29. March 2015 · Comments Off on The Curious Case of Ma and Pa · Categories: Old West
Miriam A. "Ma" Ferguson

Miriam A. “Ma” Ferguson

Exactly a hundred years ago, an enterprising gentleman named James Edward Ferguson took office as the Governor of Texas. He was of a generation born long enough after the conclusion of the Civil War that hardships associated with that war had faded somewhat. The half-century long conflict with raiding Comanche and Kiowa war-bands was brought to a conclusion around the time of his birth, but he was still young enough to have racketed around the Wild West as it existed for the remainder of the century, variously employed in a mine, a factory making barbed wire, a wheat farm and a vineyard. Having gotten all that out of his system, he returned to Bell County, Texas, studied law, was admitted to the bar, and married the daughter of a neighbor, Miriam Amanda Wallace. Miriam Amanda was then almost 25, and had been to college. James Ferguson and his wife settled down to a life of quiet prosperity in Belton, Texas. There he founded a bank and dabbled in politics as a campaign manager, before running for and winning the office of governor in 1914 – as a Democrat, which was expected at the time and in that place – and as an anti-prohibitionist, which perhaps was not. Two years later, having not done anything in office which could be held against him, James Ferguson was re-elected … and almost immediately walked into a buzz-saw. A quarrel over appropriations for the University of Texas system and a political rival for the office of governor – ensconced among the facility as the newly-anointed head of a newly-established school of journalism – eventually blew up into such a huge ruckus that James Ferguson was impeached, with the result that he could not hold public office in Texas again – at least not under his own name.

With the hindsight of extreme cynicism regarding the press when dealing in personalities and matters political, one can wonder how much of the ruckus concerned his actual conduct in office, and how much was created by the state press. His erstwhile rival owned one, had connections with others, and had the backing of the intellectual elite of Texas as it was then. He was also generally anti-Prohibition, which lead to dark whispers that he was in the pockets of the brewing industry. Rather than continue being politically active as a ‘behind the scenes fixer’ James Edward Ferguson came up with a brilliant solution: put his wife out there as a gubernatorial candidate in 1924. Yes, Miriam Amanda Wallace Ferguson, likely rather brainy (being that she had married rather later than one might have expected of a woman of that time, and indulged in education well beyond high school) but in personality rather retiring, hit the campaign hustings with her loyal hubby ever at her side. Her campaign slogan was “Two Governors for the Price of One,” or alternately “Me for Ma, and I ain’t got a durn thing against Pa,” Her husband put on the folksy touch of calling her “Ma” and himself “Pa” – as he was ever a strong advocate of rural farmers and would have their undying support for most of the rest of their joint careers. Miriam Ferguson asked for the votes – and of women especially – as a reaffirmation and support of her husband.
And she was elected, likely to the horror and consternation of her husband’s political foes. She was the first elected female governor of Texas and the second elected female governor in the nation – although there is not much contention that “Pa” Ferguson was the real power behind the chair, as it were. She ran for office again in 1932 – winning a second term. Although she and “Pa” campaigned as folksy, down-to-earth populists, they were in no sense ‘rubes’; teetotalers both, they fiercely opposed Prohibition. “Ma” Ferguson was also generous with the pardoning authority of her office; over the course of two terms, she exercised it some 4,000 times – mostly, it should be noted – for violating various prohibition laws. Rumors did persist, then and rewards that many such pardons were in exchange for cash paid to the governor’s husband. One rather amusing but apocryphal tale had it that a man began walking through a door at the same time as Mrs. Ferguson: “Oh, pardon me,” he said, as the manners of the time required, and Mrs. Ferguson answered, “Sure, come on in – it’ll only take a minute or two to do the paper-work.” She has also (along with a great many other personalities held by their so-called betters to be ignorant and backward) credited with the remark to the effect that if English was good enough for Jesus Christ it ought to be good enough for the children of Texas.
And the Ferguson team also came out against the Klu Klux Klan, then very much a powerful force in the rural South and Midwest. In Texas, the Klan’s activities were not so much racism, as it was nativist and wedded to a certain kind of moral authoritarianism, prone to punishing people suspected of adultery, gambling, sexual transgressions, bootlegging and speaking German in public. This tended to excite disapproval among thoughtful citizens who professed to uphold the rule of law. While the Klan could and did control certain elections, especially at the local level – there were organizations just as vehemently opposed to their activities; various influential urban newspapers such as the Houston Chronicle, the Chambers of Commerce, the Masons, the State Bar Association, and a number of citizen’s organizations. As part of her first campaign, Ma Ferguson promised an anti-mask law, targeting the Klan, making it illegal for any so-called secret society to allow members to appear masked or disguised in public. KKK membership in Texas dropped precipitously and continued to drop; whether Team Ferguson’s activities had anything to do with it, or they were shrewd and farsighted enough to see the trend and get aboard is a matter of contention for specialist historians. Still – for a couple who were and probably are still dismissed as a pair of rubes, they chose to oppose one of the stupidest but most well-meant popular social efforts of the early 20th century, and one of stupidest and most brutal organizations as well.

22. March 2015 · Comments Off on Another Chapter – Sunset and Steel Rails · Categories: Chapters From the Latest Book

Sunset and Steel Rails Mockup Cover Pics with titles(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!”

We did have fun at the Patrick Heath Public Library in Boerne last Saturday – although, alas, I don’t think we sold many books, those of us who were in the community room. The new library building is altogether splendid, and with a lovely landscaped area in back and to one side, and with a large open space in front that may eventually become a sort of overflow adjuct to historic Town Square. If we had been in the old library building, which was in one of the old buildings edging Town Square, we might have had more foot-traffic from Boerne’s Market Days … but then there wasn’t room for anything like that in the old building, and as the saying goes, if my aunt had balls she’d be my uncle. But still – I was at a table across from Jeff Morgenthaler, who does local history non-fic, and whom I have known about for years: the owners at Berkman Books in Fredericksburg now and again ventured that they would love to host a joint event for the two of us, as he did in non-fic what I did as a ripping good yarn in the Adelsverein Trilogy. The book of his which I always recommend to readers is  The German Settlement of the Texas Hill Country, for a good and readable overview – of exactly what the title says – and an encyclopedic bibliography, for those who want more, more, more.

Next table to us was Jack Lyndon Thomas – a Vietnam veteran with several novels focusing on that war – among them one with the intriguing title The Monsoon Killed the Tiger. He hit it off with my daughter, both being veterans of wars four decades apart. Princess Piglet Really, though – I think the biggest hit of the whole book event was a kid’s book author, Tina Mollie Fisher – her book is called Pig’s Big Adventure … and she brought a tiny, very young piglet as part of her table … well, table and enclosure display. The piglet’s name was Princess, but I wouldn’t have been able to resist naming it Bacobit, or Wilburina.  I can see why people get them as pets, and then are totally appalled when they grow to three hundred pounds or so. And that was my Saturday ….

We will do it all again next year – it’s only about the second time for this book event, and sometimes these things take a while for word to get around. Even without a pig ….

10. March 2015 · Comments Off on Spring Forward · Categories: Domestic
Apple blossom

Apple blossom

That time of year again – the last week before the recorded date of ‘last frost’ in this part of Texas. I suppose that in some year or other there was a spasm of frost after March 15th – this is Texas, after all, where if you don’t care for the weather at any particular moment, just wait for five minutes. But March 15th is the traditional ‘ladies and gentlemen, start your garden engines’ moment. We actually started last weekend, moving out the tender plants which had been sheltered on the back porch, protected by sheets of plastic hung from three sides to make a sort of temporary if terribly cramped greenhouse. It has been pouring, drizzling, misting and oozing rain off and on for the past week, and … well, really, the rainwater is good for plants, and they might as well get all the good out of it.

The Gargoyle on the Shed Roof

The Gargoyle on the Shed Roof

So it begins – another year of attempting to have regular backyard supply of fresh vegetables, in a variety of raised beds, pots large and small, and hanging patented tomato planters. Last year saw us add three sapling fruit trees – apple, plum and peach, along the back fence, where they all graciously consented to leaf out, and to produce blooms in the last couple of days. This week, we added another apple tree – it seems that it is necessary for the purposes of cross-pollination. Blondie’s Montero awaiting a new engine, it was necessary to bring it home in my Accura – and not a problem at all. I opened the sun roof, and Blondie lowered it in, and we drove home with the apple tree’s upper branches waving proudly in the breeze. We planted it today, and I took down the last of the sheltering plastic sheets and swept out the back porch. This seems like the first sunny, mild day in weeks, so we did take a few minutes to sit down and relish it all. Tomorrow – top up the big raised bed with garden soil and plant potatoes. Last year we had a lovely crop of them; not as many as we had expected, but oh, were they delicious – and smooth, like vegetable velvet.

The little ducks - in the birdbath

The little ducks – in the birdbath

We also installed a number of small items which came from Mom and Dad’s place – things which had no particular value, particularly – so likely they would have been sold at a yard sale for a buck or two, or put into the trash by new owners cleaning up. A good few of them had survived the fire in 2003 which destroyed the house and garage, but left the garden relatively unscathed. There was a cast cement gargoyle, a hanging glazed ceramic bird-bath, a pair of cast-resin ducklings, a wind-chime, a glazed spatter-ware jug and some other oddments. One of them was the Moche-style face jug I made in the sixth grade, which always amused Mom enormously as it so looked like Grandpa Al. Blondie brought all these oddments back from California with her, and we scattered them about the garden in appropriate places.

The Moche-style Grandpa Al pot

The Moche-style Grandpa Al pot

The plants which did survive outside on their own did so in style; especially the one artichoke that I moved from a raised bed into a pot and thereafter ignored for the remainder of the year. I so love artichokes, and the ones in the store are usually as expensive as they are tasteless and tough. Here’s hoping for some likely blooms from it this year, and may the other two from Rainbow Gardens thrive just as well.

We might also have a respite from field rats, raiding the almost-ripe tomatoes and eating leaves off the pepper plants. We have detected a semi-feral ginger cat, lurking meaningfully in our yard, who might have set up occasional housekeeping underneath the shed. Blondie has nicknamed the cat Smeagol; if it turns out that he is a mighty hunter before the Lord, a dish of kibble now and again will so be coming his way.

The patent tomato trees

The patent tomato trees

08. March 2015 · Comments Off on From the Newest Project! A Chapter! · Categories: Chapters From the Latest Book

Sunset and Steel Rails Mockup Cover Pics with titlesOr … 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.