“I’ve got no problem with you staying right where you are, but, unfortunately, it’s not my decision to make,” says Mrs. Cowley as she moves around to the other side of the bed. “Now, try to sit up, dear.”
As soon as Maria is upright, her face goes white as a sheet.
“Get her other side?” says Mrs. Cowley, and Sally rushes to help.
Eventually, the two of them guide Maria down the stairs, where she collapses, exhausted, on the second to last step. Harrison, who has been waiting for her at the door, tells her how glad he is to see her, then asks if he can get her anything.
“I suppose they didn’t send along a coat?” asks Sally irritably.
He shakes his head no. “But I do have a blanket in the buggy.”
“I think I’m going to be sick,” says Maria as she leans her head against the newel post.
Sally goes running upstairs for the same spittoon she delivered to Maria two nights prior, and by the time she returns with it, she has decided she will insist on accompanying Maria home.
“I’m going with you,” she says after she’s placed the spittoon in Maria’s lap and located her own coat. To Harrison, she explains, “You’ll be up in the driver’s seat. And she can’t travel alone in this condition.”
“She’s right,” says Mrs. Cowley, and if Harrison were inclined to argue, he doesn’t bother.
With Maria’s blessing, the driver picks the girl up and carries her out the door and down the path to the road, where the Prices’ carriage waits for her. Sally struggles into her coat, then hurries to catch up with them, and when Maria and her spittoon are tucked safely inside the carriage, she takes a deep breath and climbs in beside her.
JACK
Jack has hardly made itout of the snug before Placide pounces on him. “How did it go?”
If ever there was a question Jack doesn’t want to answer. “Fine,” he mumbles.
“Fine?” says Placide. “Fine? What did he say?”
“Ritchie?”
Placide flicks him in the ear. “Who else?”
Jack grasps for something—anything—to report about his interview. “He said he wants to talk to Twaits.”
“That’s not what I mean,” says Placide as he steers Jack down the narrow hallway that leads toward the tavern’s back room. “What’s he asking? What does he want to know?”
It’s not that Jack minds relaying their conversation to Placide—at this point, he has little choice in the matter—but he is concerned that Ritchie will come looking for him if Twaits does not materialize at the door of the snug in the next several seconds. “Mr. Placide, he really does want to talk to Twaits. Now.”
“Fine,” says Placide, then barks down the hall, “Twaits!”
When the actor emerges from the back room, Placide gestures in the direction of the taproom. “You’re up next.”
Twaits nods, then moves to slide past them.
“Wait, wait, wait,” says Placide, grabbing Twaits by the shoulder. He turns to Jack. “Is there anything he needs to know?”
Jack tries to think. He’s been forced to tell so many lies, in such quick succession, that he can barely tell up from down at this point. “Ritchie wanted to know who was coming and going out the stage door.”
“And what did you tell him?”
“Uh, that I didn’t know.”
“You didn’t even tell him about Caulfield?” says Placide.
“Do we have time for this?” asks Jack, who is terrified to admit to Placide that Ritchie spent the bulk of the interview asking questions that had nothing to do with the slave revolt. “He really is waiting.”
Placide shoos Twaits off, then drags Jack into the front office, where he asks the tavern keeper’s wife if she’ll give them a few moments alone. “Don’t take too long,” she says as she hauls herself out into the hall.
