She smiles. “You’ve had plenty of cosseting, Miss Carmichael. I mean for you to stay. Iwantyou to stay. But a house this size needs attention and you have able hands. Lying abed won’t help you heal.”
I turn my head so she can’t see my smile. She wants me to stay. I stretch, sighing at the pull in my muscles.
“I washed your trousers and brought them for you to wear while we work,” Kate says, handing me the folded breeches. “You should look through Lucrezia’s things later. She wasn’t as shapely as you, noras small, but we can alter any of them you like. Take up the hems.” She lights an oil lamp, then pours a ewer of warm water into the basin on the dressing table. “I haven’t known what to do with her things ... since she passed.” A flicker of sadness crosses Kate’s features in the mirror.
“That’s her, isn’t it?” I gesture to the painting over the mantel.
“Yes. Her husband commissioned that portrait when they were newly wed.”
“She was beautiful.”
“She was.” Kate sighs, folds and unfolds the scrap of washcloth next to the basin. “But she was so much more than her beauty.”
I have the urge to go to Kate, to lay my hand on her shoulder to offer comfort, but I don’t. Instead, I stand there awkwardly in my nightgown, watching her. I can’t stop watching her. She’s absolutely magnetic, every emotion amplified by the contours of her face, by her expressive eyes.
“I’ll leave you to get dressed,” she says. “After breakfast, and after Ruby’s lessons, we’ll practice your act. If you’re going to live here with me, your transformation as Mary Jones must be convincing. You must become her anytime we encounter someone else.”
A shiver of delight runs through me.If you’re going to live here with me.There can be no doubt now that living here is what I want. To remain at Angel’s Rest, and see where things might lead. Even though I know very little about Kate’s past, I’ve grown to trust her. “I’ll do my best,” I say. “And I want to work. To help. I don’t want to be a burden to you.”
Kate stills. She fixes me with an icy stare. “Don’t you ever say that again.”
“What?”
She doesn’t answer me, but stalks off, closing the door with a sharp snap. I stare at the closed door for an inordinately long time, willing her to return. When she doesn’t, I wash up and dress hurriedly in the chilly bedchamber, frustration and hurt cycling through me. I care too much about what she thinks of me. But this has always been myproblem—caring too much for what other people think. It’s a condition that’s plagued me throughout my life. Even prison didn’t absolve me of my inclination to diminish myself to make others more comfortable.
I find Kate on the side porch, overlooking a small patch of lawn, where a gaggle of hens peck at the ground. She turns to me, her expression inscrutable. She doesn’t seem angry, merely indifferent, as she hands me a hooped basket. “Have you ever gathered eggs before?”
“No. Our maid always did that.”
“Of course.” Kate rolls her eyes. “It’s not difficult.” She motions at the rickety chicken coop, with its sloping roof. Two rows of holes line the top and bottom. “Just reach in the hole and pull them out. There’s usually one or two eggs in each cubby.”
I go to the coop and reach through the first hole. I’m rewarded by a smooth, brown egg, speckled with ruddy freckles. I carefully place it in the basket and continue on until I have six more. I squat and reach through the first hole on the bottom row, feeling around. My fingers brush against something smooth, cool, and dry. It moves under my hand. I shriek and pull back. A rat snake streams out, and races like a whip to the blackberry thicket bordering the yard.
Kate cackles. I turn around and glare at her. “That wasn’t funny.”
“Oh yes it was!” She smirks. “Your eyes were big as teacups. Gather the rest, then we’ll clean the coop.”
But there’s no “we” to it. Kate takes the basket of eggs, then brings me a barrow of fresh straw. She supervises me from the porch as I open the hatch and remove the old nests from the other side of the coop, where I can clearly see whether there are more snakes in hiding. She stands against the porch post, one long leg insouciantly cocked, her arms crossed over her chest. “You’re doing such a good job, Lillian,” she calls teasingly. “So thorough.”
I mutter a curse beneath my breath, but her teasing praise lights a glow in me all the same. I want to please her. To prove myself worthy of staying here. The chickens watch me with their beady, gimlet eyes, clucking as I work. I never had to lift a finger as a girl, but as a ward ofthe jail, I was forced to labor until my knees gave out. This isn’t so bad by comparison. Not with the calls of birdsong overhead and the scent of spring in the loamy air. I find a rhythm—scrape out the old nest with the heel of my hand, then replace it with fresh hay—and before I know it, I’m finished. I wipe my hands on my trousers and join Kate on the porch.
She gives me a sly smile. “How are you feeling?”
“Hungry,” I say.
“Come in and wash up. I’ll make you breakfast. You’ve earned it.”
Fourteen
Later that day, after Ruby comes for her reading lesson and I’ve had a dreamless nap, Kate and I return to the room full of costumes. I’m wearing the auburn wig again but otherwise dressed in only my petticoats, shift, and corset, for which Kate gave me another busk—scolding me for my slumping posture. Afternoon light slants through the windows, warming my skin as she slowly walks around me, inspecting me.
“WhoisMary Jones?” she asks, stopping to fix me with her calculating look.
“A woman.”
“Yes. But what kind of woman? A servant, a well-to-do lady? You must know these things about her.”
“A well-to-do lady. A young widow.” Like Marjorie Blanchard. I shudder, remembering Alice’s words.I heard that when they found her, her throat was torn to shreds, as if some wild beast had gotten to her.
