Wildflower Hill (36 page)

“Bye, Mummy,” Lucy said. She waited with Molly at the gate while Beattie got into the car and drove away.

*  *  *

Peter and Matt came back for crutching season in April, as green was reappearing on the scorched hillside. Charlie became profoundly uncomfortable about the extra people on the farm.

“Don’t worry,” Beattie assured him as he pushed her away gently in the kitchen one night, “they’re over at the cottage. They don’t even take their meals in the house. They’ll never know.”

“Last time they were here, I slept in the cottage. They’ll have noticed I’m not there anymore.”

“And they’ll think nothing of it. Mikhail lived in the house for years, and nobody ever said a word about it.”

He took her hands in his, brought them to his lips. “I’m only worried about you. About what people think.”

“I don’t care what people think.”

He struggled with words for a moment, then said, “You can only say that because you’ve never really been hated.”

“I have. Most people in Lewinford think I’m colored scarlet.”

“Yeah, but at least they don’t think you’re colored black.”

Beattie fell silent. Charlie dropped her hands. “Let’s keep our distance till after dark.”

“Then we can get nice and close?”

He smiled. “As close as you like.”

Winter came and they were left alone again. Long nights by the fireplace, lost in each other’s arms. He told her he loved her over and over, against her skin, against her hair. Her heart became so entwined with his that she began to fear: nameless fear, the fear of anyone who loved too intensely. The only way
to make the fear go away was to focus her entire mind and imagination on Charlie and let the rest of the world slip away.

Henry phoned the day he got the letter from his lawyer, to spit blood and threats at her. She didn’t mind. Leo Sampson told her the court hearing for Lucy’s custody was held over until August. She didn’t mind. The new postmistress in Lewinford refused to serve her when she wanted to send a package of clothes to the boutique in Hobart. She drove to the next town and didn’t mind. She was in love—mad love, love that blinded her. She didn’t see what was coming.

Not at all.

When Lucy came home from church, she took off her shoes in her bedroom and placed them in the wardrobe. She flopped on her bed where Bunny and Horse were waiting. She picked up a book and began to look through the pictures. A knock at her door, and Molly’s voice calling, “Lucy?”

Lucy stopped reading. She didn’t want to let Molly in. Molly was acting strangely. Like she was afraid of something. Like she was afraid of Lucy.

But Molly let herself in anyway. Lucy drew herself up into the corner of the bed, winding Bunny’s ear around her fingers.

Molly smiled at her, and for a moment Lucy felt like everything was normal. But it wasn’t normal. Molly and Daddy had been talking a lot lately, in quiet tense voices. Whenever Lucy came in the room, they hushed quickly. Lucy knew there was something going on, and she knew it had something to do with her.

“Can I talk to you, darling?” Molly said, sitting on her bed and smoothing the covers under her hands. “It’s important.”

Lucy nodded, though she wanted to say no. “Where’s Daddy?”

“He’s in the sitting room. He said I should talk to you, seeing as we’re both girls.” She smiled again, and Lucy thought she didn’t look like a girl at all.

Lucy shrugged. “What is it?”

“It’s about Beattie, about your mother.”

Lucy waited, her breath caught in her throat. She didn’t want to hear that Mummy was sick or dead.

“She’s done a bad thing,” Molly continued. “She wrote a very bad letter, and now Daddy is cross.”

“Did she write it to Daddy?”

“No, she wrote it to Daddy’s lawyer, but that’s not the point. She said some things in it that aren’t true. What do we call a person who says things that aren’t true?”

“A liar,” Lucy said quietly.

“Yes, that’s right. Your mother . . . She has done some things that a lot of people are unhappy about. Things that God wouldn’t like.”

Lucy wasn’t so sure about God. She was still terrified of Him, but only when she was at home in Hobart. At the farm, she wasn’t quite so worried what He thought of her. “What kind of things?” Lucy asked.

“It’s too grown-up to explain.”

This wasn’t the first time Lucy had heard accusations about her mother, so she didn’t think to question them.

“But she’s far too close to that black man.”

“Charlie? He’s nice.”

Molly’s mouth turned down at the corners. “He only
seems
nice. He’s actually a thief. Everyone in Lewinford knows that he stole something from a wealthy white man.” Molly took Lucy’s hand. “You must tell me, darling, have you seen anything while at the farm? Anything . . . wicked? If you have, you must let me and Daddy know. It will help us a lot as we get the lawyer to make his case.”

“No,” Lucy said, shaking her head hard.

“Tell me what she does. Who she speaks to.”

She kept shaking her head.

“Where does she sleep at night?”

“In her bedroom. Next to mine.”

“And when she gets up in the morning?”

Lucy was frightened by Molly’s hard eyes. “My mummy does nothing wicked. She gets up and has breakfast in the morning with me and Charlie and—”

“Charlie? He’s there at breakfast?”

Lucy went still. Her heart thudded in her throat.

Molly’s eyes grew round. “Lucy? Does Charlie sleep in the house?”

Lucy nodded, not sure why Molly should find this so shocking.

Molly looked away, her face reddening. “I’m sorry to tell you this, but your mother has sinned.”

“She’s not a sinner.”

“Does she go to church?”

Lucy couldn’t answer.

“Henry!” Molly called. “Henry, come here.”

Lucy waited on the bed, her heart thumping. She wished she hadn’t talked to Molly. She wished she had kept her mouth shut. Then Daddy was there, and she knew she could trust him. She leaped from the bed and buried her face in his chest.

“What’s going on?” he asked in a gruff voice, and Lucy could hear his words rumble around in his chest. She refused to look up.

“Lucy says Charlie sleeps in the house. Has breakfast with them in the morning. I’m sure you can imagine the rest.”

A pause. Daddy’s hands were still on her back.

“Well?” said Molly. “You want your daughter to have a black man and a fornicator for parents?”

“Molly—”

“I tell you, if we lose, that will happen. Instead of you, she’s going to have that man for a father.”

Lucy grew alarmed, stood back to gaze up at Daddy. “I want you to be my daddy,” she said. “Not anybody else.”

“Tell her,” Molly said. “Her mother is too steeped in sin.”

“Molly . . .” he said again, but couldn’t finish his sentence.

“We need to keep her away from that farm.”

Lucy kept her eyes fixed steadily on Daddy. Whatever he said was right and true. Molly was upset and acting strangely, but Daddy wouldn’t let anything bad happen to her.

Daddy’s eyes turned down, and he smiled at her crookedly. “How would you like to go on a little trip, my girl?”

*  *  *

Beattie caught a fever that flattened her in the first week of July, the day that she was supposed to drive down to Hobart to pick up Lucy. She rang to tell Lucy she might be a day or so late—all the while dreading Henry or Molly answering the phone. But there was no answer. There was nothing for it: she could barely stand, let alone drive. She went to bed and hoped to feel better the following day.

Next morning, and still she couldn’t rouse anyone on the telephone at Henry’s house. She figured their telephone was playing up and was worried that Lucy would think she’d been forgotten.

As she picked up her handbag to go out to the truck, she lost her balance and stumbled against the wall. Charlie saw her and came to steady her. “You’re still sick,” he said.

“My ear is very sore,” she said. “I can’t seem to find my balance.”

“You can’t drive. You’re too sick, and it’s too foggy.”

“I can’t stay here. Lucy has been expecting me since yesterday.”

“She’ll wait.”

“You don’t understand. She’ll think I’ve forgotten her or I don’t love her. I don’t want her to think that, not even for another hour. Certainly not another day.”

Charlie’s grip on her arm was firm.

“You could drive me,” she ventured.

He smiled bitterly. “Beattie, I’ve seen the way Molly looks at me.”

“I don’t care about Molly.”

“You probably should.”

“You’re my employee. It wouldn’t be unusual for you to drive me somewhere.” She touched his hand softly. “Please? My little girl is waiting for me.”

“You can’t get them on the telephone?”

“Something’s wrong with it.”

He sighed, reaching for his hat. “All right, but I’m waiting in the car when we get there.”

It was the first time they’d driven anywhere together. Away from the farm, the fog rolled back to reveal grass silvered with ice. Beattie’s throbbing ear and constant sense of vertigo couldn’t detract from how lovely it felt to be speeding down the road, past winter-bare trees and wide rolling fields, with the man she loved. A sense of injustice pricked her. Other women could enjoy such simple pleasures. Molly could go driving with Henry, Tilly Harrow with Frank . . . but Beattie and Charlie’s love was so much purer and stronger than either of those couples’. Once this business with Lucy’s custody was sorted out, she was going to marry Charlie and laugh at all the disapproving faces in the township.

They arrived outside Henry’s house just before eleven. Beattie eased herself out of the car, waiting for the dizziness to pass before letting herself go through the gate and up the path. She knocked.

No answer.

A prickling feeling of dread was suddenly upon her. No answer on the phone, no answer at the door. She knocked again, louder. Then went around the side of the house. She heard the
car door slam. Charlie was coming to help her, but she barely registered. The edges of her vision blurred into black. Something was wrong, and she felt it coldly and sharply.

Knocking at the back door, no answer. She found Molly’s mop bucket by the back door and upturned it under the window to Lucy’s room. Climbed up as Charlie arrived to steady her. Her breath fogged the glass.

“What can you see?” he asked.

The curtain was open a crack, but it was enough to see in. To see the empty room.

No bed. No toys. No wardrobe. All gone.

Her heart seized, refused to beat. Then she was falling, falling into Charlie’s arms.

“It’s empty!” she cried.

“Shh, don’t worry. Not yet,” he said.

He helped her around the side of the house. Henry’s neighbor was pegging her laundry.

“Can you help?” Charlie called.

The woman looked up, saw Charlie with his arms around Beattie, and scowled. “What is it?”

“Did you see them leave?” Beattie asked desperately. “The man and the little red-haired girl?”

“About three weeks ago,” she said grudgingly. “Why?”

Three weeks ago? How could she not have known? “I’m the girl’s mother,” she said, her blood fluttering loudly in her ears. “I need to know where they’ve gone.”

“He said he was heading north. That’s all.” She picked up her laundry basket and turned her back.

“Please!” Beattie called.

“I don’t know anything else,” she replied as she closed the door behind her.

Beattie felt the bottom drop out of her world. Sobs heaved in her throat.

Charlie folded her in his arms.

“Where’s my baby, Charlie?” she sobbed. “Where have they taken my baby?”

B
eattie woke in the grainy predawn light and wondered for a moment where she was. Then she remembered: the threadbare sheets, the smell of old tobacco smoke in the curtains and rugs . . . She was in the only hotel in Hobart that would accept a white woman staying with a black man. And she was still trapped in the nightmare of Lucy’s disappearance.

She rolled over and saw that Charlie was already awake, looking at her with his soft eyes.

“How long have you been awake?” she asked.

“About an hour,” he said. “I wanted to be right here when you woke up. When you remembered.”

She smiled weakly. The previous day had been a long blur of running around, asking questions of neighbors, the local pastor at Henry and Molly’s church. Henry’s employee, Molly’s friend from FitzGerald’s. She and Charlie had tracked all over Hobart, asking questions and getting no answers. Most people knew nothing at all; Pastor Gibbins said they had simply stopped coming to church. Some knew a little, but it
was all the same information. They had talked of going north. Nobody knew how far or where. But they were all surprised to hear that Beattie was Lucy’s mother. In fact, she suspected some of them didn’t believe her at all.

Finally, Charlie had tried to convince her to go home, but she had refused to leave town without her daughter. Foolish, of course. Her daughter was probably nowhere in Hobart. They had tracked about looking for a hotel, then fallen into exhausted sleep.

Now Beattie was faced with the decision about what to do next.

“You’ll be better off at home, Beattie,” Charlie said, climbing out of bed and pulling on his jeans. “We’ve done everything we can here.”

“This is my fault,” she said, lying on her back and putting her arm over her eyes. Her heart thudded heavily under her ribs. “If I had just talked to them about custody rather than taking them to court . . .”

Charlie slipped on his shirt and came to sit on the bed, deftly buttoning it up. “You said yourself that Henry was prepared to get a lawyer first.”

“I just want to know she’s all right.”

“Of course she’s all right. They dote on her, they’re not going to hurt her.”

Beattie took small comfort in this but couldn’t articulate to Charlie how lost she felt, not knowing where Lucy was. Not knowing when she would hold her again. She tried to stop herself from crying, but it was impossible.