“Might have answered the same, once.” Phelps clucked his tongue again and slapped the reins, urging the horses on a little faster. “But then I saw her. I saw the Devil in these woods, Miss Wilson. And that is why I cannot let a woman walk these woods at night, regardless of how far out of my way it may take me.”
CHAPTER 2
It was full dark when we arrived at my employer’s house. Conversation had faltered after Phelps’s revelation. It may be difficult to follow up the phrase “Christian duty,” but that’s nothing compared to a claim of having seen the Devil in person.And calling it a her?I desperately wanted to ask what she had looked like, if she had two legs or four, hooves or hands, and if there had been any other witnesses, but these all seemed likely to end up with me walking the rest of the way to Halder’s. Small talk was entirely out of the question.
I didn’t know what Phelps had seen, but I definitely didn’t believe it was the Devil. Father had been raised Quaker but had acquired Unitarianism in his boyhood in Boston, which he passed down to me, mixed with occasional bouts of transcendentalist philosophy. He’d then compounded the issue by sending me to a Methodist school. My faith was perhaps best described as “vague idiosyncratic Christianity,” but it definitely did not allow for Satan to be wandering North Carolina in the flesh.
Our pace slowed as it grew darker, as Phelps let the horses pick their way along the road.Is he not worried that the Devil will get us if we go too slowly? Does Satan not bother wagons? Or is she simply not very fast? Then again, if she isn’t that fast, it probably isn’t dangerous to walk in the woods. Unless the Devil is an ambush predator?
It occurred to me then that the station master had been unexpectedly alarmed about the prospect of me walking through the woods. At the time I’d put it up to chivalry, but what if it had been something else?
Perhaps he and Phelps go to the same church.
I could hear frogs calling around us, the finger-on-a-comb call of chorus frogs and the shriller notes of tree frogs. They, at least, were not concerned about the Devil. A lone whippoorwill repeated his name off in the distance. My father always said that whippoorwills were polite birds, because they told you exactly who was calling.
If my father had still been alive, he would have been proud of me for finding work as a scientific illustrator.Of course, if he were still alive, I wouldn’t have needed to go looking for work in the first place, so there’s no point in getting maudlin about it.
Eventually the wagon turned onto a long drive that looked as if it had once been very wide. Greenery had begun to creep in around the edges though, until it narrowed into a gloomy tunnel. Brick pillars flanked the entryway, both with lamps, but they were unlit.
Did they not expect me this evening?
Apparently they did not. As the wagon rolled up the drive, wheels crunching loudly, I saw the house in the dim moonlight, a grand confection of windows and pillars, but with only a single small lamp lit in a room on the second story. I swallowed hard.
(they didn’t expect you. you clearly aren’t wanted. you’re in the wrong place)
A side door opened, spilling light onto the ground, and a woman emerged, carrying a lamp. She turned toward us, lifting the lamp high. “Now who’s coming around at this hour?”
I slid down from the wagon, anxiety curdling in my stomach. “My name’s Sonia Wilson. I… err… I was hired as an illustrator? By Dr. Halder?”
“Lord help us,” the woman said, coming closer. I could hear her feet crunching on the gravel. “He said something about hiring one, but he never said any more than that. If I’d known, I’d have made up a room.” She frowned, though I don’t think it was at me.
In the glow of the lamp, I could see that she was Black, tall and lean, her hair braided tightly back from her face. She wore a shirtwaist dress with an apron over it.
I thrust out my hand, hoping to overcome the terrible impression I’d made by arriving so late. “Sonia Wilson.”No, you said that already. Say something else, quick.“Err… it’s nice to meet you.”
She took my hand, bemused. “Mrs. Kent. I’m Dr. Halder’s housekeeper.” Her grip was firm, but she dropped my hand quickly and looked past me to the wagon. “Mr. Phelps? Is that you?”
“Ma’am,” said Phelps. His voice was as emotionless as mud.
“He was kind enough to give me a ride from Siler Station,” I said, sensing tension between them. Mrs. Kent nodded, but didn’t say anything.
I went back to the wagon to retrieve my suitcase. Now that I was actually at my destination, I was curiously reluctant to see Phelps go. He had been an uncomfortable companion, but his Christian duty had gotten me here. If I had been on my own, I would still be walking and probably ready to weep from exhaustion.
Or maybe I’d have encountered the Devil by now.I bit down my desire to laugh and nodded to Phelps. “Thank you,” I said, stepping back with my suitcase in my arms.
He tipped his hat. “Miss Wilson. Remember what I said. I will look for you in church on Sunday.” Then he turned the wagon and it rattled off down the drive, into the dark.
I turned back to Mrs. Kent, still clutching my suitcase against my chest. “I’m sorry to make so much trouble,” I said. “Dr. Halder sent me the ticket, so I assumed…”
“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” she said, sighing. “Come inside. You must be fair famished. I can probably rustle something up for you to eat before I go to bed.”
“I’m sorry to keep you up,” I said, feeling even more guilty. Atthe school, we got so little sleep that I begrudged every minute someone kept me awake. Was the life of a housekeeper like a teacher in that regard?
“No need to keep apologizing,” she said, gesturing me toward the door. “I know who’s to blame, and it isn’t you.”
The door led through a small scullery into the kitchen. The walls needed whitewash and the stove was a monstrous iron beast the size of a coffin, but it was warm and smelled like baking bread. My shoulders, which had been inching up around my ears, relaxed a little. Such is the power of bread.
“Sit,” Mrs. Kent said, waving to the table. There were four chairs, but one held a washtub full of potatoes. I set down my suitcase and collapsed into one of the non-potato chairs. Either it was extremely comfortable or any seat that wasn’t moving had become a hedonistic delight. I smothered a groan.
