My eyes roam over my neighbors. The Brothers sit together in the first two pews. Their families sit behind them in places of honor. We are meant to shun worldly vices like pride and envy, but being married to one of the Brothers carries with it a certain cachet. Their wives are meek women with downcast eyes, but they dress well. Their wide bell skirts fan out around them, and their taffeta petticoats rustle when they shift. Puffed sleeves stand up on each shoulder—sentinels guarding their thoughts, lest anything shameful sneak in. And their daughters! They are pictures of garish girlishness in bright yellows and purples, pinks and emeralds, their hair in the new pompadour style instead of the simple chignons my sisters and I favor.
A half-swallowed giggle catches my attention. Brother Malcolm pauses in his sermon on charity, frowning at proof that not everyone is wholly absorbed.
It’s Rory Elliott. For a moment, she smiles at all the attention and tosses her long black hair. Then she lowers her eyes demurely, her cheeks flushing as pink as her dress, and inches closer to Nils Winfield. She gets away with being scandalous because she’s betrothed to Nils, and his father is Brother Winfield.
Everyone else’s eyes slide away as Brother Malcolm resumes. The Lord . . . something. I keep watching Rory and see how Sachi Ishida elbows her sharply in the ribs. Rory mouths something unladylike, but folds her hands in her lap, straightens her back, and fixes her attention back on Brother Malcolm. Sachi smiles, and I wonder—not for the first time—why the town sweetheart chooses to associate with a girl like that. Rory’s mother is a shut-in who never leaves their house. They say she’s a drunk, and that she doesn’t know who Rory’s real father is. Her husband, Jack Elliott, gave Rory his name, but since he died in that carriage accident, the Elliotts won’t have anything to do with Rory or her mother.
Sachi catches me staring. I raise my eyes back to the dais, where Brother Malcolm is just finishing his sermon.
“We clear our minds and open our hearts to the Lord,” he intones.
“We clear our minds and open our hearts to the Lord,” the congregation echoes. I mouth the words along with everyone else. Mother taught us to say the prayers before bedtime and meals when we were small, but it seemed more a matter of habit than of faith. Any real belief I had in the Lord died along with my mother.
“Go in peace. Serve the Lord,” the Brothers chant.
“Thanks be.”
Our neighbors file out slowly, chattering to one another, exchanging news. I want to shove them out of my way, throw elbows into their soft stomachs. I want to be home.
Instead I smooth my skirt and wait my turn to exit the pew.
Mrs. Corbett is at Father’s side, nattering on about the governess. I watch them, Maura’s prediction ringing in my ears. The old hag can’t really be trying to entangle Father romantically, can she? He’s not home often enough to be a husband to anyone. And we do not need—do not ever want—a new mother.
Father manages a smile. He used to be handsome, but perpetual mourning has taken its toll. There’s a scattering of silver in his blond hair, and his face droops like a basset hound. “You must stay for dinner, then,” he suggests.
Surely that’s just politeness.
Mrs. Corbett simpers. At least I think that’s the intended effect. Her mouth twists into a ghastly sort of smile.
Mrs. Ishida appears at the end of our pew. “Miss Cahill! I’m giving a little tea next Wednesday afternoon, and I was hoping you might like to join us. Miss Maura too, of course.”
Mrs. Ishida’s teas are the most coveted invitations in town. We have never been granted a summons before. Mrs. Corbett looks up sharply, her tongue darting out between her teeth like a snake testing the air.
I clasp my hands together and stare demurely at the wooden floor. “It’s so kind of you to think of us. We would be delighted.”
“Lovely,” Mrs. Ishida says. “We shall look forward to seeing you on Wednesday, then.”
I wonder what’s prompted this sudden interest in our society. I look over at Sachi, who is whispering with Rory, their dark heads bent close together. Her eyes glance off mine so quickly, they almost throw sparks. Did she set her mother on us?
“It’s good for young ladies to be out in company. They won’t make the right connections at home studying Cicero,” Mrs. Corbett whispers. “Perhaps Sister Elena can help them organize a tea of their own. They ought to have an at-home afternoon.”
Oh no. If we commence gadding about, we’ll be forced to return the invitations. I am ostensibly the lady of the house, but I’ve never been called on to perform as such. The thought of having neighbors running roughshod through the place, poking their noses into our lives, terrifies me. I don’t know how to serve tea and cakes and make polite conversation. By the time I was old enough to go visiting with her, Mother was too ill, and then we were in mourning for a year. What do polite people talk about? Not magic or books or Greek mythology. Likely not gardening.
Loath as I am to admit it, this governess might be useful after all.
We eventually make our way down the crowded aisle and outside. Above us, white cotton-boll clouds scud across the cerulean sky. Branches sway in the breeze, sending leaves pirouetting to the ground. On either side of the walk, white chrysanthemums bloom. The plot needs weeding. The church and its white spire dominate the town square. The holding cell in the basement and the Brothers’ council chamber serve as jail and courthouse. All of Chatham stretches out from here: the general goods store, the stationer’s, the chocolatier’s, Belastras’ bookshop, the seamstress’s, the apothecary’s, the butcher’s, the bakery, a few dozen homes. Most of the population of Chatham lives on farms outside town, where they grow potatoes and corn, oats and hay, apples and blueberries.
Father has escaped the dread clutches of Mrs. Corbett and is chatting with Marianne Belastra, Finn’s mother. She’s a thin woman with gray twining through her rust-colored hair. She has Finn’s freckles—or the other way around, I suppose. Finn stands next to her, nodding enthusiastically at something Father says. His sister, Clara, tugs on the sleeve of his jacket. She’s Tess’s age, but tall and gangly, with enormous hands and feet that seem all out of proportion to the rest of her. Her skirt isn’t quite long enough; a hint of her petticoat peeks out beneath.
“Good day, Miss Cahill,” a deep voice says behind me.
I whirl around. It’s been ages since I’ve heard that dry growl, but I’d know it anywhere.
How on earth did I miss him in church? He must have slipped in at the last minute and sat behind us.
I knew Paul would be home soon; everyone in town knows. Mrs. McLeod’s talked of nothing else for weeks. He must have come a few days early
to surprise her. Still, I can’t help staring. He looks so much older. A man of nineteen, not a boy of fifteen. He’s taller—I barely come up to his nose now—and he’s got a close-cropped mustache and beard just a shade darker than his blond hair. He looks quite the gentleman in his frock coat, lounging indolently beneath a maple tree.
“Mr. McLeod, home at last. How are you?” I curtsy, wishing I’d worn a prettier dress. Apple green looks beautiful on Maura, but it does me no favors. Why didn’t I wear the mauve brocade?
“Quite well, thank you, and you?” He shifts from foot to foot. Is he as nervous as I am? His green eyes are so intent on my face, I can’t help flushing under the scrutiny.