seat in the tiny back garden; Mary played with Max and found a new reason each day to dislike Betty. They squabbled over the dog; over the dusty old rugs Betty had arranged for their bedroom; over how much firewood was being used; over how many biscuits Mary ate. They squabbled over whether it was bad luck to leave shoes on the west side of the door, or to eat bread burned on top, or to wash on Lord’s Day. It seemed Betty had a superstition for every occasion. Each new day presented Mary with an opportunity to exchange words with her stepmother. But they wisely kept their fights away from the ears of Father. Betty probably knew as well as Mary how he disdained pettiness, how his fiercest exasperation was aroused when he was bothered by domestic trivia.
Early in June Betty was called away to visit her sister, and on the same day that she left a letter arrived for the girls.
“What does it say?” Mary asked, peering over Deborah’s shoulder. Anne and Father had already heard its contents.
“Uncle William is in London, staying with friendsnear Temple Stairs,” Deborah said. “He has asked us to come and spend the week with him. Particularly Mary.”
“Uncle William!” Mary said, shuddering. Even though he was her mother’s brother, Mary detested him. At Grandmamma’s house he had always tried to get her alone, or made excuses to press his body near hers.
“Do I take it you don’t want to go?” Father asked. “For I can write and tell him I can’t spare you.”
Mary was about to open her mouth to say yes, when it occurred to her that Uncle William might know about the wise woman Mother had consulted. She hesitated.
“No …” she said, “perhaps it would be nice to have news of Grandmamma.”
Anne looked around shocked. “B-but Uncle Www—”
“I should like to go, Father.”
Father fixed her with his stern, blind gaze. As always it unnerved her. “Then you shall go, and you shall take your sister Anne.”
“I d-don’t want to go, Father,” Anne said.
“Uncle William is not kind to Anne,” Mary said.
“It matters not, Mary, for you told me that you would be your sister’s keeper and so you shall. But Deborah, I cannot spare you. Not as Betty is away.”
“I’ll stay then,” Deborah said willingly.
Irritation prickled. How was Mary to ply Uncle William for information about the wise woman when sad-eyed Anne was nearby? But then, knowing Uncle William, it wouldn’t take long for the lecherous old devil to contrive for them to be alone.
Deborah awoke just before sunrise. Ever since childhood, she had always woken at the same time, as though her body sensed the start of the day. Her closet was still dark, but she knew that outside the sun wasmaking its way towards the horizon; the sky was lightening, the stars fading, the birds beginning to wake. And Father was waiting.
She rose in the shadowy darkness and moved past her sisters’ empty bed to the dresser, choosing a dark blue dress. She shivered and thought about pulling on a shawl, but Liza would have risen half an hour earlier and stoked the fire for Father before heading back to bed. Deborah combed her hair, then descended the stairs and made her way through the quiet whitewashed withdrawing room and down to her father’s study.
He heard her approach. “Deborah, you are late this morning.”
“Sorry, Father,” she said, even though she wasn’t late. The sun was not yet above the horizon. The firelight was the only light in the room and it glinted off the brass fire irons hung on the dogs. Father was still rumpled from sleep. She picked up the shell comb which lay upon the mantelpiece and began gently to comb his hair and then straighten his shirt. His rug still lay over his knees, and she took it from him and folded it aside. She had never been able to comprehend how he slept straight-backed in the chair every night, but Father always prided himself on his austerity. He interpreted austerity as a sign of
Early in June Betty was called away to visit her sister, and on the same day that she left a letter arrived for the girls.
“What does it say?” Mary asked, peering over Deborah’s shoulder. Anne and Father had already heard its contents.
“Uncle William is in London, staying with friendsnear Temple Stairs,” Deborah said. “He has asked us to come and spend the week with him. Particularly Mary.”
“Uncle William!” Mary said, shuddering. Even though he was her mother’s brother, Mary detested him. At Grandmamma’s house he had always tried to get her alone, or made excuses to press his body near hers.
“Do I take it you don’t want to go?” Father asked. “For I can write and tell him I can’t spare you.”
Mary was about to open her mouth to say yes, when it occurred to her that Uncle William might know about the wise woman Mother had consulted. She hesitated.
“No …” she said, “perhaps it would be nice to have news of Grandmamma.”
Anne looked around shocked. “B-but Uncle Www—”
“I should like to go, Father.”
Father fixed her with his stern, blind gaze. As always it unnerved her. “Then you shall go, and you shall take your sister Anne.”
“I d-don’t want to go, Father,” Anne said.
“Uncle William is not kind to Anne,” Mary said.
“It matters not, Mary, for you told me that you would be your sister’s keeper and so you shall. But Deborah, I cannot spare you. Not as Betty is away.”
“I’ll stay then,” Deborah said willingly.
Irritation prickled. How was Mary to ply Uncle William for information about the wise woman when sad-eyed Anne was nearby? But then, knowing Uncle William, it wouldn’t take long for the lecherous old devil to contrive for them to be alone.
Deborah awoke just before sunrise. Ever since childhood, she had always woken at the same time, as though her body sensed the start of the day. Her closet was still dark, but she knew that outside the sun wasmaking its way towards the horizon; the sky was lightening, the stars fading, the birds beginning to wake. And Father was waiting.
She rose in the shadowy darkness and moved past her sisters’ empty bed to the dresser, choosing a dark blue dress. She shivered and thought about pulling on a shawl, but Liza would have risen half an hour earlier and stoked the fire for Father before heading back to bed. Deborah combed her hair, then descended the stairs and made her way through the quiet whitewashed withdrawing room and down to her father’s study.
He heard her approach. “Deborah, you are late this morning.”
“Sorry, Father,” she said, even though she wasn’t late. The sun was not yet above the horizon. The firelight was the only light in the room and it glinted off the brass fire irons hung on the dogs. Father was still rumpled from sleep. She picked up the shell comb which lay upon the mantelpiece and began gently to comb his hair and then straighten his shirt. His rug still lay over his knees, and she took it from him and folded it aside. She had never been able to comprehend how he slept straight-backed in the chair every night, but Father always prided himself on his austerity. He interpreted austerity as a sign of
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