The House of Closed Doors (24 page)

Just as I decided that I could stay for only five more minutes, my patience was rewarded. Tess’s small, plump form rose from the ground, climbing the steps with an unwieldy basket in one hand and a small crate in the other. She set the basket on the ground next to the nearest clothesline and plunked the crate down on the other side, running her hands over the hanging sheet. She tutted loudly, looked up at the darkening sky and, coming to a decision, stepped briskly up onto the crate and reached for the clothespins.

Nobody had followed her outdoors. This was my chance.

“Tess!” I hissed loudly, hoisted myself upright, and stepped to the side so that the bush no longer hid me from view.

Tess’s head jerked round toward the sound of my voice, and she opened her mouth to speak. I put one finger to my lips, flapping my other hand to warn her not to talk, and then motioned her over to the wall. She cast a quick glance around her, then hopped off the crate and ran to embrace me.

“Why are we being secret?” she asked. “You can talk to me in the laundry. They don’t mind.” She smelled of soap and sweat, her normally neat hair mussed and falling out of its bun. Her spectacles were dirty, and her dimpled bare arms were reddened up to the elbows.

“I do not want to get you into more trouble, Tess dear. I must tell you something, but nobody else must know.”

Tess drew back a pace, her face screwed up in puzzlement. “What has happened?”

“Nothing has happened yet, but it will. In two days’ time. On the twenty-fourth.”

“Yes, it will be your birthday.” Tess’s eyes shone at the thought, and my heart sank. I had apparently left my childhood so far behind me that I’d forgotten the date on which I was born.

“Ye-e-s, of course. And we will have lemonade, I am sure.” This was how summer birthdays were celebrated in the Women’s House. “But that night, something else will happen. When you wake up in the morning, I will be gone, and Sarah with me.”

Tess let out a wail. “Gone?”

I shushed her, glancing anxiously over at the laundry door. A faint, hot breeze had arisen, and the clouds over our heads were becoming ever darker and more massive.

“I must take Sarah away. I told you, my stepfather said I must wean her before August. And I have not done so. I do not want them to take my baby from me.” My voice choked with the tears that gathered at the thought of separation.

Tess looked down at her feet, and when she spoke her voice was tight and hoarse. “And you will not take me with you. I will be a nuisance. I am too slow, and when you get wherever you are going, people will stare at me and whisper to each other. You can go back to the world outside, and I can’t.”

I put my arms around my friend, and a tear‌—‌mine‌—‌fell on her wispy hair. She resisted stiffly at first but then yielded to my embrace, her small body convulsed in sobs.

“Nobody wants me,” I made out from the jumble of incoherent sounds.

“That’s not true, Tess.” I pushed her back slightly from me and looked at her flushed face, blinking the tears from my eyes. “We all love you.”

“Here they love me, because they know me,” Tess said with bitterness in her voice. “Out there they say I’m an imbecile. They don’t want me. You don’t want me.”

“If that were really true, Tess, would I have told you that I was leaving? I need to get Sarah away before they take her from me. I can’t do anything‌—‌anything, you understand?‌—‌to jeopardize her safety. But I have no intention of leaving you here. I will come back for you, I promise.” This was the new decision that had formed amid my swirling thoughts.

Tess stared at me with a skeptical expression on her face. “Why should I believe you, Nell? My own Ma and Da left me here. The charity lady told them I would be better off here. And they listened to her, and they brought me here, and Da told me to be a good girl. And Ma cried, but she went away with Da, and they never came back.”

Tess jumped as a huge raindrop landed smack on the top of her head. “The washing!” she cried, and, pushing me away from her, she ran over to her crate. I followed her and helped her to bundle the still-damp linen into the basket. Leaving her crate to the mercy of the weather, Tess heaved the heavy basket up‌—‌the effort bending her backwards‌—‌and looked at me. The sadness on her face broke my self-control.

“I will come back,” I was barely able to speak the words.

“We’ll see, Nell.” The weight of the basket caused Tess to waddle as she headed to the top of the concrete steps. “I have to call one of the other
imbeciles
,” she stressed the word, “to help. I’m too short to carry this down the steps by myself.”

I took the hint and headed toward the main door of the House, pursued by fat raindrops that cooled my hot, tear-streaked face. I would come back for her, I swore to myself. As long as I could get away in the first place.

THIRTY

J
uly the twenty-fourth came. I was eighteen years old. It meant little to me, but I smiled my thanks as a group of my friends gathered to drink a glass of lemonade in my honor. Tess, never one to bear a grudge, was among them, but her eyes were sad. Mrs. Lombardi smiled gaily, but she too had a weariness and sadness in her eyes that had not been there when I arrived at the Farm.

The day dragged. I tried to finish as much work as I could, attempting not to make it obvious that I was not leaving any garment half-finished for the next day. I took my meals late, pleading forgetfulness, so that I would not have to talk to anyone. I was grateful when the evening meal was finally over and I could escape to my shared room and pretend to be sleeping. I lay with my eyes closed, listening to Sarah’s babbles fade into silence as she drifted into sleep.

I strained my ears to hear the chimes of the large clock in the hallway far below me. Nine o’clock… ten… The other women drifted in as ten o’clock approached, their candles flickering against my eyelids as they undressed. I worried that Tess would try to stay awake, but she fell asleep before she had finished her day’s Bible passage.

Eleven o’clock rang… now I listened all the more intently for the ding-dong, ding-dong that marked the quarter hours. Ada’s snoring irritated me, as it made the bell harder to hear.

At the half-hour, I slipped out of bed and dressed, as quietly as I could, in my simplest dress. I pulled the bag with Sarah’s belongings from its hiding place under my mattress, scooped my baby out of her crib and left the room, fearful to look back in case I caught the gleam of wakeful eyes.

Easy enough to make my way through the moonlit corridors; easy enough to creep down the silent stairs, slide the bolts from the kitchen door, and slip out into the warm, humid night. Sarah, barely wakened by the movement, did not make any noise, and nobody heard us as we moved through the cacophony made by the night insects. We arrived at the main gate a few minutes before midnight.

The Farm was not a prison and had never been intended as one. Its isolated position relative to the town of Prairie Haven, the fact that most of its inmates were people who had no other option, and the fairness of its supervisors ensured that escapes were rare. Those who breached its boundaries had a three-mile walk over rutted roads to Prairie Haven to the southwest, or they could make for Waukegan, about ten miles in an easterly direction. In between lay farmland, woods, lakes, marshes, and rivers. Mr. Ostrander must have had a hard walk from Evanston.

I carefully searched the yew hedge that abutted the gate until I found a likely gap and then squeezed through backward, wrapping my arms around Sarah so that the stiff branches would not scratch her. I almost fell into the ditch on the other side of the hedge but caught my balance in time and edged along it until I reached the gate again.

The night was still, if not silent. There was sufficient light from the stars and a half-moon to see the road, crooked into a right angle at the Farm’s gate. Far off I could see Mr. Ostrander’s former home, dark and silent now. Around me were fields of low-growing crops, stretching away into the darkness and offering no hedgerows in which I could hide if I were followed. If Martin did not come, I doubted that I could get to safety before dawn.

I shifted Sarah into a better position and looked anxiously both ways down the deserted road. Nothing.

I crossed the road and sat down at the foot of a large ash tree that grew opposite the gate of the Farm, one division bent oddly to the ground to mark an ancient Indian trail. I leaned my back against its rough bark and waited, a prey to anxiety but calmed by the relief of having breached the Farm’s boundaries.
Martin.
I shut my eyes, willing him to appear.

Despite the insistent whine of hungry mosquitoes, I dozed off for a short while. I was awakened by the soft clopping of a horse’s hooves and the quiet rumble of well-sprung wheels. A nicely kept gig halted near the gate, far enough away not to be seen from the inside of the Farm.

“Martin!” I hissed through clenched teeth, scrambling to bring my legs back to life and rise without disturbing Sarah.

I saw a white-blond head, bare of any hat, swivel round in an attempt to locate me. I stepped out into the road and was greeted by Martin Rutherford’s relieved smile. A flood of joy and relief spread into every limb: he had not turned away from me.

M
artin sprang down from the carriage, landing easily on his long legs. He swept me a mock bow with his right hand, his left holding the horse’s bridle.

“I beseech your pardon for my late arrival,” he said in a low voice. Then he caught sight of Sarah, whose face was mashed against my shoulder in tranquil sleep. Her little cap had slipped, exposing her tuft of hair to the light of the moon.

“Is that really your baby?” There was wonder in his voice. I moved closer to him and let him look at Sarah, feeling his warm breath as he bent to look into her face. “Yes, she is quite like you. I could hardly believe your letter. I wondered at first if you were teasing me like you always did. But how …” His voice trailed into silence.

“How did I come by her? In the usual way, Martin,” I said dryly. “By doing what no respectable young lady does and declining to name the father to boot.” It was such a relief to be able to speak plainly of my wrongdoings and see no condemnation, no shock, in Martin’s eyes. I had always thought him to be a good man, and now I felt proud to call him my friend.

He tilted his head to one side and peered into my face. “You have grown up, young Nell. I thought as much from your letter, which, let me tell you, was a considerable surprise to me. I thought you were convalescing from illness in some Eastern city. Your mother is a skillful fabricator. No wonder she would never let me write to you.”

A breeze rustled the leaves of the ash tree and brought Martin out of his contemplation of the new Nell. “Let’s not stand here talking, Nellie. Where do you wish to go?”

“Could we go straight to your house?”

Martin’s gray eyes widened. “You propose to stay at my house unchaperoned?” he exclaimed, in tones befitting a maiden aunt.

I began to laugh as if I would never stop, my hand clamped to my mouth to muffle the sound, while Martin grinned at me with a bemused and somehow delighted expression. We were just as much friends as we’d ever been back in the days when he’d been the recipient of my childish confidences.