Page 37 of A Lullaby for Witches

The day was fine and fair with crisp blue skies, the kind of day for which sailors pray. I had decided that whether Jack claimed the baby as his and married me or not, that I would keep and raise the child. Henry was convinced that Jack would abandon me. “Fear not,” Henry had said, “I won’t let anything happen to you. Come to Boston and I’ll see that you and the babe are cared for.” Oh, what a child I had felt like then, as my older brother had laid out my options and taken control of the situation. I wanted to prove Henry wrong, but deep down I feared he was right.

Taking a deep breath outside the shop, I pushed open the door, only to find that a young Black man was working behind the counter, not Jack. I mumbled my excuse when he asked if I needed help, and then stumbled back outside. I had assumed that Jack would be at the store, even though I knew little of what he did during the days when I did not see him. I could not go to his house—or rather—Iwouldnot go to his house. I had too much self-respect to throw myself upon his step and beg admittance.

I was standing in the street, pondering which way to go, when I saw him. He was dressed sharply in plaid trousers and a frock coat, and it struck me that I rarely saw him in such a way; usually in our encounters his arms were bare, his collar open and hair tousled. No sooner had I taken in these details than my gaze slid to the young woman hanging on his arm. She was saying something, and he was leaning down to hear her, a faint smile on his lips. Lucy Clerkenwell was everything that I was not: petite, blonde, demure and modest. She was the picture of a seaside rose with her blushing cheeks and her pretty frock of blue silk with lace peeking out of the collar.

Perhaps he was just escorting her home from the shop or something else equally innocent, but there was something in the way she was looking up at him with naked adoration that told me it was anything but. The bottom of my stomach felt like it was falling, falling, falling.

A cart reeking of fish rumbled by, and someone shouted at me to mind myself before I was run over. My shock lasted only a moment, and then was replaced by seething anger.

I knew the rumors about him and Lucy—how could I not? I kept abreast of everything in Tynemouth—but it was one thing to hear about it in passing, and quite another to see her hand possessively wrapped around the crook of his arm.

Jack only looked momentarily surprised when he saw me marching toward him, murder in my eyes. Lucy clung tighter to his arm.

Jack made the mistake of speaking first. Clearing his throat, he gave me a short nod. “Hello, Miss Harlowe.”

Oh, but I could have smacked him. “‘Miss Harlowe’ in the street, is it? Do you only reserve pet names such as ‘wildflower’ and ‘my little witch’ for such occasions when your trousers are down and my back up against a tree?”

Lucy recoiled, her big blue eyes going round as saucers. I took some satisfaction in making her pouty lips go tight, the roses in her cheeks fade in color. “Maggie, I—” Jack started.

I spit at his feet. “Don’t you call me that, Jack Pryce. Don’t you dare.”

People in the road had stopped to watch the spectacle unfold, but I couldn’t spare them an ounce of care. Let them stare, let them think the witch girl mad. The man to whom I’d entrusted my heart and my future was parading down Main Street with another woman and I couldn’t muster an ounce of shame or modesty.

He pulled his arm out of Lucy’s grasp and I reveled in the displeasure in her pretty blue eyes. “Please, Maggie, not here. I can explain everything.” His voice was low and urgent, and I hated that he looked so beautiful with the sun in his dark hair.

I would not give him the satisfaction of explaining himself. Turning on my heel, I stalked back home to the woods. Loitering oyster shuckers in their rough caps and coveralls stared at me, their fingers crooked and malodorous from years of prying open shells. Sooty buildings, crusted in salt and disappointment, rose up on either side of me, threatening to grind me down into the mud and fish guts that polluted the road. It was a small town full of small people and smaller dreams. I might have settled for any number of the men here, but I wanted only Jack. Though my heart was fit to shatter, I would have given anything to hear the sound of Jack following after me, to have him catch me by the arms and demand that I forgive him and give him another chance. But there were no footsteps, no grand declarations. He was not coming after me. He had made his choice, and I was left to suffer the consequences.

20

Augusta

Augusta took her time walking back to Harlowe House after her interview with Claudia, the sharp salt air bringing her muddled thoughts into focus. If only there was some way to find material evidence of Margaret and what had transpired between her and Phebe. It would be like finding a needle in a haystack, and that was if there evenwasany evidence. There was one place where she hadn’t looked, so as soon as she got back to her office, she grabbed a clipboard and headed out back. She waved to Reggie, who was across the lawn weed-whacking, and let herself into the carriage house.

Ghosts or no, there was no getting around the fact that the Harlowe carriage house storage was creepy. It was stuffy and quiet, the sounds from outside muffled, the stillness amplified, and even with the lights on it seemed shrouded in shadows. Yet it was one of the best places on the property to work, just Augusta and the objects with no distractions.

This was where all the objects that had never properly been inventoried or accessioned had ended up. Jill was eager for her to get everything inventoried so they could start moving things to their climate-controlled storage in Boston and convert the carriage house into a space for community functions and exhibits.

She set herself up with a chair, propped up her phone on a shelf to play some music and then picked up where she had left off in cataloging. As much as she wanted to jump around and dig for something that could have been Margaret’s, she forced herself to go in order. Most of the objects were from when the house had been bought in the 1960s and furnished with reproduction antiques, but there was also a good amount of stuff that had been left in the house when it was abandoned. A big cardboard box filled with mildewedNational Geographicmagazines and rusted tools was next on the shelf, so Augusta dutifully recorded everything, snapped a picture for her condition reports and moved the box to her pile to bring back to the house.

When she reached for the next item on the shelf, her hand stilled. Amongst the cardboard boxes and rusted tools there sat a gleaming mahogany lap desk, seemingly untouched by dust or age. It was the sort that would have sat on the user’s lap, the slanted top providing an inviting surface for writing.

Carefully, Augusta opened the lid with her gloved hand, releasing a puff of warm, woodsy air. Her heart skipped a beat when she saw the faint inscription of a name. Gently lifting it closer, she was disappointed to see that it wasn’t Margaret Harlowe, but Ida Foster. She frowned. The name was familiar, but she couldn’t immediately place it. Inside the writing desk was a time capsule of accoutrements for a young woman’s correspondence in the nineteenth century. Each item, from the inkwell to the pens to the faded stamps, would need to be individually cataloged and assessed for conservation. Just as Augusta was closing the lid to put it back, her fingers found a ridge underneath the lid. A false panel.

She hesitated. It could be risky to open it if the wood wasn’t stable, but just like in her hallucinations, she felt herself moving as if from beyond her control, and before she could stop herself, she was sliding the wood to the side.

Tucked flat inside the hidden compartment was a slim bundle of letters bound with the faded remnants of a pink ribbon.

She really should put the letters back in the drawer, make a note, and then let Jill know what she had found; opening them would be unprofessional at best. But instead, she found herself carefully leafing through them.

A quick scan through the first couple of letters revealed that Ida Foster had been George Harlowe’s wife. Augusta remembered now that George and Ida had inherited Harlowe House after Clarence Harlowe Senior’s death, and had lived there with their four children well into the 1910s.

For all Augusta knew, these could be duplicates, with copies already in the archives. But something told her that she was the first person to see these letters in over a century.

Scanning the looping cursive lines, she gathered that Ida had been corresponding with George Harlowe following their engagement, but before their marriage. They weren’t steamy love letters by any means; they were disappointingly mundane. Ida talked about her trousseau and plans to have some new gloves made. There was some gossip from a day trip she’d taken up the coast with girls from her church group. It wasn’t exciting, but this kind of information would be invaluable to the historical interpretation of the house and the family. Augusta was just resolving to put them back and let Jill know when a line caught her eye.

I understand if you wish the wedding to be postponed. Of course, it is not what we had hoped, but my parents will understand. It is a great tragedy, and I cannot imagine how this must be weighing on your heart. You will forgive my indelicacy in asking, but do the authorities suspect foul play?

Augusta sucked in her breath. Foul play? She flipped through to the next letter and scanned past the initial pleasantries.

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