side.

The two previous times I had been in his century, he had been with me. This time, on my own, his world overwhelmed me.

There were too many noises. Muffled mechanical moans. Shrill laughter. The incessant yapping of dogs. The sweet sounds of birds and insects were drowned out.

Odors clung to the air, heavy but undistinguishable. I could see pine trees but not smell them. It was as if the scents of the earth had faded into one. A stew.

The colors had lost their intensity. Objects blended with their backgrounds.

This century lacked distinction.

But I had not come here to admire his world. I had come for Mark.

The incline rose before me. At its top waited the greenway. The hill seemed so high. Shadows flickered past, twenty-first century people chatting. Would they be friendly? Would they help?

I trudged up the trail until it changed from hard-packed earth to an unknown substance. I hesitated, frowning at the mottled black surface with its nasty smell. Lifting my foot, I nudged it cautiously and snatched my stinging toe away. The substance was exceptionally hot—too hot to walk on. And yet, had Mark not said that was its purpose?

Ring-ring
.

A bell, outside? Whirling around, I sought its source.

“Watch out,” someone screamed. A bike whined by.

I leapt backwards and landed in a bush. Tiny leaves and twigs scratched my injured arm. I gagged with pain.

The crimson haze returned.

Why had I come here? I gazed with longing down the trail to the falls. Should I return home before I hurt myself even more in this peculiar place?

“Hello, miss. Are you okay?”

I squinted toward the voice. An elderly gentleman peered at me from the black path.

“Yes, sir,” I said and winced at the obvious lie. “Pardon me, but do you live nearby?”

“This is my neighborhood.”

“Please tell me where Mark Lewis lives.”

“I'm afraid I don't know him.”

“I see.” When he turned to leave, panic gripped me. This man was the only one who had stopped to offer assistance. I tried once more. “Sir, do you know a nearby house with a barn? It is the kind of barn that stores a man's toys.”

“Certainly.” He pointed in the direction from which he'd come. “Just up there. Around the bend. It's not far.” He reached out to me. “Let me give you a hand.”

I thanked him and then crept along the side of the path, head bowed, hope spurring me on. I could do this. I would keep going now because it wasn't far.

So many bare legs moved past me. And they all wore shoes in the summer. Shoes, bare legs, and breeches that stopped high on the thigh. I blushed at the sight of so much skin.

Where was Mark's house? How much farther? The ache in my arm grew by the moment until I could scarce take another step. I felt out of breath, too weary for much more.

I scanned the houses on the opposite side of the trail and spied a barn.

When it came to grocery shopping, my mother and I had a good division of labor. She went to the store. When she got home, I put away the groceries. She hated the unloading part so much that it got me off chores for the rest of the day.

While I carried bags in from the garage, Mom made a cup of coffee and prepared to supervise me.

I targeted the refrigerator stuff first: eggs, milk, cheese.

Her attention wandered. “There's someone standing at our back gate,” she said, spying through the window over the kitchen sink.

I hauled a cloth bag into the pantry. “Maybe he's lost.”

“It's a girl.”

“Uh-huh.” Not interested. I stacked cans on the lowest shelf.

“She looks Amish or something.”

“Amish?” Foreboding ripped through me. Could it be…? I charged to the window. “Holy shit.”

“Watch your mouth.”

I didn't even register my mother's remark because I was flying out the back door. “Susanna?” I shouted as I raced across the yard.

Her face crumpled when she saw me. Tears? From Susanna? This visit could not be good.

“Why are you here?”

She couldn't speak for crying. I vaulted over the gate and skidded to a stop next to her. “What's wrong?”

She extended her left arm. A massive, ugly blister bubbled on her skin. It had to hurt like hell. “Did your master do this?”

“Yes,” she choked out between gulps.

The world around us went out of focus, leaving only me, Susanna, and this horrible wound. “Did he do it on purpose?”

She nodded.

My body pulsed with a rage so deep I could've killed him had he been within reach. But there wasn't time to plot revenge. For the present, my energies had to be directed toward her.

“What's going on?” Mom spoke from the fence.

Where had she come from? I hadn't heard her walk up. I hoped she hadn't overheard anything. But I wasn't sorry about her being here. We could use her skill.

“Susanna's been hurt.”

“Let me see.” Mom went into professional nurse mode. Peeling the sleeve away, she studied the damage and made tick-tock sounds with her tongue. “How did this happen?”

Susanna hesitated. “It was an accident. I…burned my arm on a pan.”

Mom's face was stern. “How did the pan connect with your arm?”

Susanna shook her head.

“Okay, dear. I'll drop the interrogation for now.” My mother continued her inspection. “Susanna, we must take you to the emergency department.”

“We can't, Mom. Just—”

“Mark.” She gave me her
dont-question-the-expert
frown.

“Wait here a moment,” I said to Susanna, then pulled my mother to the side. There was no good way to explain Susanna—at least nothing believable, even though she was standing there, in living color, looking every inch the eighteenth-century girl. With each second that passed, Susanna rasped with pain. She had come to me, and I wouldn't let her down. I had to come up with a story my mother would buy long enough to make her shut up and pitch in. If it was totally made up, well, too bad.

“We can't take her to the emergency department. We can't take her anywhere. My friend lives in one of those freaky communes that won't let her seek medical care. It's us or nobody. You have to do the best you can right here.”

Mom's lips pinched together against a gazillion questions she was dying to ask.

Susanna gave a hiccupping gasp.

“Fine,” Mom said and turned to her patient. “Let's take you inside where it's cool.”

Susanna's gaze shifted to our house. She shook her head, her eyes wide and wary. “No, please.”

“Okay. We'll take care of it outside. I'll figure something out,” my mother said. She pushed through the back gate and hurried across the yard.

I sat on a strip of grass beside the greenway in the shade of the barn, drew Susanna onto my lap, and tried to imitate the soothing sounds my grandma used to make when I was little.

Pedestrians grew quiet as they passed us. Noisy—silent—noisy again. Not that I blamed them for their curiosity. We had to look pretty odd. Really, they should be grateful to us. We were giving them a story to tell later over a beer.

“The book,” she whispered.

Where had that come from?

“What book?”

“The one you gave me.
Persuasion,”
she said and laid her head on my shoulder. “He tossed it in the fire.” Her voice cracked on the last word.

A wave of guilt rippled through me. This was my fault. She had known he would hurt her, and I taunted her into keeping the book.

“I'm sorry. You predicted this.”

“No, please don't be sorry. Reading the book gave me so much pleasure.”

She sounded a little bit calmer. “What did you like about it?”

Her face grew thoughtful. “Anne is the only person of value in a family of truly vile people, yet she doesn't permit them to taint her. It's such a hopeful story.” She glanced up at me. “My master burned your gift.”