The Last Days of Dogtown Page 26

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  buried. Easter was ready to pay for a coffin, too, but Judy told her that Africans had a horror of being buried in a box.

  Instead, she volunteered a winding sheet: a fine damask tablecloth from Martha Cook’s trousseau, which had never been used and would never be missed.

  “She looks like a lily before it opens up,” Judy whispered as they wrapped her neat and tight.

  “I hope this is what she’d have wanted,” said Easter, sadly, for she had no idea.

  The day of the burial was sunny and windless and the sea was brilliant in tribute. But only Easter was there to bear witness.

  Judy Rhines was sick with the grippe. Oliver would have been there to provide Easter an arm to lean on, but Everett was in Boston that day, which meant he was needed in the store. Polly had a wedding dress to finish and the baby to nurse. No one remembered to send for Cornelius.

  Easter met the gravediggers at the workhouse, where they rolled the mummylike corpse onto a plank.

  “Wasn’t much left to her, was there,” said one of the men.

  “She wasted away that last month,” Easter said.

  They carried Ruth, slow and solemn, to the graveside and laid her gently in the hole. Easter watched them fill it in, her nose red as a hothouse poppy. When they finished, the men stood on either side of her, shovels in hand, waiting.

  “I don’t know what to say,” Easter said.

  “Rest in peace?”

  “I hope so,” she sighed. “I should have brought a Bible or a stone, or something.”

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  “Come on, old gal,” said one of the men, replacing his cap and pulling her arm through his. “We’re going to stand you for a toddy.”

  Easter recounted all of this to Judy Rhines, who’d never seen her friend so downcast. “We went back to the tavern and I said, ‘Everyone raise a glass to the memory of—’ and damn me if I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know if I should call her John Woodman or Black Ruth. I just couldn’t stand for anyone to laugh at her.” Easter’s eyes brimmed over and she shook her head. “It wasn’t good, Judy Rhines. I tell you, it was the saddest send-off ever.”

  “You were good to her,” Judy insisted.

  “I didn’t do much.”

  “She wasn’t alone at the end. You were a good friend and Ruth knew it, too. I’m certain of that.”

  “Maybe,” said Easter, softly. “I suppose.”

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  A Last Wish

  The months following Ruth’s death were dry and

  gray, a perpetual twilight unbroken by snow or

  sun, and a great sadness settled in Cornelius. His head ached. He found it difficult to wake and slept the morning away, passing what was left of the short, cold days making brooms and then whittling scraps of wood into blocks like the ones he’d once seen the Younger boys play with. He did not go into town.

  His only company was the tan dog. Though she spent most of her day outdoors and out of sight, she returned in the evening to eat what he fed her, and curl up near his feet.

  Cornelius never spoke to the dog, mortified by the depth of his gratitude for her presence.

  After three months without seeing him, Oliver decided he had to find out if Cornelius was dead or alive, and he left the shop early one afternoon to walk into Dogtown.

  “I wondered how you were getting on without your tea,” Oliver said, only partly cheered to discover his worst fears unmet. The smell of wet dog and unwashed

  clothes hung in the air. Wood shavings littered the floor of Judy’s once spotless floor, scattered plates with dried bits of food lay about, and a mound of peat crumbled by the hearth.

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  Cornelius shrugged and poked at the fire. He was thinner and grayer than the last time Oliver had seen him.

  There was a decided stoop to his shoulders and something else was amiss, too, though he couldn’t quite put his hand on it. “I worry about you, old man,” he said, gently.

  “No need,” Cornelius said, feeling that he’d been scolded.

  “Polly sends her good wishes,” he lied, for she had no idea that he’d come. “And the boys, too. Nathaniel is the best student at mathematics. Mrs. Hammond says it’s a wonder the way he adds and figures. I put that to your teaching him. Remember?”

  Cornelius said nothing.

  “Maybe you don’t recall. While you were laid up, you said the numbers to him, and it seems like he picked ’em up.

  David has started at the school, too. And I don’t know if you’ve seen Isaac yet, the baby. He’s a redhead, of all things, but Polly says her granddad had that coloring.”

  Cornelius did not turn to face Oliver, who chatted on in the manner of an old friend. He carried on for as long as he could but finally stopped. Getting no response or acknowledgment, he gave up. “Well, I’ll be going. You will come down to the shop with some mallows, won’t you? I’ve got ladies clamoring for mallows already,” he said, and picking up one of the blocks piled on the table, added,

  “I might be able to sell these for you, too.” He ran a finger over the carved images of dogs and birds. “Would it be all right if I take one for Isaac?”

  Cornelius nodded.

  “I’ll be going then,” said Oliver and put his hand out, but Cornelius was already holding the door for him.

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  Oliver put his collar up and decided not to tell Polly that he’d been there. She would be hurt if he told her about Cornelius’s rudeness, and indeed, he had to admit to feeling the sting of it, himself. After walking all the way up that miserable road just to pay a call, Cornelius hadn’t even asked him to sit down.

  Everett and Polly often teased Oliver of being an easy mark for anyone with a hard-luck story, and where Cornelius was concerned, he knew it was true. The African was a touchstone for Oliver’s Dogtown days, and Oliver had longed to step in and help Cornelius, as no one had helped him. He’d given Cornelius more than a fair bargain in the store, but since those few weeks when he and Polly had cared for him after he’d hurt his leg, Oliver had found no way to do the man a good turn.

  As he made his way home, Oliver pulled the wooden block out of his pocket and decided it was as handsome as any he’d ever seen. He’d go back the following week, he decided, and buy the rest of them, certain he could sell them to the summer trade.

  And he’d bring a spring tonic, too. What Cornelius needed was a good strong purge. This plan made Oliver feel better about the whole visit. For a moment, he thought of telling Judy Rhines about Cornelius’s sad state, and of his plan to help. But of course he would not speak of it to her.

  It would embarrass both of them, especially now that she had become such a lady.

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  Since Martha Cook’s death, Judy had become “Mistress Rhines” in town, greeted with deference by the shopkeepers and with polite smiles by the neighboring matrons. She wore soft leather slippers outdoors as well as inside and favored lace collars when she attended the Sunday service at First Parish, where Reverend Hildreth’s sermons now extolled the importance of good works. She had Cape Ann’s best library at her disposal, and she savored its riches under a satin coverlet in what had once been the best guest room, but was now her bedchamber.

  She bought herself oranges whenever she wished. She felt like a princess.

  Martha Cook used to assure her that, after her death, the Judge would turn her gratitude into a material reward, but
Judy had harbored few expectations of a man she so thoroughly detested. As Martha weakened, Judy had tried to resign herself to a life of service as a nurse or companion in some lesser home where she would be treated like a servant rather than a sister. These thoughts shamed her terribly during Martha’s gruesome last weeks, but they would not abate and added extra pangs to her grief.

  The day of the funeral was long and bitter. A somber multitude of Gloucester’s most prominent citizens walked through the house, whispering, sipping, and shaking their heads. Most of them looked straight through Judy, as invisible as the housemaid.

  After the last guest had murmured her condolences to the Judge, he asked Judy to join him in the parlor. But as she began to clear the clutter of teacups and wineglasses, he took them from her hands and said, “Please, Mistress Rhines. I wonder if I could impose upon you to sit with me

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  for a few moments.” He drew two chairs together, forcing her to sit knee to knee and face him squarely.

  Joshua Cook was a well-made man, admired for his aristocratic nose, strong chin, and deep-set eyes fringed with the kind of lashes that were the envy of every girl and woman who ever met him. “I wish to speak frankly,” he said. “I hope that you will forgive me for my candor, but it is necessary to make things clear as glass between us so that I can discuss your future in a forthright manner.”

  The Judge’s demeanor was formal as befits a member of the bench, though it had been several years since he’d resigned his court duties. Judy had always found it difficult to decipher his mood, but she could see the agitation beneath his polished manner. She folded her hands and stared at her shoes, afraid that she would not be able to mask her disgust for the man who had caused the death of her friend.

  “Did you ever wonder how it was that I was never taken ill? Especially given the nature of Mrs. Cook’s distress.”

  Judy was so startled that she let down her guard and glared at him with undisguised anger.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said. “But Dr. Beech has informed me that he had shared his diagnosis of Martha with you, so I assume that you, like he, consider me the worst sort of man, a degenerate. A monster who, well . . .”

  He sighed. “It explains your coolness toward me these past years. But now that I understand the source of your enmity, it speaks even more highly of your devotion to Martha and of your perfect discretion.

  “Which brings me, again, to the question of whether you ever puzzled over the mystery of my good health.

  Especially given your belief that I was the reason for, that is

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  to say, given your assumption about the cause of my wife’s illness.” The Judge was not only stammering but sweating.

  “I mean no disrespect to my wife’s memory, I swear.

  But, you see, long before you were part of this household, Mrs. Cook accompanied me on many visits to my mother’s home in Maryland. I have a large family there, and Martha was a favorite with my sisters and my cousins.” He took a breath. “With one cousin, in particular. A cousin by marriage: James Ridell.”

  Judy prayed for the kitchen maid to call for her, or for lightning to strike the house. Martha had often spoken of James Ridell and of the gracious hospitality he had provided when she and the Judge had stayed in Baltimore. She had referred to him as Captain Ridell and described him warmly as a true gentleman of the South, dashing, intelligent, and kind; a man who had married beneath him in the odious and shrewish Constance, who was the very least of her husband’s otherwise refined relatives.

  “Martha and Ridell were thrown together a good deal, as Connie was so often ill in her confinements.” The Judge stared at Judy until she met his gaze. “Do I make myself clear?” he asked. She nodded, miserable.

  “I tell you this not to poison your memory of Martha.

  She was not at fault here, not really.” His voice dropped again. “You see, I was not much of a husband to her in certain ways. I mean to say, well, that I was not able to . . .

  That is, she needed . . .” He stopped, unable to find the words to express his meaning politely. But Judy understood.

  “I can see that I have shocked you,” he said. “You must think me a brute to speak of her in this manner, and today of all days.”

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  Judy was shocked, though not in the way that the Judge imagined. His words had conjured the vivid sensation of Cornelius’s hand on her breast, his mouth on her neck. He had been the other secret she had kept from Martha. Her physical connection to Cornelius, the longing and the pleasure, had been something for which she barely had words. And yet, it seemed this was something she and Martha had both known and lost.

  The Judge handed Judy a glass of sherry. “Please, let me explain why I have spoken about things that should never be discussed, and which I will never mention again.

  “Martha always spoke of you as a sister, and I am more than happy to honor the requests she made on your behalf.

  You will be remembered in my will, and I will make you a generous gift in parting should you choose to leave.

  However, I have another proposal that would have pleased Martha a great deal. One, I believe, that might serve you well given your, again I beg pardon, your circumstances.

  Am I correct in assuming that you do not wish to return to your life in, er, up-island?”

  Judy winced at Judge Cook’s reticence, as though mentioning Dogtown by name would be an insult. “You are correct.”

  “In that case, I would like you to stay on here, to take full charge of the house. It is my intention to winter with my sister, who now resides in Washington. I will return here for the summer and expect that some of my nieces and nephews and their children will join me for the season. But this plan depends, in part, upon placing my home in capable hands. Mistress Rhines, I would certainly understand your wish to leave a place filled with such sad and difficult

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  memories; however, if you choose to go, I am doubtful of finding a suitable person, or one in whom I have such great confidence. I have received a reasonable offer for the house and grounds, but my inclination is not to act hurriedly.”

  Judy turned her gaze to the view of the harbor from the long parlor windows and nearly wept with relief. Until that moment, she had not permitted herself to face the pinched life that awaited her in a room above a shop or behind a kitchen.

  “There will be an income for you, of course,” he continued. “Full charge of the housekeeping monies as well.

  In the summer, when there is need of additional help, a cook and maids and such, they would be under your stewardship. Please understand, whatever you decide, I have already altered my will to reflect the great service you rendered to Mrs. Cook these many years. Not merely service, of course, but devotion and tenderness.”

  Judy finally met his eyes. With her smile, she all but sealed the agreement, but the Judge bowed and gave her the last word. “May I expect your decision by the end of the week?”

  “Yes,” she agreed. “By the end of the week.”

  Judge Cook was as good as his word. Before he left for the winter, Judy Rhines was given the keys, the ledger, a large allowance, and a free hand to make any changes or improvements she thought necessary. She stayed busy in the empty house, cleaning, canning, meeting with the gardener, and preparing the linens to serve a house filled with guests.

  She gave a detailed account of her efforts and outlays in a fortnightly letter to Judge Cook, which he answered promptly with a bank draft, thanks, and eventually with

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  particulars about his arrival and his family’s. He would be back in Gloucester by June, he wrote, with several guests in July and August, including four children and their nurse.

  As summer approached, Judy hired two girls to serve as parlor maids, and Easter helped her locate a footman who would also help in the garden. But there simply was no local woman accomplished enough for the formal meals required by the Judge’s sister, so Judy took the bold step of placing an advertisement in a Boston newspaper.

  She received only one response, from a Mrs. Harriet Plant, who wrote that a temporary situation would suit her especially, and included a list of what she described as her “highly praised specialties.” She also enclosed a letter from her employer, a dean at Harvard College, explaining that he would be in England for the summer and recommending “his Harriet” as an honest woman and a

  gastronomical treasure.

  When the lilacs began to bloom, Judy moved out of the upstairs bedroom, with its harbor view and lace curtains, back into her old room off the kitchen, where she would be in very close quarters with the cook until the end of August.

  It was not a happy prospect, until the day that Mrs. Plant stepped off the coach.

  Harriet turned out to be cut of the same cloth as Easter Carter: bluff, talkative, and unabashedly affectionate. Like Easter, she was a short woman, though she was nearly as wide as she was tall, with auburn hair and freckles down to her fingertips. She was born in Liverpool, England, and at a tender age was sent out to service in the kitchen of a grand country house where she was apprenticed to an accomplished French chef. Below stairs, the staff ate snails

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  and garlic and things that sounded like swill but tasted like heaven, while the gentry consumed roasted joints and creamed soups of surpassing blandness sneered at by the Frenchman.

  Judy learned all this and a good deal more within an hour of Harriet’s arrival. Her stories were funny and the tea she’d brought with her was first-rate, but Judy was alarmed at the prospect of her boisterous presence for three months.