I walked back into the other sitting area, where the two women were. The younger woman—the daughter?—continued to do needlepoint on the sofa, while the older woman, Abby, shook out a tablecloth from the side table.
The younger woman was definitely old enough to be married, especially in this time period, but I couldn't see a ring on her finger. As she worked, she kept her head bowed, and her shoulders pulled in—the natural posture of a woman who's accustomed to hiding from the world. Her light-blue dress had been washed too often, and she looked bleached out against the dark sofa. Yet, despite this outward timidity, she poked the needle through the fabric with quick, confident jabs.
Abby had moved on to dusting the mantel clock. Both women worked without an exchanged word or glance, as if each was in the room alone. After a few minutes, Abby walked into the front foyer. Her shoes clacked up a flight of steps. The younger woman lifted her head, tilting it to follow the sound of Abby's shoes across the upstairs floor. As she tracked Abby's path, her eyes flicked past mine and I blinked. In that gaze I saw something as coolly confident as her strokes with the needle. She waited until Abby's footsteps stopped, then resumed her work.
"Okay, this is going nowhere," I said. "Maybe I was supposed to follow Andrew."
The young woman's eyes flicked up, gaze meeting mine for a split second. Then it dropped back to her needlework.
"Hey," I said. "Did you see—"
Bridget tore through the sitting room so fast I felt the breeze. She raced for the kitchen. The side door banged shut. A moment later, the retching began. The woman on the sofa shook her head and poked her needle through the fabric again; then, after the first stroke, she stopped. Her gaze lifted to the ceiling, where we could hear Abby bustling about. Then she tilted her head toward the back of the house. The sounds of Bridget's vomiting continued.
The woman cautiously rose to her feet, looked around again, laid down her needlepoint, and headed for the front hall.
"I swear she looked right at me a minute ago," I said to Kristof.
I hurried after her, with Kristof at my heels. In the hall, the woman stopped and latched the inner bolt.
Then she turned and climbed the stairs.
"You!" I called after her. "Hold on!"
She didn't pause. At the top, she walked across the hall and through an open bedroom door where Abby was making the bed. A man's trousers hung over a chair, and shaving implements littered the bureau, next to a washbasin filled with scum-and-whisker-coated water. On the floor was an open suitcase.
"Make yourself useful and dump that water, Lizzie," Abby said.
The younger woman—Lizzie—didn't move. "I heard Uncle John talking to Father last night."
"Eavesdropping?" Abby said.
"I hear Father is going to change his will."
"That's his business. Not yours."
Lizzie circled the bed, staving across the room from Abby. "But it is my business, isn't it? You don't think Emma and I know what you're doing? First persuading Father to let your sister stay in the house on Fourth Street, then persuading him to transfer ownership of that house to you, and now a new will."
"I don't know anything about a new will," Abby said.
Lizzie crossed the room and looked out the front window, turning her back on the woman I assumed was her stepmother. "So there is no new will?"
"No, there isn't. If your father has written one, he would have told me."
Lizzie nodded. She walked to the bureau and picked up the water basin. A few moments later, she returned the empty basin to the guest room. Then, without a word to her stepmother, she headed for a bedroom farther down.
Downstairs, the side door banged again. I looked toward Lizzie's bedroom, but whatever fire seemed to have been starting up here had sputtered out. Better check out the situation below.
We found Bridget back in the parlor, washing the side windows now. From upstairs came the sound of footsteps. Then a few muffled exchanges. Bridget paused her cleaning and looked toward the dining room, as if the voices came from in there.
"At least they're talking again," she murmured.
She hoisted the pail of wash water and headed through the sitting room and around to the side door. I trailed her outside and watched her dump the water over her puddle of vomit. Then she walked to a pump and refilled the bucket.
"Pumping your own water?" I said. "Thank God I was born in the twentieth century."
Kristof shrugged. "A hundred years from now people will probably be amazed that we cooked our own meals."
I jerked my chin at the house. " They'd be amazed that we cooked our own meals, too."
When we got back inside, someone was banging at the front door. Bridget hurried to answer it. She grabbed the door to pull it open and nearly fell over backward when it didn't budge. She grabbed it again and twisted.
"Bolted?" she murmured, reaching for the lock. "In the middle of the day?"
The banging grew louder. Bridget fumbled with the lock. The moment she got it undone, the door flew open and she toppled backward to the floor. A laugh floated down the stairs.
"That was quite a pratfall," Lizzie called from the top.
Andrew strode inside and handed Bridget his hat. Clutching a white parcel beneath his arm, he marched into the sitting room and took a key from on top of the mantel. As Lizzie watched him, she fixed a hook that had come unfastened on her dress.
"Back so soon, Father?" she said.
He grunted something about not feeling well, then walked through the kitchen to the side foyer. Instead of heading out the door, he climbed the rear steps. I followed. At the top of the stairs was a landing with a single door, then more steps leading to the attic level. Andrew unlocked the door and went into what was obviously his bedroom. After dropping off the parcel, he locked the door behind him and headed downstairs.
"Where's Abby?" he asked his daughter as he walked into the sitting room.
"She had a note from a sick friend and decided to pay a visit."
Andrew harrumphed and, without so much as loosening his tie, stretched out on the sofa and closed his eyes.
Note? Sick friend? When had this happened? Oh, wait, I'd been out back with Bridget for a few minutes before Andrew got home. Still, Abby must have left awfully fast…
Bridget walked in, carrying her bucket. Her gaze slid to Andrew. Lizzie shooed her into the dining room and followed, as did I. While Bridget washed the windows, Lizzie set up a board and began ironing handkerchiefs. They chatted quietly about whether Bridget was going out later that day, but Bridget confessed she was still feeling poorly. I only caught snatches of the conversation. My attention kept wandering back to the "note" and the "sick friend."
The younger woman was definitely old enough to be married, especially in this time period, but I couldn't see a ring on her finger. As she worked, she kept her head bowed, and her shoulders pulled in—the natural posture of a woman who's accustomed to hiding from the world. Her light-blue dress had been washed too often, and she looked bleached out against the dark sofa. Yet, despite this outward timidity, she poked the needle through the fabric with quick, confident jabs.
Abby had moved on to dusting the mantel clock. Both women worked without an exchanged word or glance, as if each was in the room alone. After a few minutes, Abby walked into the front foyer. Her shoes clacked up a flight of steps. The younger woman lifted her head, tilting it to follow the sound of Abby's shoes across the upstairs floor. As she tracked Abby's path, her eyes flicked past mine and I blinked. In that gaze I saw something as coolly confident as her strokes with the needle. She waited until Abby's footsteps stopped, then resumed her work.
"Okay, this is going nowhere," I said. "Maybe I was supposed to follow Andrew."
The young woman's eyes flicked up, gaze meeting mine for a split second. Then it dropped back to her needlework.
"Hey," I said. "Did you see—"
Bridget tore through the sitting room so fast I felt the breeze. She raced for the kitchen. The side door banged shut. A moment later, the retching began. The woman on the sofa shook her head and poked her needle through the fabric again; then, after the first stroke, she stopped. Her gaze lifted to the ceiling, where we could hear Abby bustling about. Then she tilted her head toward the back of the house. The sounds of Bridget's vomiting continued.
The woman cautiously rose to her feet, looked around again, laid down her needlepoint, and headed for the front hall.
"I swear she looked right at me a minute ago," I said to Kristof.
I hurried after her, with Kristof at my heels. In the hall, the woman stopped and latched the inner bolt.
Then she turned and climbed the stairs.
"You!" I called after her. "Hold on!"
She didn't pause. At the top, she walked across the hall and through an open bedroom door where Abby was making the bed. A man's trousers hung over a chair, and shaving implements littered the bureau, next to a washbasin filled with scum-and-whisker-coated water. On the floor was an open suitcase.
"Make yourself useful and dump that water, Lizzie," Abby said.
The younger woman—Lizzie—didn't move. "I heard Uncle John talking to Father last night."
"Eavesdropping?" Abby said.
"I hear Father is going to change his will."
"That's his business. Not yours."
Lizzie circled the bed, staving across the room from Abby. "But it is my business, isn't it? You don't think Emma and I know what you're doing? First persuading Father to let your sister stay in the house on Fourth Street, then persuading him to transfer ownership of that house to you, and now a new will."
"I don't know anything about a new will," Abby said.
Lizzie crossed the room and looked out the front window, turning her back on the woman I assumed was her stepmother. "So there is no new will?"
"No, there isn't. If your father has written one, he would have told me."
Lizzie nodded. She walked to the bureau and picked up the water basin. A few moments later, she returned the empty basin to the guest room. Then, without a word to her stepmother, she headed for a bedroom farther down.
Downstairs, the side door banged again. I looked toward Lizzie's bedroom, but whatever fire seemed to have been starting up here had sputtered out. Better check out the situation below.
We found Bridget back in the parlor, washing the side windows now. From upstairs came the sound of footsteps. Then a few muffled exchanges. Bridget paused her cleaning and looked toward the dining room, as if the voices came from in there.
"At least they're talking again," she murmured.
She hoisted the pail of wash water and headed through the sitting room and around to the side door. I trailed her outside and watched her dump the water over her puddle of vomit. Then she walked to a pump and refilled the bucket.
"Pumping your own water?" I said. "Thank God I was born in the twentieth century."
Kristof shrugged. "A hundred years from now people will probably be amazed that we cooked our own meals."
I jerked my chin at the house. " They'd be amazed that we cooked our own meals, too."
When we got back inside, someone was banging at the front door. Bridget hurried to answer it. She grabbed the door to pull it open and nearly fell over backward when it didn't budge. She grabbed it again and twisted.
"Bolted?" she murmured, reaching for the lock. "In the middle of the day?"
The banging grew louder. Bridget fumbled with the lock. The moment she got it undone, the door flew open and she toppled backward to the floor. A laugh floated down the stairs.
"That was quite a pratfall," Lizzie called from the top.
Andrew strode inside and handed Bridget his hat. Clutching a white parcel beneath his arm, he marched into the sitting room and took a key from on top of the mantel. As Lizzie watched him, she fixed a hook that had come unfastened on her dress.
"Back so soon, Father?" she said.
He grunted something about not feeling well, then walked through the kitchen to the side foyer. Instead of heading out the door, he climbed the rear steps. I followed. At the top of the stairs was a landing with a single door, then more steps leading to the attic level. Andrew unlocked the door and went into what was obviously his bedroom. After dropping off the parcel, he locked the door behind him and headed downstairs.
"Where's Abby?" he asked his daughter as he walked into the sitting room.
"She had a note from a sick friend and decided to pay a visit."
Andrew harrumphed and, without so much as loosening his tie, stretched out on the sofa and closed his eyes.
Note? Sick friend? When had this happened? Oh, wait, I'd been out back with Bridget for a few minutes before Andrew got home. Still, Abby must have left awfully fast…
Bridget walked in, carrying her bucket. Her gaze slid to Andrew. Lizzie shooed her into the dining room and followed, as did I. While Bridget washed the windows, Lizzie set up a board and began ironing handkerchiefs. They chatted quietly about whether Bridget was going out later that day, but Bridget confessed she was still feeling poorly. I only caught snatches of the conversation. My attention kept wandering back to the "note" and the "sick friend."
