Everything of value had been sold long ago, but the glass beads and rings and brooches that Mamma had worn to costume parties still glittered coldly on black velvet. The girls would take them out reverently, holding them up to their chests or ears or fingers, never daring to put them on, asking each other, “How do I look? Which one suits me best?”
Today it was the turn of Papa’s bedchamber. Their bare feet did not tap on the stone floor, the way Mamma’s shoes used to, and the boom of Papa’s boots was hard to remember. Jane pushed open the oaken door, showing the faded carpet and the broken riding crop that Papa had flung down years ago.
Maude took a step inside, then halted. “Why don’t we look at one of the guest rooms instead?”
“It’s not their turn. We have to do things the right way. We’re Halseys.” She imitated Mamma’s tone, and Maude snickered, and they entered. Papa had sold almost everything, even his guns and the signet ring he had inherited from his own father. Jane had rarely entered the room in the old days, and even now she found it uncomfortable to venture past the door. What drew their eyes in that dim chamber was the portrait of Mamma as a young woman, above the fireplace. The fresh eagerness of her smile, the energy of her step as if the painter had called out to her to come to him, the way her hand clutched her hat with the long sweep of a feather curving up toward her face—these gave her an interest that was deeper than beauty.
“She was happy,” Maude said, as she always did. It was a strange thought.
“She was about to marry the handsomest man in the kingdom.”
“And welcome him into the oldest family and the finest house in the kingdom.”
They fell silent, each wondering if anybody—much less the handsomest man in the kingdom—would ever want to marry them. Neither thought they looked pretty the way the dainty ladies in the portraits lining the hall, with their pursed lips, pale glossy ringlets, and glowing fair skin, were pretty. They both resembled Mamma, with their dark hair, determined chins, and long hands and feet. But in the portrait, Mamma’s hair was smooth and shiny, and her slender fingers elegantly held up the skirt of a gown that gleamed clean and unmended, while their own hair twisted in an unruly fashion around their heads and their work-roughened hands rested on faded dresses that were patched and worn, and that always seemed too small.
Rose had resembled Papa, Mamma said once, surprising them with this rare mention of Jane’s twin. Rose had had Papa’s big eyes and fine features. But Rose was dead, and baby Robert, too, so Papa’s looks had been lost. Lost, along with the gold and jewels and parties whose music and gay laughter Jane vaguely remembered—everything that had gone away when Papa had gone away.
When word came that he had died, poor and alone in a miserable room in an inn, surrounded by empty bottles, they were surprised—not that he was dead, but that he had so recently been alive, because for a long time he had been dead to them.
Maude said that all she remembered of Papa was a large, noisy presence, strong arms that would lift her up and then a scratchy face rubbing against her cheek and neck until she screamed and he laughed and put her down, all accompanied by a strong smell that she later learned was liquor. Jane remembered a deep voice shouting late in the night and their mother crying, and their father disappearing for days at a time, until that last disappearance when he’d never returned at all. They both knew without ever saying it that they must behave well and do everything Mamma said, so that she would not cry again. Or—and the thought was so bitter that Jane tried to push it away—so that she would not leave them like Papa.
Jane led the way back down the corridor, the eyes in the portraits boring holes in her back. She always felt that they would be different on the way back—Great-Grandpapa Edwin would be smiling, or the kitten would have squirmed out of Great-Great-Grandmamma Esther’s arms. And as she climbed down the stairs, holding her skirts up with one hand and grasping the rail with the other, she heard the ancestors whispering behind her.
You are a Halsey. You are the last of your line, you and your sister. You have much to live up to. Never disgrace the Halsey name. On and on they whispered as Jane hurried, risking a dangerous tumble, and the voices didn’t cease until she stood once more in the South Parlor, surrounded by their own familiar clothes and furniture and cooking things, and Maude made rose hip tea, to help them recover from the climb.
Jane opened her eyes first to a dim and misty sunrise, then to bright hope, and finally to bitter disappointment. Mamma had not returned in the night.
She walked through the haze to the barn, where Baby and the goats waited impatiently. She milked them and took the pails to the dairy, where Maude was churning butter. It was pleasantly cool in the little stone house, which was perched over an underground spring that carried snow melt from the distant mountains. Yesterday’s cheese was progressing nicely, so Jane broke up the curds. Six days, she thought. It’s been almost a week since Mamma left. Maybe I should—
Betsy’s sharp bark interrupted her thoughts, and her heart lightened. Maude ran to the door of the dairy and exclaimed, “It’s not Mamma! It’s a carriage!” Jane joined her, and they leaned out to see.
A shiny carriage, pulled by two chestnut horses, came up the drive. The fine animals looked strong, yet they were leaning hard into their traces. The carriage must be carrying something heavy, Jane realized. As it rounded the last curve, an enormous gray horse tied to the back came into sight, head down, hooves dragging. “It’s Saladin!” she said.
Surely all the eggs and cheese and butter in the world weren’t enough to trade for a carriage and two beautiful horses. Maybe someone who owed Papa a gambling debt had decided to ease his conscience by giving them to Mamma. Maybe Mamma had fallen sick and a kind stranger had brought her home. Or maybe—Jane felt a chill—maybe Mamma had died, and the owner of the carriage was returning Sal to them. She took Maude’s hand to comfort her and was herself comforted by its warmth. Together they walked to the drive, where the carriage was making the final turn.
The driver pulled on the reins. The horses stood with their heads down, their sides heaving. The carriage door opened, and Jane, dreading to see a messenger who would deliver bad news, felt her heart skip a beat. But out stepped Mamma, road dust caking the folds of her dress, her face drawn with weariness, but smiling. She opened her arms wide. The girls ran to her, Jane weak-kneed with relief, Maude showing only joy.
“Hello, my chickens!” Mamma said. “Wait till you see the surprise I brought with me!”
“We can see it,” Jane said.
“Where have you been for so long?” Maude demanded.
“Oh, the surprise isn’t the carriage,” Mamma said. “I mean, yes, that is our carriage now, but that’s not the surprise. The surprise is what’s in it.”
“Visitors?” Maude squeaked. Jane shrank back. Why would Mamma do this to them? What would they say to visitors? How could they receive them in their ragged dresses and bare feet and uncombed hair? She licked her finger and rubbed at her face, trying to remove the smudges that she knew she must have gotten in the barn.
“Not visitors,” Mamma said. “Something better. Something you have been wanting for a long time.” What had they been wanting? Before they could guess, Mamma told them. “A new papa, and a new little sister.”
“Oh!” breathed Maude. “A baby!” There hadn’t been a baby in the house for so long, not since Robert.
“Not exactly a baby.” Mamma looked toward the carriage. A tall, balding man stepped out of it and then turned and reached back inside, speaking