The Mapmaker's Children (18 page)

But Cleo wasn't her family. She was just the kid next door, like a million other kids next door. The side of Eden's neck stitched with a muscle spasm, and she rubbed at the knot until it went away. Then she showered, blow-dried her hair straight, put on makeup, and dressed in an orange silk sundress she'd worn to the Virginia Gold Cup years prior. Too loose around the hips now—fertility pounds come and gone—it billowed behind her like a cartoon flame. Cricket arched his back high when she came down the steps and sniffed at her furled hem.

She swished the silk gently over his nose. “Good morning, Cricket.”

Sluggishly, he trotted after her into the kitchen, where Denny had left a half pot of hazelnut coffee. His barista skills were improving. She filled her mug and mixed in stevia for sweetness.

She'd always believed it immature to drink doctored coffee. In the office, she worried that it gave the wrong message: that she was soft and unable to hang with the big boys. She'd taken silent pride when the mugs were passed round and she'd swallowed the bitter black without hesitation. Meanwhile, the president of her agency added so much cream and sugar to his, it might as well have been a milkshake. The rules were different for men.

Now she admitted to herself that she hated black coffee. Always had. She took a drink of the warm hazelnut and rolled it around her mouth.

Someone had moved the doll's head down from its ledge. It lay sideways, cheek to marble, beside the jar of dog biscuits. Jack or Denny, she assumed.

“Good morning to you, too,” she said to it.

Imagining its many years of dark, cold entombment, she turned it upright in the sun. It made her glad her father had been cremated. She couldn't stand to think of him decomposing: flesh to bone, bone to dust. With a finger, she traced the painted waves falling left and right of the doll's forehead.

She was ashamed of her outburst the night she'd found it. Poor Jack. It was a wonder he hadn't packed his bags and sent her divorce papers months ago, as crazy as she'd been. He could have his pick of stable, beautiful women. She'd observed the way flight attendants, waitresses, secretaries, and even the nurses at the fertility clinic looked at him. How their voices lilted with the twang of seduction; how they flipped their hair just so and smiled. It was part of what made him so attractive to her, too. There was power in watching their nymphet expressions fade when he took her hand. She liked being Jack's wife. The idea of him leaving her before she left him first nearly brought her to tears, and she berated herself for being an emotional train wreck once more.

She took a biscuit from the jar and breathed in the spices. She'd make it up to him before she went, so they could part as friends.

Cricket homed in on the treat in her hand and sat obediently.

“I know you already ate, but we only live once—unless you're a Buddhist.” She gave him the biscuit. “Buddhism isn't your breeding. The Chow Chows' perhaps.”

He manipulated the cookie upright between his paws, his full belly protruding onto her bare feet. She drank her coffee, wiggling her toes in his fur. Outside the kitchen windows, the garden was empty. Cleo was gone. To the bank for lunch, she assumed. It was a quarter till noon.

“Time for me to go, too.” She picked up Cricket for a hug. His body was hot, as was the day, so she turned on the overhead fan for him. “Keep a trusty guard on the place, Biscuit Breath.” She set him in his cushioned bed and slipped into her strappy sandals. “I'll be back after the Children's Story Hour.”

The screen door clapped her back as she left, but it didn't bother her. She was busy wondering when she'd begun talking to Cricket and a doll's head and, moreover, why that came easier to her than talking to her own husband.

She parked in the Milton's Market lot again. Finding a spot on Main Street would've taken more time than hoofing it on foot; but a block into her trek, she was cursing her sandals. Stomping the pavement had caused the straps to rub blisters. She stopped in front of the bank to finger the bright sores and check the clock tower. A minute till.

At her PR agency, she'd chastised younger associates for not being at meetings early. “Promptness is key to client satisfaction,” she'd told them. “Time is an easy tribute. It sends the message that the individuals are valued.”

She might not have been on her way to a fat-cat CEO meeting, but it was a first day on the job. Though she'd met her only briefly, Ms. Silverdash felt more important to Eden than all those ex-clients put together. So she pushed her feet forward and opened the bookstore door as the clock over the Bronner Bank struck noon.

Then she remembered that she'd forgotten to bring the doll's head.

FROM THE
PURCELLVILLE JOURNAL
, AUGUST 1860
ATTENTION BOUNTY HUNTERS:

Ran away: Bettia, my Negress; gone off with her two young daughters, ages 8 and 3; headed north, possibly aided by Underground Railroad. Large reward for unharmed return of three, lesser if any are damaged or dead. Contact William Thornton III.

JAILED

Committed to jail: businessman, Mr. John Clifford, for attempting to ship a wooden crate containing a lawfully owned Negro out of southern territory. Also guilty of using various household sundries to smuggle unlawful materials to local slaves.

Residents are entreated to check all items before allowing them into their home or they might inadvertently share a similar fate
.

N
EW
C
HARLESTOWN
, V
IRGINIA
S
EPTEMBER
1860

S
arah and Annie arrived in New Charlestown as a drizzling shower abated. A thick fog fell and stuck to the knolls and roadways, giving the place the appearance of a mystic village.

Annie had agreed to the venture south with Sarah. She claimed it was her sisterly duty to chaperone, but Sarah knew it was more. Visiting New Charlestown allowed them to live temporarily as part of the Hills. They had the kind of family the girls wished theirs had been: stable, unconditionally loving, untainted by loss.

The summer months had flown by, and Sarah was grateful. Despite the gift of soft-boiled eggs, it broke her heart that Freddy and George had set off without saying good-bye in person or including her in their plans. She was determined to be more than the daughter of a once powerful man. She would prove herself a significant contributor to the UGRR.

Outside the carriage window, the distant Blue Ridge Mountains were just as Freddy had promised: the violet Shenandoah River cut gracefully through the jagged cliffs, blotched with early scarlet and yellow. While similar to the scenic woods of Massachusetts, Virginia held a verdant quality, wet and budding wild despite the autumn season. It made her fingers itch to capture the panorama in sweeps of paint.

Sarah's passion had ignited under the tutelage of Mary Artemisia Lathbury; she had grown both as an artist and as an abolitionist. Over quiet brushstrokes, Mary had instructed Sarah on the furtive means to dynamic ends: “Let the men take up their guns and caucus in political chambers. We'll sing our hymns, sew our quilts, and paint the scenes before our heart's eye, and do far more to galvanize the people than any of their rabbling.”

Sarah saw that she'd been too quick to action in the past, reckless in her yearning to strike before stricken and bring justice to her family's name. Freddy had been right. Mary revealed to her that a tempered approach achieved the preferred effects better than the brash blade.

But sooner than Sarah wanted, her teacher was gone, and she was left clutching her canvases, wanting to do much
more
than sit at a desk. For the first time, she was admonished by her professors for daydreaming in class. All she could think of was the Underground Railroad, Auntie Nan's dolls, Freddy, and how she might apply her newly acquired skills for the furtherance of these things.

Appraising the sky outside the carriage, she hoped the sun might burn through the rain clouds so she could explore New Charlestown's landscape. She imagined discovering a setting similar to that in
The Tempest
, a bubbling brook banked by forestland, a perfect route for runaways. Her stomach dipped at the memory and the anticipation of arriving at the Hills' now.

The horses gave a whinny as they pulled up to the front yard, where Siby and Alice stood under scarlet parasols. Two children in nappies played with spades and buckets in the flowerbed. When the carriage man
Ho'ed
the team, the women turned to the street, and their faces lit with smiles.

Alice squealed and twirled her parasol.

“Misses Brown!” called Siby. “Welcome back to New Charlestown.”

The children set aside their garden trowels. Though dressed in similar muslin shifts, one wore a bonnet tatted with pink, and the other wore none. A girl and a boy. The boy's bald head was nearly as pale as that of every child ever born to the Brown household, and for a moment, Sarah thought they might belong to a neighbor.

Alice handed Siby her parasol and, taking each child by the hand, led them tottering to the street.

“This is Miss Sarah and Miss Annie,” she said, introducing them. “The ones I story-told you about.”

Too young to understand or reply, the little girl hid her shy smile in Alice's skirt. The boy looked to his elder sister, Siby, who raised both eyebrows high at him.

“Miss-es,” she enunciated.

“Is-us,” he repeated.

“That do,” said Siby, and he beamed back. “These here be my brother and sister, Clyde and Hannah, New Charlestown's toothsomest apple dumplings, so says Miss Prissy.”

Sarah saw the resemblance. “My pleasure to meet you.”

At her words, Alice wrapped both arms around Sarah. “We are happy! Happy, happy, happy!”

Sarah hugged her back. She felt the same.

Alice moved to “Annie-ee-ee!” She stretched out the last syllable and gave a similar embrace.

Annie smiled. Her expression softened to one of their girlhood days. Nostalgia pricked in Sarah.

“Well, well, the Ladies Brown,” Freddy said behind them.

So close, Sarah could smell the leather riding tackle on his skin. He must've just come from the barn, she thought,
the barn
, and forced her chin down to hide her blush.

“Mr. Hill,” Annie greeted him. “Your family is so good to invite us. I pray we aren't a burden. Our father's last days have made the Browns little more than nefarious newspaper cartoons in the South. I hope we aren't sullying the Hills' good reputation.”

Sarah grimaced. Just when she thought she saw seeds of change, here returned the Annie of doom and gloom.

“Indeed, not,” Freddy said. “It's our privilege to have you as guests. In fact, the majority of New Charlestown is singing the John Brown song—have you heard it?”

At that, Alice hummed for a second and then began to sing with loud bravado:
“John Brown's body lies a-moldering in the grave, John Brown's body lies a-moldering in the grave.”

Annie gasped and covered her mouth in horror. Even Sarah took a step back.

“Alice,” Freddy gently shushed her.

Unaffected, she continued:
“John Brown's body lies a-moldering in the grave. His soul is marching on!”

Annie dropped her hand, her face perplexed, while Alice hammered out the beat with a splayed palm like the Quakers.
“Glory, glory, hallelujah! Glory, glory, hallelujah! Glory, glory, hallelujah, his soul is marching on!”

The carriage driver coughed and set their carpetbags on a spray of wild daisies by the fence.

Annie's scowl lifted. “I think it's wonderful.”

“Are they really singing that?” asked Sarah.

Freddy nodded cautiously.

To everyone's surprise, Annie tittered a nervous but genuine hiccup. “Father would approve. It's a battle cry. A call to arms.” She smiled encouragingly to Sarah. “I like it, minus the moldering part, but it isn't falsehood. The flesh is temporary. The spirit marches on!”

Siby picked up their bags. “I'll take y'all's things inside. Come on, Hannah—Clyde. Don't be underfoot. Miss Alice, you best not catch a chill or there be a spoonful of cod liver before bed tonight.”

Alice stuck out her tongue, then took Annie by the arm, humming the song as they went.

“I'll settle up with Mr. Collins,” said Freddy.

The driver nodded appreciatively.

Freddy gestured Sarah toward the front door. “Mother and Father are inside. We've been eager for your arrival.”

He took Sarah's wrist in hand and slipped his thumb beneath the lace of her glove to the inside of her palm. It lasted no more than a flash of a second. Though she knew not why or how, the current of his secret touch propelled her at full steam down the pathway and through the front door, where the welcoming voices spilled from room to room like water on a riverboat's wheel.

O
N THEIR
third night, Siby served lark for dinner, which George assured the girls was delicious and very common in the South. Sarah had always known them as morning songbirds and had a hard time concealing her chagrin when each was set on the table—headless, skewered, with the breastbones beaten flat. While Annie went to work cutting the roasted
bird into bite-sized nibbles, Sarah could not bring her fork and knife upon it.

As it happened, she'd just painted a pair on her canvas that morning. The fledglings had come to her on a boulder bluff jutted out from the woods, which provided a panorama of New Charlestown and Harpers Ferry. The towns, like two bright eyes, peered up at her from beneath the hairline split of the wavy rivers: the Shenandoah to the south and the Potomac to the north. A face in landmarks.

Her breath had caught when she'd stumbled onto it the day before. The Virginia mist rising from the canopy revealed the perfect map below. She'd staked her claim by drawing a large white circle on the boulder with a piece of sandstone. A marker by which to set her canvas at the same perspective. She'd returned to sketch while humming her favorite of Mary Lathbury's hymns: “Day is dying in the west. Heaven is touching earth with rest. Wait and worship while the night sets the evening lamps alight…” Mr. Sanborn and his Quaker Friends had taken the song south on tracts to teach the southern churches and, most notably, their slaves.

She imagined her bird illustrations twittering the melody in flight from southern bondage, following the path of her painted landscape. And so, it now seemed the greatest betrayal to eat the birds, plucked naked and crusted with herbs.

George lifted his knife. “It's quite easy to get between the bones. Don't be afraid.”

Sarah wished Freddy were there. A friend of his had been taken into custody, accused of smuggling medicine and reading materials to slaves. So he'd gone to Purcellville to act as a character witness. She'd mentioned her morning larks to him before he and Mr. Fisher set off. A muse of creativity, he'd said. However, their dinner menu made her wonder if it had been a blessing or a harbinger.

She ate around the bird, forking a soft, baked carrot and chewing it slowly.

“Delivery come today,” Siby announced while pouring apple cider into their goblets. “From Mrs. Nancy Santi.”

Sarah's spirits lifted at the mention.

Alice squealed. “But it was just Christmas!” She turned to Annie. “Auntie Nan sent a yuletide nightgown for Kerry and a matching one for me—made by
dear little
nuns in Britannia! Dear little nuns, she wrote, dear little nuns. And Quaker dolls for Hannah and Clyde, but”—she frowned—“their bodies were lumpy so Pa and Siby filled them up afresh.”

Priscilla cleared her throat loudly. “Auntie Nan is bent on spoiling you,” she said kindly. Then, to George: “Were you expecting this delivery, dear?”

“Look after that package for us, would you, Sib?” he said, seemingly too enthralled with his plate to be distracted.

A flicker of something moved across Siby's brow, but she quickly curtsied and continued pouring. “Yes, suh, Mister George. I take care of it.”

Alice fidgeted in her seat.

“You'll have to be patient, darling,” said Priscilla. “Remember the dirty wrappings.” She turned to Sarah and Annie and waved a hand as if it were common knowledge. “So many maladies on parcels carried from place to place—typhoid, infections. Siby knows best how make sure the deliveries are safe. Isn't that right, Siby?”

“I gots to wear gloves and a honey-man's bonnet so as to keep from catching.” Siby bugged her eyes out to Alice, who turned her face down with renewed deference. “Then I gots to wash my hands and arms with lye soap that gets to itching like a thousand mosquitoes! But it's all worth it to keep our house and kin in good stead.”

“And we are forever beholden to you for it,” said George.

“Don't need no thanks, just need for Miss Alice to be a patient missy and eat my good vegetables before they's cold.”

Alice picked up her fork. “Be extra careful, Siby. I don't want you getting the wicked asthenia.”

“I do promise.” With that, Siby left them in the dining room to finish their meals.

Sarah's father would often receive compendia from important men abroad. Books and essays, stationeries that came bound in brown wrappings and twine. He'd never mentioned any such fear of plague. In fact,
she recalled him giving her brothers the waxy paper to use for cutout figurines. Sarah wanted to follow Siby and see for herself this so-called pestilence package. She was sure it was nothing of the kind and much more than dolls.

Remembering Mary Lathbury's lessons in artfulness, Sarah slowed her anxious breathing and resolved that whatever this delivery was, she would come to find out—just not in the middle of dinner. Restraint was as powerful as action in the business of secrecy.

Rain came suddenly, beating against the rooftop shingles. The wet chill eked into the rooms without fireplaces. When they'd finished supping, George suggested they move to the parlor, where Gypsy slept, warm and merry, by the hearth.

“We had such a lovely spring thanks to you and the book
Flower Fables
,” said Priscilla. “Our favorite was the tale of Lily-Bell and Thistledown.”

“ ‘Once upon a time, two little Fairies went out into the world, to seek their fortune,' ” recited Alice.

“Alice has a gift for memorization.” Priscilla smiled. “Our relations abroad were good enough to send a copy of a similar fairy style—the Danish writer Hans Christian Andersen.” She picked up a book on the center parlor table.

“Ay, a story to settle our stomachs.” George lit his tobacco pipe, and the spicy smoke wreathed his head.

Annie settled into the sofa with Alice cradling Kerry Pippin beside her.

Sarah had read only two of the Andersen tales, small hand-stamped translations brought back from her father's efforts to sell his wool abroad. Based on those, her father thought Andersen's Christian efforts respectable but that the whimsy deflected the solid Bible parables.

Priscilla put a finger to the table of contents. “How about the tale of ‘The Ugly Duckling' or ‘The Nightingale'?”

Sarah's stomach turned. The spirits of the fowl world were out for vengeance tonight.

Alice made a plea for “The Nightingale,” as she was fond of singing
thrushes. Priscilla had read no more than three words when the front door sprang open with a blustery wind. Freddy entered in a state of panic, Mr. Fisher at his heels.