The House of Closed Doors (25 page)

“Martin,” I gasped, “I can hardly claim to be a maiden in need of protection. Yes, I propose to hide out at your house for a few days until I can settle matters with my mother and stepfather. I will make it clear to Tabby that she should not tell another living soul and not imagine more than the situation warrants either.” Tabitha Stone was Martin’s housekeeper, almost seventy, and one of my devoted admirers since I was tiny. “After all,” I added, “you never receive visitors, do you?”

Even in the dim light I could see that Martin had flushed to the roots of his hair. I bit my lip; considering how nice he was being, that was a low blow worthy of the old Nell. The long, terrible years of his father’s dementia had kept visitors away from the Rutherford house, and neither Martin nor Ruth had resumed entertaining once the old man had finally passed away.

He said nothing and simply held out his arms to me. I positioned my left foot on the runner of his gig, and he hoisted me and Sarah up into the contraption with a single swift movement. Throwing in my small bag, he leapt up into the driver’s seat, gathered the reins, and touched his whip to the horse’s withers. He guided the gig in a tight circle and headed back the way he had come, the gig’s well-maintained wheels rolling silently over the damp dirt.

I reached forward with my free hand to touch Martin’s arm. “I’m sorry I teased you,” I said. “You are a true friend to help me like this.”

He grinned over his shoulder at me, and I knew I was forgiven. “I would help you for your mother’s sake even if I weren’t so fond of you, Nellie. What else could I do for my fiery little friend?” His smile brought back memories of a young man who could fly into a rage when treated unjustly by anyone else but who never minded if I drank from his glass, laughed at his clumsiness, or pulled his hair. I smiled back, happy to be with someone I could trust implicitly.

The gig ate up the miles, and Sarah rested contentedly against my shoulder. The hood of the gig was down, and the breeze felt good against my face and hair in the warm weather. Martin had not lit the lamps, the starlight being sufficiently bright for the road, and all I could see of him was the dark shape of his back and the stirring of his blond hair, gleaming white in the blue light. Eventually I too slept, rocked by the motion of the fast carriage and luxuriating in the feel of its velvet upholstery against my cheek.

THIRTY-ONE

I
awoke to discover we were in a familiar place under some oak trees that reared a thick canopy of dark green leaves to the sky. I realized the gig had stopped at the edge of a small wood I had played in as a child: I was home in Victory.

The early sun gilded the trees with its dawn rays, and I could hear birdsong all around me. I was stiff and sore from sleeping in an upright position but felt much better for a few hours’ rest. Sarah wriggled in my arms and chewed on her fingers, making small noises of complaint.

“I must nurse her,” I said, and Martin, who had been intently watching me and my baby, flushed a little. He helped me down from the gig and led the horse over to a patch of coarse grass while I searched for a discreet patch of bushes in which to nurse Sarah and attend to my own needs.

The practicalities of the morning accomplished, I went to find Martin who was leaning against a tree watching the horse browse among the undergrowth.

“I have been thinking,” he said. “It is very early, but it might be unwise to drive the gig to my front door and have you publicly enter my house. If I tied the horse up here, we could take the trail that leads to my back porch and be there in twenty minutes. Then I will return for the gig, and if anyone sees me‌—‌well, I was simply taking the morning air.”

“An unlikely story, Martin, but bless you for it nonetheless.” I handed Sarah to my friend and reached up to take my bundle from the carriage seat. I turned round to see Martin staring at his burden with an expression of discomfort.

“I believe she may be a little damp.” He handed her back to me and wiped his hand on a convenient patch of moss.

I pleated Sarah’s gown so that it offered some protection for my arm and then held my bag out to Martin. “So let’s get to your house quickly. Maybe we could prevail upon Tabby to heat some water so that I can bathe her.”

W
e negotiated the path to Martin’s house easily, passing through the tidy vegetable garden and entering via the back door. Martin’s house was like his person: trim, spare, and devoid of fashionable clutter. His father’s dementia had often led the poor man to throw china and glass objects at the walls, and over time Ruth and Martin had learned to do without knickknacks. The house looked all the better for their absence.

“I am quite an old bachelor, you see.” Martin gestured toward a large sitting room where the polished surfaces of wooden furniture gleamed in harmony with the plainly painted walls. Beyond the room was a study lined with books and containing a huge desk on which piles of paper were neatly arranged.

“Not so old, Martin.” My eye fell greedily on a stack of magazines and books depicting the latest fashions from Paris and New York. Next to them, a large basket held an enticing mound of swatches of fabrics.

Martin laughed. “Well, not old enough to commit myself to the state of matrimony just yet. My ambitions have not grown dull, Nellie. A store in Chicago to rival that of Mr. Field and his associates! Chicago may be a raw, young place now, but large fortunes are being made there, and one day it will be a great city like those of the East. I intend to dress the ladies of Chicago one day and make a name for myself.”

I raised my eyebrows but said nothing. Martin had talked about his dream of a large store in Chicago when I was just a child, but at that time it had seemed that his father would live forever and life would always pass Martin by. He had watched his friends leave to fight in the War and return scarred and battle-hardened and had no longer cared to keep company with them. I looked around the room, missing the small touches that had been there when Ruth was alive; but in truth, the house looked better stripped of cushions, doilies, and antimacassars, like a ship trimmed and ready for action.

“I will make coffee,” said Martin abruptly, “and Tabby will soon come down to complain that I am beginning the day too early for her. Then she will cry out in astonishment at seeing you, be thoroughly shocked about Sarah, say a thousand times that she would never have thought it of you and what must your mother think, and then fall to petting your baby and waiting on her hand and foot. Are we not fortunate, Nellie, to have servants who have known us since we were children and to know them so well ourselves that we can turn them around our little fingers?”

I laughed in agreement. “That sounds exactly like Tabby. As long as she does not get it into her head that you are Sarah’s father.”

Martin’s brows drew together, and a speculative look came into his eyes. “She will not believe such a thing if I tell her… Nell, are you going to inform me who the father of this child is?”

It was my turn to frown. “Not for anything in the world, Martin. Please do not ask me.”

Martin shrugged, seemingly dismissing the matter. “Come into the kitchen,” he said. “The stove will still be warm in there, and you can divest little Sarah of her damp clothing and wrap her in a blanket.” His expression softened. “And if I know you, you will soon be plundering me of my samples to make clothes for your daughter.”

He led the way and I followed, bouncing Sarah on my arm. The sheer normality of being back in Victory, albeit in the wrong house, was so strange and wonderful that I felt a lump in my throat. In my mind’s eye I saw Tess, Lizzie, and Ada rising from bed and discovering that Sarah and I were nowhere to be found‌—‌what would they be saying? Could Tess remain silent?

I wished, now, that I had informed Mrs. Lombardi of my plans. She trusted me, and I had betrayed that trust out of the fear that she would be duty bound to thwart my intentions. It seemed to me that one lie constantly engendered another, like an ever-replicating swarm. I kissed Sarah’s curls, the thought that I had begun her life with a lie forming a lump somewhere deep in my entrails.

THIRTY-TWO

J
ust as Martin had predicted, two days later I completed some new garments for Sarah from the abundant piles of samples he stored in his house. What was more, in the corner of the room where my daughter and I slept stood several bolts of fabric. Martin had made me a present of a sumptuous blue-gray dress material for myself, a more serviceable brown cotton for everyday wear, and the wherewithal to fabricate petticoats, pantaloons, chemises, and so on as befitted my return to the world. From his store he had also chosen hats and shoes that, although not made to measure as was the usual practice, were nonetheless an excellent fit. He had even, with some awkwardness, presented me with the latest style of corset.