5

      CATHERINE BOLTS UPSTAIRS to change, and I send Emeline up after her. I hardly care that my dress is torn, that my hand needs to be cleaned; I’m still back at the old mill, lost in the unsettling gaze of Mr. Barrett. I wander through the house, over the wood floors gleaming amber in the afternoon sun, the oriental carpets still crisp in color and soft beneath my feet. Everything is new and expectant, waiting for memories to be made, for stories to be layered down like dust.

      When I come to the back hall, I find Mother on hands and knees, a soapy bucket of water beside her. She’s scrubbing the tiles over and over in vicious circles. “Snip had a romp through the house with muddy paws,” she says without looking up.

      “Ada will get it.” I help her to her feet. There isn’t a trace of mud remaining, but she casts a remorseful look at the white tiles. Her hands are raw.

      I install her in the parlor and fetch her workbasket and she finally notices my dress and hand. “Where on earth have you been? I was worried sick when Joe was gone so long with the carriage.”

      Catherine breezes into the room, Emeline behind her, just as I’m explaining our misadventure in town and chance meeting with John Barrett.

      “Mother,” I say slowly, not quite sure what I’m asking, “do you know any reason why Father’s new business partner should be unhappy to learn that he had a family, or that he had brought us here?”

      “Unhappy?” Mother echoes the question, picking up her embroidery. “What makes you say that?”

      “We really must invite Mr. Barrett over for dinner,” Catherine cuts in, throwing herself down on the yellow-and-pink settee. “Especially if he and Father are business partners.”

      Mother watches her with wary eyes over the rim of her embroidery hoop, stabbing the needle through the linen.

      “I like him. He helped bring back Snip,” Emeline adds solemnly.

      I hold my breath, waiting for Mother’s answer. We used to entertain all the time in Boston. That was one of the hardest parts of the scandal, the way everyone stopped coming around. Cyrus was the last of them. I try not to think about that awful meeting with the man who would have been my husband in the front parlor of our trim brick house. The way time stood still despite the persistent ticking of the clock, him standing not more than a few feet in front of me, but separated by miles. The way he raked his fingers through his dark curls and couldn’t meet my eye. “I’m sorry, Lydia,” he said. “You know that I am. But you have to see it from my perspective, from my family’s.” All the blood rushing up to my head, my knees weak and insides hollow. “I... I wish you the best.” And then he was gone, the coward, striding out the door without so much as a backward glance. Good riddance.

      “Well, yes, I suppose Mr. Barrett must come over for dinner,” Mother says.

      Something like relief washes over Catherine, and I can’t figure her out. I don’t know why it bothers me so much that she should have an eye for Mr. Barrett; after all, it would be a good sign for our family if she were to become interested in someone. And her inner character notwithstanding, she’s beautiful. The man would be a fool not to notice her.

      It’s agreed that an invitation will be sent out to Mr. Barrett for next week, and Mother sends for Joe to deliver it. Just as Joe is leaving, Catherine takes something from her pocket and slips it into his hand with a finger to her lips. Mother is bent over her embroidery, and Emeline is busy giving Snip a stern lecture on running away. It all happens in the space of a second, and then Catherine demurely folds her hands, smiling out the window at nothing in particular.

      * * *

      It’s a rare evening that Father joins us for dinner, but since we’re entertaining his business partner he’s made an exception from taking his meal in his office. In Boston we all dined together, but that was when Charles was still there, and we women outnumbered the men only four to two. Now that Charles is gone, Father doesn’t find much to draw him to our table anymore, preferring to lose himself in the safety of his ledgers where everything adds up in tidy little columns.

      Ada has already helped Emeline dress, leaving Catherine and me alone to finish our toilettes together.

      “Move over, Lydia. You’ve been fussing with your hair for almost an hour and I need the mirror.”

      I scooch the little stool over so Catherine can lean down to see herself. “What’s gotten into you anyway? You never do anything with your hair besides the same old drab bun.”

      I frown, trying to get my fine hair to hold some semblance of a curl. “That’s not true.”

      When it’s clear that the limp strands won’t cooperate, I give up and sweep them up and back under a simple band. Catherine expertly puts hers in a neat row of tight little curls. Her hair is a luminous shade of auburn, alive with gold and copper. My hair by comparison is mousy brown. A warm, light shade, but brown all the same. And of course my Emmy has the prettiest hair of all of us, even more golden and vibrant than Catherine’s.

      I watch as Catherine rubs color over her lips, then plucks a stray hair from her brow. She practices different expressions, first one of surprise, her mouth open in an inviting O, her brows arched, then one of wide-eyed innocence. She could have anyone—any man wrapped around her finger. I can’t help but be a little in awe of her, even if she is the vainest creature I’ve ever met. I always knew that she was different from me, above me somehow. As a child she shone so brightly, stealing the room with her perfect manners and charming smile while I struggled to keep up. She scowls when she catches me studying her.

      “Oh, don’t look at me like that, Lyd.”

      “Like what?”

      She rolls her eyes. “With the disapproving, sanctimonious glower you always have.” She stands up, giving one last glance into the mirror and patting at her coif.

      “You’re up to something.”

      With a shrug, she grabs her shawl from the bed and heads for the door. “I know you’re up to something, Catherine!” I call after her. And I’m going to find out what it is, I add silently. This family has had enough of secrets.

      * * *

      Ada announces Mr. Barrett. He strides into the room, his face serious, looking like he’s come more on business than pleasure. He gives Mother a kiss on the cheek though, like an old friend, and Father a hearty handshake. He’s shined his boots, and his cravat is fresh and white, crisp. When we saw him in the rain the other day I didn’t appreciate what a fine figure he cuts, what quiet power he exudes with his serious eyes and strong jaw. Not at all the kind of person I thought we would find out here in the country. He turns to me and gives a short bow, and I mumble something inconsequential.

      “I’m glad to see that you’ve recovered from your soaking the other day,” he says. His tone isn’t cold exactly, but it’s formal and doesn’t invite anything more than a polite reply.

      I hardly notice the dark-haired young man in the doorway until Mr. Barrett turns