Celia Hayes – The Accidental Texan

Chapter 7 – Walk Away and Never Look Back

 (From one of the current works in progress – Previous chapter here  This will be an adventure about a proper young lady who winds up going west under … well, interesting circumstances.)

“Lock the door after us, Phelpsie,” Sophia gasped. “And if Richard comes here tonight, you don’t know where I am. You haven’t seen us at all. Tell Aunt Minnie that I am well only when she is better … goodbye, Phelpsie – don’t open the door for anyone tonight!”

“I won’t,” Phelpsie gabbled, distraught, and Sophia thought that Phelpsie – aghast at the thought of having to face an angry Richard alone – for a moment was about to beg them all to stay. But the door opened in Declan’s strong hand and closed with a thud after them, and with some distant sense of relief, Sophia heard the sound of the lock falling to. Dark had fallen entirely now, save for only a pale pink smear in the western sky.

            “Where are we going?” Sophie struggled for breath and against her own weariness; Declan went ahead, a strong wide-shouldered man, her carpetbag in one hand, his stout watchman’s cudgel swinging in the other, as they hurried up Beacon Hill in the direction of the golden dome of the state house, still gleaming faintly in the last light of day. Agnes had her arm around Sophia’s waist – and unexpectedly strong arm from her short lifetime of hard work. Sophia was grateful for the support, and that they were heading in the opposite direction of the Brewer house and unlikely to encounter Richard in the tangle of narrow old streets in the waterfront district.

            “To our home,” Agnes replied. “See … Declan an’ I, we’ve an idea to help you escape for good…”

“If you have the mettle for it, see,” Declan threw over his shoulder as he hurried ahead. “But ‘t would mean leaving Boston, so it would, Miss Brewer.”

“I’d go out to the frontier and beyond, among all the wild Indians,” Sophia answered, without thinking. “As far as it would take that I’d never have to fear my brother again?”

“Out west?” Declan grinned over his shoulder. “Among the wild Indians and gunslingers? Our Seamus can’t get enough of those tales, but you might have your chance, Miss Brewer, with pluck and luck.”

“What do you mean?” Sophia gasped; she felt as if she were being swept along by an irresistible tide. Now they had left the lights of Beacon Street, plunging into the depths of the old North Town, which had been abandoned by people of quality decades since, and left to the poor, the recent immigrants from Ireland and elsewhere. The streets were narrow, the ancient brick buildings shouldering close against each other, the smells – of privy, waterfront, and cooking almost nauseating in intensity.

“Carry this, no’,” Declan passed the carpetbag to his sister. With the faint scritch of a Lucifer against the nearest wall, Declan had lightened a lantern. “’tis safe enough now for a light – his bully lordship will no’ be looking for us here, Miss Sophia.” Declan Teague sounded most particularly satisfied about that.

“I cannot help but fear that there might be others in these streets,” Sophia had recovered something of her composure, after several twists and turns, each one into a street darker and narrower than the last. “Posing even more of a danger than my brother to us all…”

Declan Teague let out a rich chuckle, “Aye, so you might think, Miss Sophia. But this is where we live, and among folk who know us and protect their own kin an’ kind. You are safer here, amongst us than you have been for a while among your kin. I am thinking. Here – this is the place, above the shop of old Mendelson the Jew. Mind the steps, then …” He held up the lantern courteously; yes, there was a narrow alley between one tall brick tenement and the next, an alley which led to a door – one which might once have been fine, when it was the house of a merchant-prince of the last century. Declan had a key for that door, and Sophia mentally blessed him for the lantern, for the hallway inside was Stygian-dark, the flight of stairs to the next floor and the one above that even darker. At the top of that flight there was another short hall, with a doorway on either side. Declan turned and made a short and awkward half-bow before the door on the right-hand side. “Our home, our fire an’ our salt, Miss Sophia. Ye are welcome, indade. I mus’ be at my place of employment. Aignéis – for that is her right name here – she will explain to you the solution which I ha’ mentioned. Sorry – I am already late. There is one thing, Miss Sophia; gi’ me your hat and mantle.”

“I cannot think why it is necessary for me to give up my clothing,” Sophia protested, although at her side, Agnes whispered,

“Do what he says, Miss … we have worked out a means of laying a false trail.”

Declan opened the door saying only, “Aignéis, she will explain, with Seamus in chorus. Y’r hat now, and be quick about it. I’ll be back in t’ morning.”

“Do as he says,” Agnes whispered at her side, “The mantle, too … oh, dinna fuss, Miss Sophia – I will explain, sure an’ I will. Ye will be safe indade – for we hae planned it all out f’ ye, an’ ye’ will ne’re fear your brother again. Do ye no’ trust us?” Agnes sounded so doleful that Sophia was moved instantly to reassurance.

“I have, all this time – and now I trust to whatever scheme you have concocted … especially since I have no better choice in the matter.” She pulled the pins out of her hat, holding them briefly in her mouth as she handed her hat to Agnes’ brother, then shrugged out of her mantle.

“Good,” Declan grinned again. He leaned down, not so very far, and kissed his sister on the forehead, as he deftly bundled up hat and garment into a small bundle under his arm. “No fear, Aignéis – I’ll be back at sunrise. You an’ Seamus explain it to her, then.”

He was gone down the stairs with his comforting cudgel and lantern, even as Agnes opened the door into a dim apartment which must once have been a generously appointed room, when it was a single chamber and not sliced up into a parlor, kitchen, and sleeping quarters for a family, even one as small as that of a widower with four grown children. There was a tiny iron stove set into the hearth of a stopped-up fireplace, a stove which obviously served as a cook-fire and to warm the premises. A single kerosene lamp provided illumination, to a cot where a boy a few years older than Richie sat cross-legged, reading from a book, which to Sophia’s eyes – in the dim light – looked like some kind of Wild West blood-and-thunder tome.

A pile of ragged clothes and blankets was piled up in the single tattered armchair, drawn close to the fire, and as the door opened and closed, the ragged pile bestirred itself, and an aging and cracked voice inquired, “Aignéis – cailín daor – is that you?”

“’Tis, Da – and I have brought Major Brewer’s daughter with me,” Agnes replied.

“To this house?” the cracked voice broke with astonishment, and the pile of old clothing convulsed. “Aignéis, why did ye do that? ‘Tis not a fitting place for her ladyship …”

“I’m not a ladyship,” Sophia protested, and Agnes answered in placating tones,

“No, Da – but she has no other place to go for this night … and wicked man that he is, Master Richard has brought the doctor at this very hour, to carry her away to the asylum … an’ she is no madder than Siobhan or I.”

The clothes and blankets heaved and reshaped themselves, becoming in the faint light, the figure of a man, bent with age and with one arm so crippled and shortened as to be strapped immobile in a sling on his chest, saying with the courtesy of a lord. “Ye are welcome to share our salt and the shelter of our roof, Miss Brewer – ‘tis little enough, but it is our honor.” So this was Declan and Agnes’ father, Sophia realized: she had often heard of him, in Agnes’ daily conversation – that he had been a soldier in her father’s regiment, and how he had been crippled for life in an accident on the docks when Agnes was little more than a baby. Now he took her hand in his good one, and inclined his head in rough courtesy.

“I thank you for it, Mr. Teague,” Sophia swayed, suddenly faint with exhaustion. “And I am more grateful for your hospitality than I can …” The wave of dizziness threatened to overwhelm her, and Mr. Teague chided his daughter.

“Call me Tim Teague, now, will ye? Settle her in my chair now, Aignéis … the poor lady is no’ well, no’ well at all. Sit there, Miss Sophia – rest ye now …”

So grateful for the consideration that she nearly wept, she sank into old Tim Teague’s chair – the only padded and comfortable chair in the room, if so shabby and broken that even thrifty Great-Aunt Minnie would have relegated it to a bonfire. Tim Teague hovered at her side, patting her hand in a way meant to be comforting, until Agnes brought another simple straight chair from the corner of the room for her father. Agnes herself settled onto a low three-legged stool at Sophie’s knee, and young Seamus set aside his book – thriftily dimming the lamp-wick by which he was reading it.

“Is it true that your brother was feeding you opium and trying to drive you mad so that he could steal your money?” he asked with intense interest.

“Seamus, be hushed!” his sister cried, in an agony of embarrassment, adding as an aside. “Forgive him, Miss Sophia – but ‘tis true that I have talked of your situation… amongst the family, mind – only with Da an’ Declan at the first. Siobhan an’ I – we have always talked about folk we were in service to. It’s an amusement, y’see. It’s one of the only ones we have, a good gossip; sometimes like a play, or the old stories.

“No, Agnes – do not chide him,” Sophia answered, around a lump of grief in her throat. Grief for the lost life she once had, grief for the illusion of the fond and protective brother, grief for herself, lost and forlorn, taking refuge in a boarding house in old North Town. “It is true, every word that your brother and sister have said. And now I have nowhere to go and no friends to turn to, aside from yourselves – is that not as dramatic as one of your books, Seamus?”

“Oh, aye,” Seamus breathed, while Agnes cleared her throat – she sounded at least as tentative and uncertain as her young brother.

“But, Miss Sophia – we have a way for ye to escape, for good an’ all – if, as Declan said – ye have the mettle.”

“She does, indade,” Old Tim Teague assured them all, patting Sophia’s hand again. “She is th’ daughter of Major Brewer o’ the 28^th Massachusetts! Never was an officer cooler under fire! Nay, he were not of my company, but all knew of him. The hotter the fire again’ us, the cooler he were, striding up and down along our line, w’ lead shot fallin’ like hail from a summer storm! An’ he would say a few words to every man – humorous-like, as if on a stroll through the Common, as if he had all the time in the world, an’ no other worries than a drink in the next tavern …”

“Yes, Da,” Agnes interjected. “But we came away in such a hurry that Declan had no time to explain. She does no’ know the plan.”

“There is a plan?” Sophia still felt rather faint, considering this unexpected chance. Likely any plan was Declan – or perhaps Seamus’ notion. Agnes was as guileless as a small child. To credit her with a stratagem of any complexity was to think that Richie could suddenly emerge as a captain of industry.

(To Be Continued …)

(So, this is a snippet of one of the works in progress – Sunset and Steel Rails, set in 1885 through the end of the century, where a young woman sets out on a journey west. Previous chapters here, here, and here.)

Chapter 6 – The Escape

“That is … providential,” Sophia whispered, barely a breath as she leaned her head against the back of the tall bedroom chair. The exertion of dressing – then hurriedly undressing to put on a pretense of helpless invalidism in front of Richard – and the stress of maintaining that pretense had exhausted her almost completely. Likely she was not as well-recovered as she thought. When she was done with the breakfast tray, she would walk around the room for a bit – slipper-clad so as not to make any noise – and then lie down for a rest. “I must remember to thank your brother … and make some small reward to him. Any reward within my power to give him is likely to be too little.”

“Ohh, think nothing of it,” Agnes assured her. She regarded Sophia with anxious eyes. “You can eat a bit, Miss Sophia? I know… the bread is a bit burnt, but I scraped off the worst bits. And the eggs are done, right enough. Ye need your strength, ye do. Declan – he has a crochet about being locked in. He does no’ like it for any, after the fire when Dadda was away with the Army an’ Mam was working in the laundry at night … she had locked Declan an’ Siobhan into their room – Siobhan was only a baby, y’see, an’ Declan seven or eight. She wanted to keep them safe, y’see. Ohh, it were dreatful, to hear them tell it now! Declan, he can no’ bear a closed room – he must keep a window open, all but the coldest nights, or he can no’ sleep at a’.” She peered earnestly at Sophia; so worried about the plate prepared for her. Sophia felt obliged to take a bite, and then another, so as to reassure Agnes. It wouldn’t have passed muster at Delmonicos’ – or in the meanest boarding-house in the harbor district by any means – but Sophia found her own lingering sense of hunger, and so it tasted good enough.

“He must get out, y’see,” Agnes continued, speaking softly as she moved around the room, while Sophia ate her breakfast, deftly re-making the bed with clean sheets, and gathering up those few crumpled garments that might benefit from a trip to the laundry. “So – he said. He told me, I would have anither key, to keep w’ me always. He’ll give it to me before he is finished, so he will. An’ as soon as ye can,” Agnes fixed Sophia with a particularly earnest look. “An’ ye can – soon? When Mr. Richard goes out for a long while, an’ ye can walk to Miss Minerva’s house … oh, an’ if the house catches fire… I will so have ye’ out o’ this room …”

“Good,” Sophia took a last mouthful of scrambled egg – a little rubbery and weeping into the slices of toast, but she was indeed hungry, and it took the tasted of molasses thinned with water and vinegar out of her mouth. She did have an appetite, which is how she was certain she was on the mend, physically. “I can’t let my brother send me to Danvers, Agnes … I imagine that the only thing stopping him is that he must think I am still very ill and drugged with Dr. Cotton’s vile potion, although I suppose I could be carried away on a litter. The very first time that he leaves the house for a good length of time … that will be the best chance that I have.”

“Aye,” Agnes bobbed her head in perfect agreement. “An’ I will set aside some of your clothes an’ things – an’ hide them with the dirty things to go to the laundry, so that you will have a bit o’ luggage. I’ll bring it to Miss Vining’s, so that you need not exhaust yourself carrying it, or attract notice.”

“When does my brother next have an engagement away from the house?” Sophia considered the walk to Beacon Hill – not a long way, but through streets that might be busy during the day and dangerous for a woman alone at night.

“Tonight, I think,” Agnes replied. “Although he has not said so to me straight-out. He is thinking of meeting with a friend for supper, so he told me. He has gone out every evening to a chop-house for a meal, but he does no’ stay very long. Perhaps with a lock on your door, he may think he has time for a meal at leisure…”

“Tonight, then,” Sophia agreed. Fury and desperation might have to carry her when will and strength failed. She heard a distant heavy weight on the staircase below. “There he is, come to let you out, Agnes, let me have the pillowcase.” She set the tray aside, and going to her dressing table, tumbled some hastily-selected contents into it. “My little bits of jewelry … my good gloves. The rest are some shifts and petticoats and things. The lace-trimmed shirtwaist Emma gave me for my birthday. I might not think her so dear a friend now – but she does have the most refined taste. There … come and let me out directly that Richard has gone. I shall be ready.”

“Yes, Miss Sophia!” Agnes whispered. “Into the bed w’you, so he will think you are still weak!”

Sophia flung off her wrapper, and rolled herself between the fresh and crisp sheets even as Richard fumbled at the door. She closed her eyes, as if laying in a stupor, listening to Richard chiding Agnes for so neglecting the housekeeping. How hateful – when it was only poor Agnes working all alone, to bring in the coal and wood, and take away the ashes and the chamber-pots, and now to see to the sparse meals as well! Were she Agnes, she would hate Richard with a sullen and abiding hate. She supposed it was only Agnes’ sense of duty and personal fondness for herself which kept the downtrodden little maid-of-all-work in the house. Should Sophia effect her escape tonight, with Agnes’ help, she would encourage the girl to find work elsewhere … yes, certainly – and write up a recommendation for her.

The door to her room closed with a thump, and then a brief metallic rattle, as Richard padlocked it closed. Sophia listened to the voices and footsteps of her brother and Agnes fade, and considered what she must do next: choose and pack those few things which she couldn’t bear to leave behind … and rest. She was more exhausted from her efforts in this morning than she liked to admit, even to herself. She meant only to close her eyes and rest for a few hours, but when next she opened them, the pale golden sunshine of afternoon had painted the pattern of the window-frame on the worn Turkey rug at her bedside. A whisper at the door had roused her – Agnes’ voice.

“Miss Sophia? Are ye awake? I have the key in me hand. Mr. Richard … he will be away at about half-past five. Are ye awake – d’ye hear me, Miss Sophia?”

Sophia threw off the bedclothes laying over her, and scrambled to the door, her heart hammering with apprehension, lest they be overheard. “Yes, Agnes – I am awake. How long is it until then?”

“The clock has just struck the hour of four, Miss Sophia,” Agnes sounded immeasurably reassured. “Be ye dressed and ready … I will come and unlock the door as soon as I have seen Mr. Richard around the corner of Berkeley Street.”

“I will be so, Agnes …” Sophia whispered, almost limp with gratitude and relief. “…and bless you.”

“Och,” Agnes sounded almost embarrassed. “’Tis nothing. Ye’ve been good t’ me, an’ Declan, too … an’ Father Anselm says that one should never stand by an’ see injustice be done.”

“I am grateful – to you and to your Father Ans…” Sophia began, but Agnes cut her off.

“No mind to that, Miss – ‘e’s calling for me, awa’ downstairs. Be ready!”

Heedful of the danger that Richard might still choose to climb the two flights of stairs to assure himself once again of her helpless condition, Sophia put off dressing herself in her best street costume, and instead sorted out what she might take with her, either in her reticule, or in whatever bag that Agnes might bring for the rest of her possessions. She sat on the edge of the bed in her wrapper, regarding the room that she had as her own, the room she had slept in since a child – every object and furnishing dear and familiar; no, she could not take any of the larger things, and in any case they belonged to Richard. She gathered up her ivory and silver hairbrush, the dressing set that it was a part of, several of her favorite books – to include a battered edition of Vanity Fair and a collection of Tennyson poems. No, no more – too many books would make the bag too heavy for Agnes, or for herself. She added a single silver-framed daguerreotype of her parents at the time of their wedding, the best and newest of her dresses … that would have to do. Underneath the wrapper, she had on her cleanest shift, drawers, stockings and petticoat, her corset as tightly-laced as she could draw the strings. The minutes crawled past, as slowly as a crippled beggar working his way down the street with his crutch and tin cup, measured out every fifteen minutes by the chimes of the tall-case clock two floors below. With the windows open to the mild late-spring afternoon, Sophia could hear them clearly.

She used those minutes to think on what she must do, once she achieved the sanctuary of Great-Aunt Minnie’s house. There she would be safe from any effort of Richard’s to pry her out; Great-Aunt Minnie would see to that, with her many friends – some of them in high places indeed. The old lady had campaigned fearlessly for abolition, and for the rights of women – and if there was a cause she would champion to her last breath, the freedom and well-being of her dear brother’s grandchild would be chief among them. Until Minnie brought her legal weaponry to bear, Sophia might yet be as much a prisoner in the old Vining mansion as she was in her brother’s.

“I won’t mind in the least,” Sophia said aloud, more to hear a voice in the room. She had always been fond of Great-Aunt Minnie’s tall old-fashioned house, with the narrow garden and the stables – presently disused for anything save dusty piles of crates and trunks, for the Vinings had never thrown or given away anything. When she was a child, she had loved exploring the old house and listening to Great-Aunt Minnie’s stories of the family. Her own mother had been born in the sunniest and best-fitted of the upstairs rooms – the same that her Grandfather Horace had died in, for he was a consumptive and came back to his childhood home at the last. “There is so much that I would ask of her,” Sophia said again, aloud. “Of my father. He was very brave, so Mama always said. And of Grandfather – he traveled, so Mama told me. Traveled far, because of his bad health; Mama barely knew him at all, when she was a child or near to grown. Aunt Minnie would know of his adventures – he was her brother, after all …”

Agreeably lost in these considerations – which passed the time, no doubt about it – Sophia was brought abruptly out of them by a quiet knock on her door, and the sound of someone fumbling with the padlock upon it.

“Miss Sophia?” Agnes called. “Are ye awake? Mr. Richard has gone from the house, and is away down the street – he will be away to his supper. Are ye ready no’?”

“I am,” Sophia replied. She stood up as Agnes came through the door, with a limp and empty carpet bag in hand. “Let me put on my dress, my hat and mantel – oh, take this, Agnes! Three minutes, and I will be!”

Or … a half a chapter, from the novel that I am writing which includes an account of the adventures of an early Harvey Girl – working title being Sunset and Steel Rails. Earlier chapters posted here, here, and here. But for now …

Chapter 4 – A Prisoner’s Escape

Sophia returned by fits and starts to the painful and pain-filled world of the living. She had no notion of how long it had been since Richard beat her senseless, or even where she lay … although it seemed to be in a comfortable bed. The first time she was even slightly aware, her head swam with pain, to the point where she was afraid she would vomit, if she did not hold very, very still. Somewhere over her head, she heard Great-Aunt Minnie’s voice – she was certain that she did – and someone held her hand.
I must have escaped after all, Sophia thought, and with so deep a relief at such a miraculous deliverance that she gratefully fell back into the black darkness of not-knowing. She was safe with Great-Aunt Minnie … and that was all she cared to know. The next time she came up from the dark, she heard Great-Aunt Minnie and Phelpsie, too … but at a somewhat of a distance, murmuring together. Still, she was reassured yet again … wait, yet – was that Agnes? What was she doing at Great-Aunt Minnie’s? Could Agnes have assisted, conveyed her somehow to safety in the old Vining mansion on Beacon Hill? That must be so indeed, and Sophia took grateful refuge in darkness once again.
In the next essay into communication with the living world, Sophia was actually able to open her eyes. It took some effort, for she was still wracked with pain, in her head and the rest of her body. But she felt somewhat less inclined to vomit, even if her throat was dry and sore, and her mouth tasted if she had bit into something particularly vile. She struggled to interpret where she was, a room lost in the dimness, since it was lit by a single spirit-lamp. It was also a familiar room, familiar in an awful way – for it was her own bedroom in the Brewer mansion; Sophia could have wept in frustration and terror, but that she was so tired. She must have made some slight sound, for someone came rustling around the foot of the bed in which she lay; Great-Aunt Minnie. This Sophia knew from the faint odor of asafetida and lavender which she had associated from earliest childhood with Great-Aunt Minnie.
“Auntie?” she croaked, hardly knowing if she had formed the words aright … but yes, that was Great-Aunt Minnie bending over her, taking her own slack hand in hers. “Auntie … where am I?”
“In your own bed, my dear,” Aunt Minnie replied. Moved from a spirit of deep emotion which Sophia had never associated with her great-aunt, Minnie grasped her own hand and gently stroked her forehead. “Sophia, my dearest child … why ever did you do it? What dreadful impulse moved you to commit such an awful act?”
“Do what?” Still fogged, under whatever potion had been administered to her, Sophia regarded her dear great-aunt. “What did I do?”
“You took a full draught of opium, and flung yourself down the staircase,” Great-aunt Sophie answered. “Suicide is a sin, child – a dreadful, mortal sin. We knew that you were in despair over Mr. Armitage, no matter how bravely and how often you denied it…”
“I didn’t!” Sophia protested in utter horror and indignation – that someone would think so of her! “I cared nothing for Mr. Armitage, save as a friend of old…I would never …” She regarded her aunt – that sensible, practical Aunt Minnie would credit this! But the old woman was already shaking her head.
“Dear child, we came into the house just as Richard found you, lying at the foot of the stairs. We heard a dreadful sort of thumping noise, and Richard shouting your name – Phelpsie and I let ourselves in, and there you were, all crumpled at the foot of the stairs. Your little Agnes found the bottle halfway up the second floor stairs … an empty bottle of syrup of opium – I suppose it had been prescribed for dear Annabelle in her final days… Dr. Cotton knew at once that he must wash out your stomach in order to save your life … it was horrific, Sophia. I have not observed a scene of such dreadful gore since I volunteered as a hospital nurse in the late War!”
“But I didn’t drink anything of the sort, Auntie!” Sophia protested. The waves of darkness threatened to overtake her again. She must make it plain to Aunt Minnie, she must. “Not willingly … he forced it down my throat …” Those words had no effect on Aunt Minnie, who patted her hand, and smoothed the covers over her. “You are over-tired, child, and you are not yourself…”
“Richard forced me to drink it,” Sophia whispered, with the last of her strength and conscious thought, but Great-Aunt Minnie had already gone from the bedside, leaving the faint and soothing scent of asafetida and lavender. With the last awareness in her, she thought she heard Minnie open the door and say, “Agnes – she was just awake, very briefly … mind you go tell Richard.”
There was a disputatious exchange of whispers at the door, which she could not quite hear, until Great-Aunt Minnie’s was raised in indignation.
“… that is a vile accusation, my girl! And one without any foundation! He is her brother!”
No, Sophia was still in Hell. And everyone she loved and trusted was conspiring to put and keep her there. Best for her to be unaware, blissfully drink the potion and be out of this world of cruelties, until she was stronger, and could think of a means of escape. The grief of betrayal, by all whom she had thought to love her, or at least hold her in affection was more than she could endure for the moment. Richard, Great-aunt Minnie, Lucius Armitage, Emma Chase … everyone. But she would escape. A single tiny flame of defiance; Sophia took that with her into the dark of unknowing.

When she came up from it once again – she still was unmistakably lying in her own bed. There was a light beyond her eyelids, which she kept closed as long as possible. There was someone moving about the room … by the rustle of skirts, another woman.
“Can ye hear me, Miss?” Agnes’s voice in a surreptitious whisper. “Open your eyes, if ye can … I’ve something t’say to ye.”
“Don’t upbraid me, Agnes. I can’t bear it…” Sophia’s eyes leaked tears … oh, that she was crying like a child! Such humiliation was unbearable. Now Agnes would tell her that suicide was sinful, too – and that she was damned to the fires of Hell.
“Why should I?” Agnes forgot to whisper. “I know that the Master, he was putting summat in that tonic of yours. I saw him … the very day that the doctor’s boy delivered those bottles the second time. I am certain he did so, ever since it was first sent for ye. But if he makes ye drink it again … do not fear to do so, since I have poured out ivery drop in ivery bottle, and filled them again w’ molasses and water, to look like what that Dr. Cotton sent.” Agnes’ voice lowered. She settled herself into the chair at Sophia’s bedside, and took her hand in her own tiny, work-worn one. “Ye not fear to drink it. Make a pretense. Miss Sophia … lest he lock you in the strong-room again. I knew he did it to ye – the whole household knew – me, and Mrs. Garrett, an’ Declan, too – for I told him. That’s why Miss Phoebe an’ the lads went to stay with her mither. She did not care to know what was happenin’ to ye.”
“She did not care to prevent it,” Sophia replied. Yes, she thought Fee was a desperately silly woman – but for all these years she had been Fee’s sister-in-law, her housekeeper and governess to her children. No, now she owed no more loyalty to Fee than Fee did – by this showing – to her.
“I have to get away, Agnes,” Sophia’s eyes overflowed again, running back into her hair and dampening the pillow which lay underneath her head. “I did not throw myself down the stairs, either. My brother beat me, most savagely … and then he forced me to drink that dose. But no one believes me, not even my great-aunt. My brother has been telling her …”
“I know what he has been telling poor Miss Vining,” Agnes’ voice dropped again. “Poor lady – she an’ Miss Phelps, they were there, y’see. Miss Phelps nearly swooned on th’ doorstep, an’ Miss Vining, she turned as white as a linen sheet. She thought ye were dyin’ ye see, if not dead already. Mrs. Garrett an’ meself, we came from the kitchen when we heard the shoutin’ … Mr. Richard carried you upstairs, and then – he went himself for Dr. Cotton; M’self an’ Mrs. Garrett an’ Miss Vining, we took off your things … Oh, Miss Sophia, you are all covered w’ blood and bruises. Black and blue fr’ head to toe … it must hurt dreadful … and Mrs. Garrett said …” Agnes hesitated, her pleasant childish face contorted with puzzlement.
“It does,” Sophia replied in a whisper. She did hurt, all over – even in places where she had never thought that one could feel pain. Her heart within her suddenly chilled – that was Richard’s voice at some distance in the house – on the stairs by the sound of it, with Great-aunt Minnie, sounding like a furious bird, chirping at a marauding cat. “Agnes … I must escape from here. You are the only one in the household who believes me, or has witnessed what my brother has tried to do…”
“Aye, ye must,” Agnes bobbed her head in solemn acknowledgement. “There was a muddle o’ blood left on the carpet in the study, for a’ that Mr. Richard tried to sponge it away hisself … but it is he who pays m’ wages, Miss Sophia. An’ I do fear him, for he …” and poor terrified Agnes hurriedly crossed herself in the Papist fashion. The Irish in her voice became ever more marked, as Richard’s heavy tread on the stair and landing became unmistakable. “He has an evil spirit within him, ma’am. ‘Tis plain to see, for those that have eyes; for a’ his foine clothes an’ manner, the de’il has possessed him… if he could hurt ye in the way he has, what could he ha’ done to me…”
“Then you must leave, if you think yourself in danger from my brother,” Sophia whispered, although knowing that this would leave her alone in the house. Agnes was little more than a child, a servant girl of the lowest class in Boston. She was altogether right to fear Richard Brewer, with his friends among the rich and powerful. But Agnes was already shaking her head,
“Nay – for how could I live w’ meself, knowing you were alone …”
The door to Sophia’s room opened. Sophia hastily closed her eyes, as Agnes rose from the chair, letting Sophia’s had fall from hers as if lifeless; that was Richard’s irritable voice, speaking over his shoulder – again to Aunt Minnie.
“… Cotton says that she is on the mend. The girl can look after her, better than you and that fussy old spinster companion of yours. Get back to your own household and cease disrupting mine.”
“Mrs. Garrett has given her notice!” That was Great-Aunt Minnie, distant but no less indignant, and Sophia’s blood ran suddenly cold. “Who will do the cooking, prepare the meals, then, if Phelpsie and I leave?” Now she wished that she were still so ill that she could sink down into that blissful dark unknowing again. She closed her eyes and made a pretense, all the same, willing her muscles to go limp and and without response. Mrs. Garrett, gone from the Brewer household? She had only been their cook for the last few years, a slatternly widow and not a very good cook, but cheerful, willing and agreeable to working very hard for a relatively parsimonious wage, for which Sophia had often thought that the Brewer household should consider extremely themselves fortunate.
“The agency has sent around a list of likely candidates,” Richard’s voice was bored, dismissive. “In the mean time, Agnes will cook such invalid fare as required – you will, Agnes, won’t you? For myself, I’ll dine at the nearest chophouse. Mrs. Brewer shall conduct interviews with them, upon her return. You presume too much on my good-will, Aunt Minnie. I insist on being allowed to conduct the affairs of my own household as I see fit … and that includes the welfare of my little sister. Your presence is no longer required, or welcomed … yours and that abominably moronic leech of a companion.” The door thudded closed. With her eyes closed, Sophia guessed that Great Aunt Minnie was on the other side of it.
Her brother was within the room – and the thought of his maniacal countenance in her last moments of consciousness rendered her paralyzed with horror. Desperately, she wished that the darkness take her down into unknowingness again.

Weirdly, I am being inspired by the newest idea for a book – the story of the Fred Harvey hospitality empire, which came about in those years when the Wild West was passing from the real world into legend. I’m posting about half a chapter here, as I write them. As soon as I get a little farther on some other book projects, I’ll write and post some more of The Golden Road. But for now – I’m bubbling over with ideas for character and plot. I’ve always done best, working on two books at a time… Previously posted half-chapters to Sunset and Steel Rails are here, and here…

Chapter 3 – Potions and Portents

It was not – as she half-feared it would be – Richard who came to her room door, and tapped on it, hesitantly requesting admittance. It was Phoebe, tearful and apologetic. Sophia wondered, somewhat cynically, how much of that was due to Phoebe having to take charge of her sons herself, and to bear the brunt of Richard’s cold displeasure at the workings of the household not going quite as smoothly as he had become accustomed in the last few years.
“Richard is quite unhappy,” Fee announced, as she closed the door behind her. She shuffled into the room, the weight of the child within her body rendering her ungainly. She settled her awkward self into the bedside chair, and reached for Sophia’s hand. “He … he is so very fond of you, dear. We all are … and so worried about your condition.” Sophia bit back her initial waspish response – I had no condition until everyone began insisting that I had one! Instead, she answered,
“Fee, I am perfectly fit. It is only that everyone insists that I am not, which puts me out of all good temper. I was fond of Lucius Armitage – I do not think I really loved him to any great degree, although I believe I might have come to love him, in time. Just as you came to love Richard …”
Now, that was a startling thing, the fleeting expression in Fee’s eyes and countenance – was that … could it be stark terror? Again, that cold trickle of fear ran down Sophia’s spine. She looked at Fee – this time with cold analysis. Sophia had been a girl of ten years when Richard married his bride; all white dress and misty veil, on her father’s arm, advancing in stately tread down the aisle of the ancient Christ Church. Sophia had been one of her attendants, and not particularly happy about it, because this was Richard! Fee was, as the ten-year-old Sophia saw it – an interloper: A silly and unwelcome trespasser on a happy family; Mama, Richard and herself, living a contented life in the Brewer mansion. A ten-year-old’s impatience, and a touch of jealousy had given away to … well, still impatience, mixed with exasperation, and to this present day, with a heavier helping of exasperation and even a degree of contempt. Recalling how Richard seemed most cold and even horrible just now, Sophia wondered if she had misjudged Fee all these years. What would Fee have seen, be subjected to, in the privacy of a marital relationship? And what was Richard? Loving husband and brother, responsible head of a family and fortune … or something else? Sophia shook off the thought, although the question continued to haunt.
“Of course – he is a most loving husband and brother,” Fee insisted, breathlessly. “How could I not? Richard, my dear husband, he is unwearied in his care and concern for us all …”
“As he was from the day that Papa fell,” Sophia said. Truly, she wished that she could recall Papa – see him in flesh and life. Instead, all she had was an image from the daguerreotype that was always at Mama’s bedside; a handsome man in a dark Union uniform, one hand thrust into the front of his coat, the other resting on the sword at his side. Fee continued, “I know that you are being brave and very stoic about … Mr. Armitage and everything … but we cannot help but see that you are unhappy, and short of temper. And we think that you might benefit from a period of quiet and rest … in the countryside, under Dr. Cotton’s care…”
“I do not care for Dr. Cotton,” Sophia answered, with an edge in her voice that she didn’t bother to hide. “Nor his potions, or his advice, nor any else of his recommendations. I was perfectly content – a little disappointed in Lucius, for I thought he might have had enough character and spine in him to defy his father … this is the 19th century, Fee – what business do fathers have in absolutely forbidding a marriage when everything to do with those promised to each other has otherwise met with approval? Lucius’ father now finds me an abhorrent connection to his family merely because of those losses sustained in the failure of the Marine Bank! Tell me, Fee – does money now rule all? Over character, affection and long-established connection?”
Phoebe regarded Sophia with bafflement in her eyes – large, cow-like eyes, Sophia thought, viciously – and every bit as stupid as a cow which her sister-in-law resembled. “I suppose it does,” Phoebe admitted, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, and Sophia could not conceal her contempt.
“You had a generous dowry settled upon you when you married Richard … a very enormous dowry, indeed. Was it the dowry which appealed most to my brother, or the charms of your own person and intellect?”
Phoebe colored as red as if she had been slapped, and tears started in her eyes. She sprang up from the chair, crying, “So what if there was! Richard does so love me, and we were happily wed – and you have always been cruel and sarcastic – anything but a true sister, for all that I have tried to be kind and affectionate …”
“Fee, I didn’t mean …” Sophia levered herself from the bed by her elbow, but was struck with a sudden fit of dizziness as she did so, and by the time she had pulled the right words of apology out of her mind, Phoebe had turned around at the doorway and launched her parting remark.
“Lucius Armitage has decided to marry after all – to your friend, Miss Chase! I imagine generous dowries do have some recommendation, after all!” Then Fee slammed the door behind her and it was too late. Sophia lay back down on the coverlet, staring up at the ceiling of her room. This had the effect of a bodily blow – that Lucius would have chosen Emma Chase, and within weeks of breaking their engagement. Truth to tell, she was more disappointed in Emma than she was in Lucius Armitage. Lucius was only a poor silly boy-man, still commanded by his irascible father … but Emma was her bosom-friend. She had not expected anything such as this. Was Emma so desperate for suitors, so eager for marriage at any cost? It appeared so.
The following afternoon was Pheobe’s ‘at home’ – the day when she and Sophia put on their afternoon best and received calls from friends and acquaintances. Sophia had always rather looked forward to their ‘at home’ afternoons; a few brief hours not exhaustingly engaged in housekeeping and errands, when she could sit in the parlor with her needlework and converse with those friends and kin whose company she enjoyed.
Aunt Minnie and Phelpsie appeared almost at once, shown into the parlor by Agnes.
“My dear child – have you heard? Lucius Armitage …”
“I have,” Sophia answered, curt and cold. “Fee told me last night.” She darted a sideways look at her sister-in-law, who appeared to have completely forgotten how bitter their exchange the previous evening had been. “It matters only a little to me, Aunt Minnie. They are both my friends and I wish them well …”
Great-aunt Minnie patted Sophia’s hands, visibly relieved. “None the less … water under the bridge, my dear, water under the bridge. You have been spared what I would say is a disappointment inevitable, given his weak and easily-influenced character. And our holiday in Newport … that will be a welcome change of scenery, my dear. Would you not agree?”
“I would … and with my whole heart,” Sophia answered. “Auntie … would you take it amiss … would it inconvenience you, if I were to come and stay with you and Phelpsie awhile? Even before then? My birthday is in two weeks … and I think that I would like to make some decisions for myself, as I will then be of age.”
“But … what would we do without you?” Fee interjected. “This is your home, Sophie, why would you …”
“No, this house is yours,” Sophia returned, not without a little malice. “And it should be your duty and pleasure to have the ordering and management of it, as my brothers’ wife. Being of age, and a confirmed spinster – why should I not set the direction of my own life and pleasures?”
“But that is … unseemly!” Fee bleated, and Great-Aunt Minnie snorted.
“Unseemly fiddlesticks, my girl. I am not keeping a low boarding-house, and there comes a time when a woman might be expected to know her own mind and desires. Sophia shall come and live with me as she pleases, being of age and there’s an end to all discussion.”
“Richard won’t like that,” Phoebe’s voice quavered. “He will be angry.”
“The venting of splenetic energy will be good for him,” Great-Aunt Minnie retorted, crisply. Sophia marveled at how little the thought of Richard’s anger dismayed Great-Aunt Minnie, even as it cowed Fee. Well, she thought, as she bent to her embroidery – Richard’s anger wouldn’t cow her either. She would go and live in the old Vining mansion, cramped and dark and old-fashioned as it was, and now in a neighborhood definitely decayed, and help Phelpsie look after Minnie, and listen to her great-aunt’s reminiscences about the old days, about Minnie’s brothers, and the various dramatic or mundane adventures of the various ancestors … which surely would prove more amusing than everyone groaning on at her about how badly she must feel about her broken engagement.
These pleasant thoughts were interrupted by Agnes, in the doorway with the silver card tray in her hand.
“Oh, Marm,” she said, her voice barely above a tremulous whisper. “’Tis Mrs. and Miss Chase presenting their cards …”
“The nerve!” Great-Aunt Minnie snapped and Sophia set her embroidery aside.
“I don’t care for what the rest of you do, but I am not at home for Miss Chase at this moment. Tell her,” and Sophie took a little enjoyment in saying so, since it was only what everyone had been telling her for weeks, “That I am indisposed. I shall be upstairs in my room … Agnes, if Mrs. Brewer decides to receive their cards, wait a little, until I have gone up the stairs, before you admit the Chase ladies.”
“Yes, Marm,” Agnes breathed. Sophia had no doubt that Agnes would be vociferously in sympathy with her, when next the two of them were folding laundry. As she reached the second landing, she heard the front door open and close, and Emma’s familiar voice exclaiming,
“Oh, what a shame! We had sworn to be bridesmaids to each other, for the first to marry…”
Sophia bit her tongue and hurried up the next flight of stairs to the refuge of her own room. How long would these humiliations be delivered upon her, as long as she lived in her brother’s household?