Ghost Fire Page 14

  She started, stood and spun around. She dropped her apron, a look of terror on her face; mushrooms spilled all over the forest floor. “Why did you sneak up on me? I thought you were an Indian,” she cried.

  Nathan had told him about the dangers of the native Indians: I grew up playing hide-and-seek with French fur-trappers and Mohawk Indians, with my scalp as the forfeit if I lost. No wonder she had been frightened. He spread his arms to show he meant no harm. “As you see, I am only a visitor.”

  “Who are you?” She backed away, suspicious of this stranger.

  For a long moment, Theo didn’t answer. Now that she was standing, he could see she was taller than he’d thought, almost his own age. Her skin was smooth and creamy as butter, though flushed now with surprise and embarrassment. A strand of glossy dark hair had escaped from under her bonnet and hung down over her eyes, which were as blue as an August sky.

  Theo replaced his hat. “I am sorry I startled you. My name is Theo Courtney. And though I am not one of your Indians, I have just arrived from India.”

  She laughed, a pure, joyous sound that seemed to banish all the gloom in the forest. Then she remembered herself, and composed her face, blushing even harder. “How do I know you mean me no harm?” She eyed his features, perhaps to see where she could inflict the most pain if he attacked her.

  “I come in peace,” he said.

  “Show me your hands.”

  He held them up.

  She examined them from a distance. “I can read palms, and the stories they tell are astonishing. I can see you have had a hard journey in your life so far. You have suffered loss and grief, your heart is bruised, but I think your soul remains pure.”

  Theo was aghast. He saw her face soften.

  “I pray you will forgive me. Mother says I do not behave properly, like I should.”

  “I should be asking your forgiveness.” Theo pointed to the mushrooms on the ground. He started collecting them, placing them in the apron the girl held out. He moved clumsily.

  His fingers brushed hers. He felt a shiver go through him, but she recoiled so suddenly he thought she would let go of the apron again. Her eyes met his with a reproachful gaze that relaxed into something tender as she saw the innocence on his face. “We do not meet many strangers in these woods,” she said.

  “What is your name?”

  “Abigail Claypole,” she said shyly.

  Theo let out a long sigh. He had known it from the moment he had looked into her eyes—so similar to Nathan’s. “Will you take me to your home?”

  “Why?”

  “I have brought something for your family.”

  He could see she was curious. But she was from New England stock, people who kept their thoughts to themselves. Without more questions, she led him down an animal trail through the trees. Theo’s heart beat faster. He had traveled halfway round the world for this moment, but now that it had come he wanted it to be over. He would shatter the girl with news of her brother’s death.

  They came out in a meadow. Blackened stumps poked through the long grass where the trees had been burned and felled to clear it. A cluster of buildings stood at the far edge, near a stream: a shingled barn, a low house made of split logs, and a few storage sheds. An orchard of apple and pear trees grew in front of the house, and a fenced vegetable plot beside it. A woman in a shapeless gray dress was bringing in laundry from a line, scolding the small child who played around her feet.

  Two dogs raced out from the porch of the house. They were huge, gray brindled mastiffs. They galloped across the clearing and stopped three paces from Theo, barking and snapping. The menace in their powerful bodies and slavering jaws made him tremble. He suspected that if he had not been with Abigail they would have torn him to pieces.

  At the sound of their barking, the woman with the laundry looked up. She put her fingers in her mouth and let out a sharp whistle that silenced the dogs immediately.

  “Claypole,” she called, in a piercing voice. “A visitor.”

  Her husband appeared from inside the barn with a pitchfork, followed by a youth of about seventeen. Their faces were so similar, from the close-set brown eyes to the crooked chins to the scowls they wore, they could only have been father and son. There was a resemblance to Nathan, but different, like fruit from the same tree that had gone off.

  The man pulled his straw hat over his eyes and leaned on his pitchfork. The dogs trotted over and stood beside him, hackles still raised. “Don’t much care for visitors.”

  “This is Mr. Courtney come from India,” said Abigail.

  Claypole gave Theo a long, appraising look that conceded nothing. “That’s a mighty long way from Bethel.”

  “I was a friend of your son, Nathan.”

  Claypole said nothing. But clearly Abigail had felt the emotion behind Theo’s words. With a gasp, she cried out, “What has happened to him?”

  Claypole glared at her.

  His wife slapped her daughter’s wrist. “Do not speak when your father is in conversation.”

  Theo held his hat in his hands. “It is true. Nathan is dead.” He hadn’t meant to say it so baldly. But he had been walking all day, and this hostile reception at the journey’s end had disconcerted him. “I am sorry,” he added.

  Abigail let out a long, terrible moan and ran inside the house, sobbing. The dogs growled. Her mother twisted her hands in her skirts, while Claypole’s knuckles tightened around the pitchfork handle. He made no move to comfort his wife but exchanged a wordless glance with her. “Best you’d come inside.”

  •••

  The house had a single room, low and smoky. A long rifle hung above the fireplace; animal skins dangled from the beams. A stitched sampler on the wall said, “God is Love.” Claypole seated himself in a high-backed chair beside the fire, while the others perched on rough stools. Mrs. Claypole poured cups of crude apple brandy, called applejack. “Tell me about my son,” she said.

  The smoke and the applejack made Theo’s eyes water. “Have you heard of the loss of Calcutta?”

  “We don’t get much news of doings in other parts,” said Claypole.

  As briefly as he could, Theo explained what had happened. The more he spoke, the more he felt the weight of their disbelieving gaze. In that cramped room, talking of India—of nawabs and monsoons, of sepoys and elephants—he felt like Gulliver describing Lilliput. He described the siege and the fighting, pausing only to emphasize how Nathan had saved his life. With the Claypoles watching, he hardly dared look at Abigail, but he was always conscious of her presence.

  “Also, he asked me to deliver this.” He took the leather pouch from around his neck and tipped out the diamond. In the dim room, it lay dull and inert.

  “It is a diamond from India,” Theo explained, in case there was any doubt. “Nathan wanted you to have it.”

  He held it out to Abigail, enjoying the look of wonder on her face. She reached for it.

  A sharp hand slapped her. Mrs. Claypole plucked the diamond out of Theo’s palm.

  “It is vanity,” she said severely. “We have no need for such trinkets in these parts. We are godly folk. I do not know what Nathan was thinking.”

  “His last wish was that Abigail should have it,” Theo said.

  “I will trouble you to address my daughter with respect,” Claypole warned. “She is Miss Claypole to you.”

  “It must have been that heathen, foreign air that gave Nathan the notion,” his wife continued. “If that is why you came, to impress my daughter with riches, I am afraid you have wasted your journey.”

  “I came because of the debt I owed Nathan,” Theo answered. “And to fulfill your son’s dying wish. Does that count for nothing?”

  Perhaps he should have guessed, from Nathan’s description, how they would react. Even so, it shocked him that they should be so dismissive. That little stone could transform their lives, yet they treated it as if it were the seed of the devil. He wished he had given it to Abigail when he met her.


  It was too late for that. Mrs. Claypole dropped the diamond into the pocket of her apron without a second glance.

  “Nathan ran away from us seven years ago.” Claypole puffed on his pipe, stroking the bowl the way Nathan used to. “We will not take his charity. What he did, he proved he was no son of ours.”

  “Not like dear Caleb,” said his wife. Her gaze went to the wall, where a framed charcoal sketch showed a young family: two children, a mother and a father whose face bore an unmistakable likeness to Nathan’s. A posy of fresh wild flowers lay on the shelf below it. “He was a good boy. The Lord took him from us too soon.” A tear escaped her eye.

  Claypole rose from his chair. “Thank you for bringing us news of Nathan’s death,” he said formally. “God speed on your journey.”

  The meeting was over. Theo stood, wondering where he was supposed to go. Through the cabin’s tiny windows, he could see night had fallen. He thought of the twisting road back to town. It would be easy to get lost in the woods.

  “Do you mean to cast Mr. Courtney out of our home?” cried Abigail. It was the first time she had spoken since they had come inside, and for a moment Theo feared Claypole would strike her for her trouble. But she carried on undaunted. “He has traveled thousands of miles on our account. Will you not even give him a bed for the night?”

  “Go to the stable,” snapped her mother. “It is past time for milking the cow.”

  Abigail stood, defiant. “Will you?”

  “This does not concern you.” Her mother was angry. “It is not seemly.”

  “This does concern me. Nathan was my brother, and Mr. Courtney was his friend.”

  Neither woman would retreat. Claypole stood silent as mother and daughter faced each other across the cramped room. Theo feared they would come to blows. He stepped between them. “I have enjoyed your hospitality long enough. If you would be so kind as to lend me a light, I will have no trouble finding my way back to town.”

  He didn’t look at Abigail. Claypole fetched a lantern while Theo waited outside. Abigail disappeared into the barn while her mother busied herself in the house with much banging of pots and utensils.

  “Jebuthan will show you to the road,” said Claypole, indicating his son. “You will find your way from there.”

  “I am obliged. And the lantern?”

  “Leave it at the store in town. I’ll call for it when I am there.”

  Theo nodded. He glanced toward the barn, hoping for one last glimpse of Abigail.

  Claypole gave him a crooked look. “God speed, Mr. Courtney. I did not look for you to visit us, and I do not expect we will meet again. No doubt your business will take you far from Bethel tomorrow.”

  He had made his meaning plain.

  Theo smiled ingenuously. “Thank you for the hospitality. I am sorry to have been the cause of grief.”

  The boy led him through the trees without a word. The dogs accompanied them. Theo didn’t realize they’d reached the road until the boy stopped and pointed to his right. He handed Theo the lantern and disappeared.

  The only hint of the road was the water lying pooled in the ruts, which gleamed in the lamplight. Theo followed it, walking slowly and listening hard. He was not worried about Indians or bandits. He was hoping that Abigail would come after him. He held her face in his mind, remembering every detail: the curve of her lips, the lock of hair that had escaped her bonnet, the flush of her cheeks when she defied her mother. He would have given everything he owned for a few more minutes alone with her.

  But she didn’t come. Soon, he saw the lights of the village ahead, few and faint against the immense forest that surrounded it. The residents retired early. He banged for ten minutes on the door of the boarding house, and when it opened, the surly landlady offered him only a mattress on the attic floor.

  He had traveled many miles that day and his limbs ached with weariness. But it was hours before he fell into a deep, dream-laden sleep.

  •••

  Next morning, when he had washed and eaten a meager breakfast, Theo explored the town. The rest of his life stretched before him, but he was in no hurry to leave. He had dreamed of Abigail in the night.

  An idea had begun to form in his mind. After lunch, he took the borrowed lantern and headed back toward the Claypole farm. When he reached the turning, he left the road but did not approach the buildings. He skirted around the clearing, keeping within the undergrowth and hoping the dogs did not get wind of him.

  Smoke puffed from the chimney of the main house.

  He heard Mrs. Claypole’s voice inside. Was Abigail in there? He moved further around, trying to see through the door of the barn. What if she was away in the fields? How long could he wait? He was downwind of the house, but he did not want those ferocious dogs to scent him.

  A door slammed. A moment later, Abigail came past the side of the house and went into the barn. She fetched a pail of milk and poured it into a butter churn that stood outside. Seating herself on a log, she began rhythmically raising and lowering the plunger into the barrel.

  Theo cupped his hands and made a hooting noise that he hoped sounded like an owl. Abigail looked up in surprise, which turned to alarm when she saw Theo waving at her from the bushes.

  He ran across and knelt beside her. They were at the back of the house, and there were no windows on that side. He was hidden from view—as long as no one walked around the corner.

  “Why did you come?” Abigail whispered, clearly afraid.

  “I wanted to see you.”

  Her face creased in pleasure mingled with pain. “I wanted to see you too, but if Mother or Father finds you are here—”

  He gestured to the barrel. “Keep churning. They will hear it if you stop.”

  She resumed the rhythmic plunging. There was silence, except for the thud of wood on wood. Theo stared at her. Her simple beauty made his heart feel too big for his chest. He was short of breath. How could he be so instantly smitten? The long, harsh road of fulfilling his promise to Nathan had stripped his spirit bare. He craved a soft female presence, but he couldn’t think of anything to say.

  “Tell me more about Nathan,” Abigail said. “What sort of man had he become?”

  “I barely knew him,” Theo reminded her.

  “Yet you came so far for him.”

  “I owed him a debt.” Theo thought back to Calcutta, half a world away. “He was strong, calm and brave beyond measure.”

  “No wonder you were his friend. You sound much alike, I can tell.”

  Theo flushed. Did this woman have special insights? He glanced at Abigail to see if she was teasing him, but her face was sincere. Their eyes met, open and unguarded. Something mystical seemed to pass between them: an understanding beyond words that resonated to Theo’s core.

  “You should go,” said Abigail. Her voice was hoarse. She had forgotten the butter churn. “Father will be furious if he finds you here.”

  Theo knew she was right. He didn’t move. “He seems very strict with you.”

  “Everyone in Bethel is strict. That is why Nathan ran away.”

  “And you?”

  She gave a wry smile and he saw rebellion in her eyes. “I do not fit in here. Like Nathan, I am a restless soul. But it would not be ladylike to run away to sea.”

  “We would not have to go to sea. There are many places we could go. We—” He broke off as he realized what he had said. Abigail stared at him in shock and wonder. Everything was happening so fast. This was not what he had planned. Her aura seemed to draw him in—he was helpless to resist.

  The sound of a dog barking brought him to his senses. He leaped to his feet and grabbed the lantern as Claypole came striding around the corner with the dogs at his heels. He was carrying his long rifle. Suspicion burned on his face as he looked between Theo and Abigail. The gun started to come up. Theo wished he had not left his pistols at the boarding house.

  The gun held steady, angled at Theo’s midriff. The dogs bared their teeth but did not a
ttack. Claypole seemed to gather his emotions. “Mr. Courtney.” He tipped his hat a fraction. “I thought you had left our town.”

  “I came to return your lantern.” Theo thrust it forward.

  Claypole pursed his lips. “There was no need.”

  Theo wondered how Nathan could have grown to be so loyal and generous from such a bitter seed. He nodded to the dogs and the gun. “Have you been hunting?”

  “No,” said Claypole.

  There was a silence, the only sound Abigail churning the butter.

  Claypole jerked the gun. “Obliged for the lantern. Now you should go. You’ll want to be getting far away from Bethel.”

  “I have a mind to linger in this area a little longer,” said Theo. “I believe there is fine hunting to be had.”

  “Have a care,” Claypole warned. “There are many dangers hereabouts. A man who goes in those woods and don’t know what he’s doing, he might find himself dead right quick.”

  “Perhaps fishing is more to his taste,” said Abigail, looking up from the butter churn. “Are you a fisherman, Mr. Courtney?”

  As a child, Theo had sometimes dropped a line into the lagoon behind Madras. He had never caught anything. But he sensed a hidden purpose behind her words. “On occasion.”

  “The best fishing around here is at Shaw’s Pond,” she said. “Pa says the fish rise near midnight. When there’s a full moon, you can almost pluck them out of the water with your bare hand. Isn’t that right?”

  Claypole grunted. Theo tried to meet her gaze, but she had returned to the churning. “Perhaps I will try my luck.”

  Claypole scowled. “Full moon’s not until next week. Mr. Courtney will be far from here by then.”

  It wasn’t a question.

  •••

  Theo had no intention of letting Claypole threaten him. But next morning he found everything had changed in the town. The looks he drew in the street, always suspicious, were now so sharp they prickled his skin. At the boarding house, the landlord informed him that he would need the bed back that night.

  “But what have I done wrong?” Theo demanded. “Yesterday I was a welcome guest. Today I am treated like a diseased dog.”