I was in the receiving-room, working on my embroidery as Gideon composed some letters. Recently he had begun insisting that I sit there while he worked, and of course if I refused, he would only drag me downstairs. When suddenly, one of themaidservants ran in to say Mariam was foaming at the mouth and in awful pain.
Ada was sent for, and she rushed into the room, her face pale and fearful. But none of the home remedies for stomach-ache worked and things became so dire that a servant was dispatched to bring back Brother Bartholomew to pray over her.
Her screams of agony even from the other room frightened me.
Was he really to give Mariam her last rites? I felt frightened and confused.
She had just helped me let out one of my dresses this morning for my growing belly.
"Perhaps she has been stealing rich food from the table that she should not," Ada said angrily.
She seemed so infuriated that Mariam was sick, but I did not understand what could have possibly happened.
"What did she eat today?" Gideon asked one of the scullery maids, in a hard, tight voice.
"N-nothing sir," she replied, but my husband interrupted in a yet harder voice.
"She must have—musthave. With these symptoms—or has she been near my workshop?—"
He looked so fierce and angry that the little maid fairly quaked her in shoes and said,
"Per—haps, sir, perhaps some of the leftover food or drink from the table, we often take the leftovers. She meant no harm by it!"
My eyes felt as round as saucers, but Gideon seemed to notice me listening, for he shooed me outside so I wouldn’t be distressed.
As I left, I got one terrifying glimpse of Mariam, the other servants surrounding her, but when the housekeeper saw me,she stretched her hands out and appeared to be trying to say something.
But what?
I had no time to know before Gideon lifted me down the steps and shut the door behind him.
What could be in that workshop that was so dangerous?Wind from the moors whirled around my thick updo as I crept as close to the whitewashed wood building as I dared.
But all I heard was a mysterious mechanical grating behind the door, which was secured with a massive lock.
Did this door hold more of my husband’s depraved secrets?
With nothing else to do, I wandered into the herb garden. It too was poorly maintained and messy, and my hands itched to work it. But Gideon would say it was not a fit occupation for his wife.
It seemed to take a long time before I saw a carriage arrive and the tall figure of Brother Bartholomew get out, his brown hair curling over the bright-white clerical collar.
He looked up and our eyes met as Gideon hurried him inside.
Pulling my cloak closer around my body, I looked out over the moors, the landscape bleak and unforgiving, with those twisted gnarled trees casting unholy shadows. And, somewhere out there in the fog was the high rock outcropping that could help me find my way to St. Mary’s.
And maybe then. . . somehow, back home?
The thought of my father and The Gables caused many melancholy sensations, and I was only jolted out of them when Brother Bartholomew came up beside me.
His blue eyes looked unusually serious now.
"Is she all right?" I asked anxiously.
He shook his head. "I am sorry, Deliverance, but she is dead."
"Dead?" I gasped. “It seemsimpossible, when she was perfectly well only a few hours ago!”
"Did you drink any of your breakfast tea this morning?"
