Clara felt a scream rising up, tears rising up. She had to stop them. She shook her head again. “I wish Papa didn’t drink as much as he does, that’s all.”
“
Yes. We should talk about that and Mrs. Beattie has noticed some things that we could talk about, too. She thought it best if I spoke to you.”
Clara sat up straight, bit the inside of her mouth again. She had to draw a curtain between her and Mrs. Purcell right away, a big heavy curtain. Papa would do something awful if she told Mrs. Purcell any of the truth.
“
With Billy gone, I’m even more worried about you and Euphora than I was before. At this point I feel that I cannot keep a respectable distance.” Mrs. Purcell stood up from the red sofa and paced around a little.
She was nervous about whatever it was she wanted to say, thought Clara.
Mrs. Purcell stopped pacing and looked at her. “Mrs. Beattie has told me that she sees a man, Mr. Sam Weston, come frequently to the downstairs door and that he is not followed by other men and women who might be part of a spirit circle the way she used to see people come in when you and Izzie were holding the circles together. She also told me that every Friday night, when she’s upstairs in her flat, she hears only one voice, a man’s voice, along with yours.”
“
I do private readings now. People ask questions of their spirits and I seek answers on the planchette, the board that has the alphabet and numbers on it?”
“
Your father is here then?”
“
Sometimes.” Clara tried not to blink.
Mrs. Purcell, eyes narrowing, lips tightening, came back to the sofa and stood over her. “You shouldn’t be in this room with men alone ever. Your father permits that?”
Clara shrugged her shoulders. She felt like she was being pried open with a crowbar. If she were to tell Mrs. Purcell even the tip of the truth, it would all come flooding out of her. She wouldn’t be able to stop it. She was sure she would start crying and never stop, a river flooding after thirty days of rainstorms.
“
Do you want me to talk to him about this?” She sat near Clara. “What if I become your séance chaperone? I could sit meekly in the background when you meet with these men alone. I’ll suggest that.”
Clara stared at the floor. “Papa wouldn’t like that. It might distract the seekers.”
“
Well, I’m going to talk to him, anyway.” She tapped her fingers on her knees. “There’s something else.”
There was more than this? This alone would rile Papa terribly. She could hear him already. “What have you been telling that old hay bag? Our life is none of her dang business!” Clara slumped deeper into the sofa back, wanting to disappear into the cushion.
“
I think you should write to Isabelle and ask if you and Euphora can live with her and Doctor MacAdams. I’m not sure you are safe anymore with your father. He hurt Billy more than I realized. It’s possible he could hurt you or your sister.”
Clara’s eyes welled up. “I have thought about that. But I am afraid he would come and get us and take us back.”
“
Isabelle and her husband could keep him away, I’m sure.”
“
Not if Papa had a mind to take us. You know how wily he is.” Clara felt a tear roll down the side of her face.
Suddenly, Clara had a thought. Because Billy was gone, Papa couldn’t promise to lay off him to get Clara to give in to his demands. Now he needed something else. He’d use Euphora. He’d find some way to be cruel to Euphora or he’d steal Euphora back if they were at Izzie’s. He would, and that would be his trick this time to get his way.
Mrs. Purcell sidled closer, then Clara felt Mrs. Purcell’s soft chin rest on top of her head and her sweet, saggy arm rest on her shoulders.
“
I’m afraid you are right, dear. You know him better than any of us. I shouldn’t even think any of this. It’s probably against the law, but I don’t care. In my soul, I believe you and Euphora are in danger. I’ve been thinking of another plan for a while as well. I’m going to write my cousin in New York City and ask her if you could live with her temporarily. She doesn’t have much room or money, but maybe she’d take the two of you for a short time. Then, when your Papa has surmised that you aren’t with Isabelle, you could go to her.” She squeezed Clara’s shoulders, then leaned back and looked straight at her. “It will all have to be a secret. We can’t give him any way to find you for a while. We’ll make it look like you’ve run away like Billy. We’ll say you went searching for Billy.” She looked into Clara’s eyes. “My guess is you’re considering that anyway. Then when your Papa has given up on you, I’ll write you and Isabelle, and you can go directly to Rochester on the train.”
“
You would do all that? You’d help us get away from him?” An arrow of hope shot through her. This might be the answer. She leaned into Mrs. Purcell and embraced her.
“
Yes. If you could write your cousin. Please write her.”
“
Very well, dear. I’ll go home and do it now.”
Thirty-Three
IZZIE STOOD IN THE FRONT PARLOR of her Rochester home looking out the window. Magical splendor, everything was covered with ice—rooftops, tree branches, fences, the street, all coated with glistening ice. She’d never seen anything quite like it, solid, thick ice on every pine needle, every twig, every sagging shrub, all the world glinting. There was no carriage traffic, no one going out on business, no wagons delivering milk, wood, or coal. The road was too slick for hoof or wheel.
Face covered like a bandit right up to his eyes with a black scarf, Mac had gone on foot to his Upper Falls Water-Cure. He’d told her, “I expect I’ll walk, slip, and slide the three miles. There won’t be any omnibuses today.”
A thunderous crash erupted at the rear of the house. Izzie’s heart jigged. Feet planted, she waited for more, but there was nothing. Then she dashed through the house to the back door and threw it open. Their old maple tree had lost an enormous bough to the weight of the ice. It lay on the white ground, glittering, contorted, fractured.
That tree had better not die. She loved that tree, the shade it gave her and Mac this past summer, the hours she spent leaning against its trunk when she needed a respite from gardening, and the brilliant red foliage that brightened her garden in the fall.
The biting cold nipped at her and pushed her back inside. The kitchen was a mess, the small iron kettle gummy with oatmeal, the loaf pan caked with brown bread crust, plates, cups and utensils all smeared, caked, or coated with something sticky. She ought to get to it. No more of this gazing dreamily out the window. Perhaps later when it was warmer she would venture out for a stroll, after she had cleaned, prepared for supper, and worked on the Upper Falls Water-Cure draperies.
As she poured hot water from the kettle into the stone sink, a man’s voice from the backyard called out, “Run to ground!”
She looked out the kitchen window but saw nothing. Who could be in her backyard, she wondered. There was nothing but ice out there. Was it the wind playing tricks in the cold?
“
Run to ground!”
She lost her breath a moment. It sounded exactly like a grown man yelling. She went to the door and went out into the yard, stepping carefully on the ice. There was no one in her yard or anywhere she could see. A freezing gust of wind charged across her yard and her maple tree threw down another branch. As it crashed to the ground, the voice shouted again, “Isabelle!”
“
No. I don’t hear you!” Izzie rushed back into the house and slammed the door.
But she did hear her name, and it seemed to be coming from the vicinity of the tree. She did hear it. There had to be someone near the house calling for her, she decided.
She went out back again, then walked around the house, all around the backyard, around the sides, the front yard. There was no one. She walked around the yards of all her neighbor’s houses. No one. She walked carefully up and down Edinburgh Street a couple of blocks in either direction. There wasn’t a soul outside, not a wagon, a dog, nothing. She plodded slowly back to her house and sat on the front stoop hoping the man who had called out would appear and knock on her door and ask a neighborly favor.
It was just as she had feared. Mac’s water-cure treatment wasn’t working. Nothing was working. It was only a matter of time, maybe months, maybe years, before she’d lose full control of herself like Mamma did.
After a while of sitting on the stoop holding herself in a knotted ball, Izzie could think of nothing but telling Mac what she had just heard. She had to see him right away. Maybe there was someone he could write to that he hadn’t consulted yet. Maybe there was some remedy he hadn’t considered. She set out for the Upper Falls Water-Cure. Taking small choppy steps to keep from slipping, she engineered her way over the deserted icy streets all the way to North St. Paul Street. Once she passed through the two great columns at the Water-Cure entry, she strode straight to Mac’s office, forged in, shut the door, then leaned back against it. Mac was sitting at his desk writing. He looked up briefly at her commotion, then back at his work.
“
You must knock. I might have a potential water-cure patient with me. You know that.” His eyes stayed down as he finished writing. Then he slipped his papers into a folder and looked up at her. “What is it, then? You’ve come all the way on foot in the cold?”
“
I heard a man speak. It was either a spirit…or I am a lunatic like Mamma.”
He stared at her a long while, eyes blinking off and on. Why didn’t he say anything? Did he finally believe she had crossed over to lunacy? His dark eyes kept watching her.
“
You mean in broad daylight? This is disturbing. Here, come sit down by the fire.” He shoved his chair back, rose, and moved one of his visitor’s Windsor chairs over to the fireplace where a coal fire burned, then he brought the other chair next to it and they both sat.
She rubbed her reddened hands together. She was chilled to the bone.
“
I heard a man call out in our backyard. It sounded like ‘run to ground’. He shouted it. Then he said my name. He clearly called out my name, Mac.”
Mac slumped back into his chair, ran his palm over the top of his hair. “Surely it was one of the children playing in the neighborhood.” He looked relieved.
“
No, I looked everywhere. There was no one. Besides, it was an old voice, not a young voice. I know what I heard.”
“
A memory. Perhaps a very vivid memory? Sometimes I think I hear my mother or father saying something because I remember it so well. Does ‘run to ground’ bring you a memory?”
“
This wasn’t like that.”
“
But, my dear, with the blustery conditions making a ruckus, couldn’t you have been mistaken? I noticed a lot of havoc with the wind blowing things around on my way here this morning.”
“
No. It was clear. It was a man, but there was no man.”
“
I don’t want you to fret about this. We’ll add another water-cure treatment. I have something in mind.”
“
I don’t want any more water anything. I’m exhausted. I’m soggy. I’m getting sores on my back. I’m tired of constantly using the commode because of all the drinking. I’m sick of water, Mac. No more. I need something new.”
“
The sores are positive. I know they are uncomfortable, but this means the impurities are purging from your body.”
“
The impurities are in my mind and they are not being purged. They are growing worse.”
“
Please.” He took her hands in his. They were warm and dry. “Please. Be patient. I am sure we will conquer this. I want you to get more rest, even if you don’t sleep well.”
“
I’m afraid I am losing myself, my mind. I believe it would be a relief for me to see my sisters and Billy. I worry about them every minute of every day. I’ve delayed long enough, Mac. I’m sure it would do me well to see them.”
He pushed himself up in the chair to his full, towering height. “It will destroy the continuity of your treatment. You are too fragile.”
“
I think it will settle me to see them, especially Clara.” She steadied her eyes on his. “I’m leaving in the morning.”
He was breathing deeply. “If you go and worsen, we may have to consider Brigham Hall in Canandaigua.”
“
You’d put me in an insane asylum?” She grasped the wooden arms of her chair. “You think I am that far gone?”
His jaw tightened as he looked away from her toward the fire.
“
Look at me, husband. Tell me you would put me in an insane asylum.”
His eyes came back to her. They weren’t glaring with anger as they had before when he had pressed her not to go to Geneva. They were sad like a boy’s eyes, a boy who had lost something precious.
“
Look at you,” he said. “You think you heard voices in our backyard. You walked three miles in the freezing cold with no hat and no coat or even a scarf.”