Read Online Louisa and the Crystal Gazer by Anna Maclean - Free Book Online
Authors: Anna Maclean
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it later, dear,” his wife said darkly, and then returned to her gay tone. “Miss Snodgrass is not here? Whois this newest member of our circle?” She looked with great interest at Lizzie.
“I am not of the circle.” Lizzie spoke up. “I accompany my sister, Miss Alcott, only this far, to the waiting room.”
“It is unfair not to include you more fully,” said shy Mr. Deeds.
Lizzie studied her boots and did not answer.
“Well,” said Mrs. Deeds again, “I do not suppose any of you here attended the Cotton Cotillion last evening?” Indeed, I had not. The cotton factors had too pronounced a sympathy for slavery for me to have attended such an event. But Mrs. Deeds obviously had no such moral dilemma, and proceeded to recount the prior evening—the foods on the buffet table, the flowers, the dances, the clothing, the speeches—in great and misery-causing detail for those of us who would have preferred to sit and wait in silence.
Sylvia took a little book from her pocket and pretended to read. I could not help but notice the title:
Reminiscences of the Summerland: My Journeys Among the Dear Departed
, by Mrs. Agatha Percy. So our crystal gazer was an author, as well? I could not help but think a little more highly of her, though I wished she had been truthful enough to admit to writing romances rather than memoirs.
Half an hour passed. Suzie Dear stuck her head in to inquire whether we needed anything. She plucked nervously at her skirt and gulped. I wouldn’t have thought it, but the brassy young woman seemed nervous and even fearful. I thought, at the time, that this change in behavior had been caused by a sharp reprimand from her mistress.
Mrs. Deeds asked for hot tea and sandwiches, but Suzie Dear never brought them. When Mrs. Deeds asked a second time, Suzie answered, “The cook is gone.”
“Is she, now?” asked Mr. Phips with interest. “Gone where?”
“Wouldn’t know, sir,” said Suzie. “Somewhere else, I suppose.”
I rose and walked down the dark hall and found the half flight of stairs leading into the kitchen, Suzie dogging my heels in angry protest. “Can’t go in there, miss!” she said, trying to block the kitchen door with her own body.
Gently I pushed her aside and entered the kitchen. The cook had indeed gone, in the way that a fair day can be said to be gone when a storm arrives. Drawers had been pulled out and emptied on the floor; the large worktable was littered with chopped carrots, beef bones, and dirty butcher knives; a cold pot sat on a fire that had gone out. The cook had left without finishing the stew. The door that opened into the little room where the cook slept was ajar. It was a breach of privacy, I admit, but I peered inside. The bed had been rested upon, but not slept in. The pegs on the wall were bereft of garments, the drawers bare. There was not a single item to indicate a person had once inhabited this room.
“She were a nervous person,” explained Suzie. “I heard her quarreling with Mrs. Percy the day before.”
That seemed only half an explanation. Judging from the gleaming pots suspended from the ceiling, the sparkling cleanliness of the windows, and the scrubbed whiteness of the plank floor, the cook had been a tidy woman, proud of herwork, yet she had left the kitchen in this state. Why? My uneasiness grew.
“Well, there’ll be no tea in the front parlor today,” I agreed with Suzie. I returned to the others, certain that other strange events were to follow.
Another half hour passed in desultory fashion. It was growing dark outside, as dark as it can grow on a late-winter afternoon when snow falls in great white sheets. Mrs. Deeds rose from her comfortable chair and began to pace in front of a window that overlooked the street.
“Isn’t that Miss Snodgrass?” she exclaimed with some surprise, pausing and drawing the curtain farther back.
It was. Even from my chair she was quite visible over Mrs. Deeds’s shoulder, her height, her
“I am not of the circle.” Lizzie spoke up. “I accompany my sister, Miss Alcott, only this far, to the waiting room.”
“It is unfair not to include you more fully,” said shy Mr. Deeds.
Lizzie studied her boots and did not answer.
“Well,” said Mrs. Deeds again, “I do not suppose any of you here attended the Cotton Cotillion last evening?” Indeed, I had not. The cotton factors had too pronounced a sympathy for slavery for me to have attended such an event. But Mrs. Deeds obviously had no such moral dilemma, and proceeded to recount the prior evening—the foods on the buffet table, the flowers, the dances, the clothing, the speeches—in great and misery-causing detail for those of us who would have preferred to sit and wait in silence.
Sylvia took a little book from her pocket and pretended to read. I could not help but notice the title:
Reminiscences of the Summerland: My Journeys Among the Dear Departed
, by Mrs. Agatha Percy. So our crystal gazer was an author, as well? I could not help but think a little more highly of her, though I wished she had been truthful enough to admit to writing romances rather than memoirs.
Half an hour passed. Suzie Dear stuck her head in to inquire whether we needed anything. She plucked nervously at her skirt and gulped. I wouldn’t have thought it, but the brassy young woman seemed nervous and even fearful. I thought, at the time, that this change in behavior had been caused by a sharp reprimand from her mistress.
Mrs. Deeds asked for hot tea and sandwiches, but Suzie Dear never brought them. When Mrs. Deeds asked a second time, Suzie answered, “The cook is gone.”
“Is she, now?” asked Mr. Phips with interest. “Gone where?”
“Wouldn’t know, sir,” said Suzie. “Somewhere else, I suppose.”
I rose and walked down the dark hall and found the half flight of stairs leading into the kitchen, Suzie dogging my heels in angry protest. “Can’t go in there, miss!” she said, trying to block the kitchen door with her own body.
Gently I pushed her aside and entered the kitchen. The cook had indeed gone, in the way that a fair day can be said to be gone when a storm arrives. Drawers had been pulled out and emptied on the floor; the large worktable was littered with chopped carrots, beef bones, and dirty butcher knives; a cold pot sat on a fire that had gone out. The cook had left without finishing the stew. The door that opened into the little room where the cook slept was ajar. It was a breach of privacy, I admit, but I peered inside. The bed had been rested upon, but not slept in. The pegs on the wall were bereft of garments, the drawers bare. There was not a single item to indicate a person had once inhabited this room.
“She were a nervous person,” explained Suzie. “I heard her quarreling with Mrs. Percy the day before.”
That seemed only half an explanation. Judging from the gleaming pots suspended from the ceiling, the sparkling cleanliness of the windows, and the scrubbed whiteness of the plank floor, the cook had been a tidy woman, proud of herwork, yet she had left the kitchen in this state. Why? My uneasiness grew.
“Well, there’ll be no tea in the front parlor today,” I agreed with Suzie. I returned to the others, certain that other strange events were to follow.
Another half hour passed in desultory fashion. It was growing dark outside, as dark as it can grow on a late-winter afternoon when snow falls in great white sheets. Mrs. Deeds rose from her comfortable chair and began to pace in front of a window that overlooked the street.
“Isn’t that Miss Snodgrass?” she exclaimed with some surprise, pausing and drawing the curtain farther back.
It was. Even from my chair she was quite visible over Mrs. Deeds’s shoulder, her height, her
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