Chapter 33
C HAPTER 33
The possible's slow fuse is lit by the imagination.
—Emily Dickinson
Marigold had no idea what to do with her supposition—or her rage at what she assumed had been done to Bessie. There was no one with whom she might share such an awful, criminal conjecture until she had better proof.
"Marigold, are you up there?" Daisy called from below.
"I'm coming down." Marigold tried to shake off her consternation and keep her misgivings to herself.
"I was talking to some of the gals from town last night, at the party," Daisy began before Marigold reached the barn floor. "And they said that you had formed a Ladies' Cycling Club, and they invited me to be a part of it. I know I said I didn't want to learn to ride, because Taddy couldn't, but it would be nice to belong to a social group once I move into town, when Tad and I get married. So will you teach me?"
"Naturally."
Daisy threw her arms around Marigold's neck. "Oh, Marigold, thank you ever so much. You're the best friend a girl could have. I can't wait to see Tad's face when I ride by him, pretty as you please. It'll do him good to see other people do things he can't do—at least not yet."
"Indeed." Marigold could only agree. It would also do Daisy good to have accomplishments of her own going into her marriage.
Daisy whooped before she pressed a kiss of thanks to Marigold's cheek. "You really are the best, Marigold. Moments like this, you make me feel like I almost have a sister."
Marigold's heart, which she had been attempting to keep under strict, rational regulation, went soft and illogical. The heat of tears built behind her eyes, and it was everything she could do not to cry. She settled for a decorous sniffle. "I am deeply honored that you should think so. Now, let's get started."
They spent a companionable hour on the lesson—which Daisy really didn't need, because the girl was quite strong and physically adept—before Marigold turned her hand to helping Wilbert repair the henhouse.
"Sure was smart of you to get this new chicken wire. Must have cost you a pretty penny. Don't know as when I'll be able to pay you back for it. Don't know how in tarnation Pa did it," Wilbert admitted. "I mean, things were tight, you know? Weren't any sugar but once in a blue moon, or luxuries ever, till you came. There were always oats for porridge, and beans and bacon, and coffee, but I can't buy all that selling eggs!"
"Did your father not keep a bank account or some such?"
"Didn't trust banks. Kept his money to himself, Pa said. And he was such an awful cuss that he probably took whatever money he still had with him—kept it in an old talcum powder tin he kept hidden in an old boot."
"Lucy said she was paid every week," Marigold countered. "In cash money—left on her tray. So, does Great-Aunt Alva have her own money that ought to be put to Hatchet Farm's upkeep? And I will say, I will offer again to pay for my own room and board. I know," she said to forestall any objection, "your mother said you'd take nothing from me, but circumstances have changed. And we seem to be at an impasse that I could at least alleviate—at least until you get the legalities straight."
"What legalities?" asked Wilbert.
"Well, now that your father has left, are you legally entitled to run the farm?" Marigold spoke some of her musings out loud. "If Ellery has absconded from his responsibilities, can the deed to the island be transferred to your name—assuming there is a deed?"
"I don't know 'bout nothing legal," Wilbert admitted. "But I better find out, because now that old man is gone, I reckon I'm the one who's going to have to answer the letter old man Endicott gave to Daisy asking about her dowry."
"That was quick!" Marigold felt her brows rise.
"No grass that he can't sell grows under old man Endicott."
"May I see the letter? If you think that would help." She didn't want Wilbert to think she was horning in. Or doubting his reading ability.
"Sure." Wilbert dug the creased missive out of his vest pocket.
Marigold scanned the bold, typewritten letter wherein Mr. George Endicott, acting on behalf of his heir, Mr. Thaddeus C. Endicott, asked that a dowry be assigned to Miss Daisy Hatchet in advance of her "mooted" marriage to Thaddeus Endicott. "Well, it certainly is full of legalese. He even goes so far as to suggest that land would be an acceptable asset given in the ‘dower proceedings.' Well, my, my." Exactly as she had so cavalierly suggested.
"Do you think that lawyer friend of yours, that Cox fellow, might mind taking a look to tell me what it says? It's all ten-dollar words," Wilbert fretted.
"Naturally, Wilbert," she assured him. "I will ask Mr. Cox to do so, if it isn't a conflict of interest." Especially if Cab had also taken her suggestion and was acting as Tad's attorney. "But first we have to ask ourselves something else." Something she had asked herself before and never answered. "If Endicott has long sought to get this land—Cab told me the man has brought any number of lawsuits over the years—but your father has long refused to sell, even though, as he stated the other night, he hated the place and needed the money …" Marigold tried to turn each fact logically. "Why would Cousin Ellery not sell?"
Wilbert threw up his shoulder in that world-weary Hatchet shrug. "The old man never said. Too contrary is my guess."
Marigold was not prepared to be so fatalistic. "Why on earth is Great Misery Island, a bald outcropping of rock that seems incapable of sustaining anything but sheep—and maybe not even them—so worth having that two men would fight over it for thirty-odd years?"
"Dunno."
"Well, if I were you, Wilbert, I'd try to find out."
Marigold could not sleep. The possibilities—about adultery and money and marriage and drowned girls—kept churning in her head, tossing and turning her in her bed, until sometime deep in the night, a loud noise brought her fully awake.
Her ears searched out the familiar rasping moans, but the usual melodic sounds of Seviah and Lucy singing blues songs in the wee small hours of the morning were absent. An eerie, ringing silence reigned.
Marigold was just about to turn over and plug her ears with her pillow when it came again—a loud, sharp concussion of a sound, like a door being thrown open or slammed shut. The vibration shuddered through the house.
She quickly threw back the blankets and fumbled in the darkness for suitable clothing in which to be abroad at night—one might alter one's standards but never let them down—all the while straining to hear what was going on.
Below, doors creaked open and shut, footsteps pattered along. A voice rose in muffled protest, but by the time she donned her long duster and cycling boots over her night clothes and went down to open her stout lock, she found the door at the bottom of her stair was wedged shut. From the outside.
Marigold rattled the panel in disbelief, before she put her shoulder into it and shoved, hard. The stout pine didn't budge.
She was locked in.
But by whom? And why? The undisciplined, fearful part of her brain readily supplied one obvious answer—to pen her up so they might do her a more specific harm.
An image of Seviah with his matches, crouching to light a fire at the other side of her door, leapt unbidden into her mind's eye before she could sternly ward it away with the clear, calm fact that Seviah was well away from Great Misery Island and Hatchet Farm and had no logical reason to return. He was going to go and never look back, he had said.
Likewise, Daisy and Lucy, with their guns and knives, were her boon companions now and could not wish her any harm. And the most obvious person who had so openly wished her to perdition—Ellery Hatchet—had gone off in the service of the Lord, with no mention of coming back.
That left Wilbert with his scythe, which seemed unlikely, given their obvious rapport. And, of course, Cleon with his clumsy shoves, which seemed too inept for door locking.
But then there was Sophronia, with her witchy ways and withholding of information—perhaps, after all her waiting, she meant to offer Marigold something other than atonement.
Marigold quickly retreated up the stairs to light her lamp to relieve the pitch-darkness—the full moon of the prior night must be obscured by clouds. But the lamplight illuminated the pearlescent gleam of the revolver that she had resolutely set aside in the belief that the moment of crisis had passed and she would not have need for it again.
Had the moment come again?
Better to be prepared and not need it than to be taken by surprise.
But she was still a thinking creature who would use logic before resorting to violence—just because she had a gun didn't mean she had to use it.
Her gaze fell on the little jam jar on the stool next to the bed. The water reflecting the dim light of the lantern held a fresh wildflower—a minty-looking leaf with tiny blue flowers—but tonight the jar could serve a different purpose.
Marigold dashed the flowers and water into the washstand and first put the glass to the door. What she heard could only be described as scuffling—chairs or heels scrapped against the floor or the creaks and groans of the old wooden planks. Words too indistinct to make sense. She could make out some more distinct sounds—low, short utterances from the front of the house, or possibly the kitchen—but could not distinguish voices or words. There was a heavy clatter, as if a chair—or a very large teacup—had been overturned.
And then there was nothing but silence.
So much silence, for so long, that she finally retreated to sit on the top step, still grimly gripping the pistol in her nerveless hand. Although she still strained to listen, the only sound she could distinguish was a sort of weathered sigh, as if the house had resettled itself. Or was that the kitchen door?
Marigold sat with her ears pricked for what felt like hours. But there was nothing more—nothing but the sound of wind and waves counting time through the night. Silence continued to reign.
No one called. No one came to explain what had happened.
Still, she sat, gun in hand, eyes on the door at the bottom of the stairs. Waiting.
For whoever it was to come and try to kill her.