Nobody's Secret Part 7

She hesitated, her hand on the gate. Across the road was a field of corn, the tall stalks swaying in the faint breeze. A scarecrow in the center of the field seemed to question her resolve. Emily looked down the road in both directions. It was reasonably busy with pa.s.sing carriages and wagons. At least she wasn't completely alone.

She pushed open a creaking gate and stepped carefully through the brambles. They grabbed at her ankles as though they were trying to snare her. She steeled herself to keep going.

Although there was no sign of human activity, everywhere there was movement. Bees darted among the apple blossoms, the honeysuckle, the clover. Emily hesitated, staring up at the forbidding house. She wasn't one to shirk her self-imposed duty, but she was reluctant to climb those rickety steps and knock on that door.

But perhaps she didn't have to. The honey had led her here. If the honey was not the same, she need not knock. It was only prudent to verify the flavors first, she thought. She pushed away the knowledge that she was being cowardly.

Through the trees, she saw half a dozen wooden hives. She went closer. Glancing back, she was relieved to see that the house was lost to view behind a dozen apple trees. She wouldn't be observed.

Each box quivered with the crawling of hundreds-no, thousands-of bees. The thrum of their activity made the bones behind her ears shiver. Her brother had tried to keep bees one summer without success, so she had some experience with the creatures.

Trying to act as though she had every right to do so, she lifted the top of a hive and peered inside. She could see the honey in combs at the bottom, their sweetness out of reach.

Emily climbed on an old crate and reached down to the honeycomb. In an instant, her hand was carpeted with swarming insects. The bees whirred, and she felt as though she were buzzing too. She didn't dare move and for a moment the honey was forgotten, as was her investigation. Emily couldn't take her eyes off her hand, as though it were something separate from herself. She had never felt anything as consuming as the sensation of a thousand bees crawling across her skin.

A bee flew up and tangled itself in her hair. With her free hand, Emily shooed it away and brought herself back to her task. Gently brushing the bees off her hand, she broke off a piece of comb, soaked with honey the color of burnt gold.

Carefully replacing the hive's cover, she moved away and brought the honeycomb to her lips. It dripped in her hand, staining her sleeve. It smelled like perfume distilled from the orchard and flowers all around her. Her finger touched her lips and the burst of flavor spread through her limbs.

It was unmistakably the same honey. Mr. n.o.body had been here. He had tasted this honey and carried some away to Emily. She floated on the memory of his callused finger on the tip of her nose.

"Ow!" While Emily was lost in her reverie, a furious bee that had followed her from the hive stung her hand. She dropped the honeycomb and took stock of the damage. A stinger was sticking upright in her skin. Wincing, she pulled it out. She prodded at the small swollen lump, acutely aware of the poison spreading through her blood like the bindweed that infiltrated her flowerbeds.

Emily looked around for the well that she knew must be there-cold water would relieve the sting. Unfortunately, wells were always close to houses. Now that she knew that Mr. Wentworth's honey was the same as Mr. n.o.body's, she would have to approach anyway. She made her way through the orchard toward the dilapidated house.

As she trudged forward, she heard faint voices from inside the house. She abandoned the idea of finding the well and wondered whether she should knock on the door-or would she learn more if she played spy.

Straining to hear the voices, she approached as stealthily as one of Vinnie's hunting cats. Emily detoured from the front door to a window, open to catch the least breeze. She flattened her body below the sill and listened hard. The heat felt as though it was pressing down on her skin. Her heart hammered in her ears, nearly drowning out the voices of the men inside.

"If you love your family, Henry, go back to New Haven. Please." It was an old man's voice, full of strain. He must be Mr. Wentworth, Emily thought, wiping perspiration from her forehead.

"Not until I have some answers," a younger male voice replied. "Uncle, did you know my cousin . . . ?"

"What do you know about him?" the old man asked warily.

"He's alive-that's the most surprising thing." His voice was bitter. Emily raised her eyebrows.

"Henry, go back to school. We don't need you here." The old man's voice had equal parts anger and fear.

Emily felt breathless with her success. Mr. n.o.body had been here-this was established by the honey. Mr. n.o.body had told her he had come to town on family business, and here was this Henry, surprised to see his cousin. Was Mr. n.o.body his cousin? But then why would Henry be surprised he was alive? She pressed her body close to the wall and felt the splintered wood against her cheek.

"What were you thinking?" Henry asked angrily. "Didn't you realize it was a fraud? Mother could go to jail!"

"Don't judge her. After all, she did it so you could go back to school."

"Jail?" Emily nearly spoke aloud. Mr. n.o.body had mentioned a crime. She hoisted herself closer, pulling herself up on the windowsill. But the sill, as dilapidated as the rest of the house, disintegrated in her hands with a loud crack.

She dropped to the ground and huddled against the wall, praying that no one had heard the noise. Her legs trembled, begging her to run, but surely that would draw even more attention. She closed her eyes and made herself feel small. After a few moments that felt like hours, she decided that she was safe.

An angry voice drove every thought of safety from her mind. "What are you doing here?

Emily's eyes flew open and her breath was shallow. A furious old man with a red face, standing not three feet from her dusty boots, stared down at her.

"Mr. Wentworth?" she asked, her voice trembling.

"Who is asking?" A white crown of hair gave him an aspect of a snowy owl. His white bushy eyebrows punctuated pale blue eyes that raked her from head to toe. He saw the honey on her dress and his eyes grew even more hostile. "You stole my honey!"

Emily clambered to her feet and arranged her skirt. After a steadying breath, she replied, "I wasn't stealing. I was comparing your honey with some I tasted four days ago. It was the same."

"You're mistaken. I didn't even sell any to that thief Cut- ler this year. No one has my honey but me. Get out." He gestured to the gate.

"A young man gave me the honey," she insisted, resisting the almost overwhelming desire to bolt for home. There were facts here to be discovered.

Mr. n.o.body had said he had a relative who raised bees. Emily stared at Mr. Wentworth, comparing his features with her memory of Mr. n.o.body's. Was there a resem- blance? If Mr. n.o.body had had the chance to grow old, would his blond hair have turned white? She couldn't be sure.

"I'm not interested in your nonsense." Mr. Wentworth turned to go back in the house, walking with a slight limp. Without looking back, he said, "My bees don't like visitors and neither do I."

A young man appeared from around the corner of the house. Emily caught her breath. The irrational hope that flared in her breast was followed by a stab of disappointment. The newcomer might have the same build as Mr. n.o.body and possess the same voice, but he was a stranger. And of course, the greatest difference of all: This young man was alive.

"Uncle, there's no one around back." He saw Emily and stopped short. "Who is this?

"She's leaving," Mr. Wentworth said, pausing on the first step of the rickety porch.

Emily summoned her courage. "Mr. Wentworth, to whom did you give a chunk of honeycomb on Friday? Hon-eycomb that tasted of clover, honeysuckle, and apples?"

He came back and stood close-too close-to Emily, staring suspiciously. She held her ground with an effort; she had never seen a man so tightly wound around his own temper.

"I was in Northampton, buying a new carriage," he answered grudgingly. "Not that it's any of your business."

Emily turned to the nephew, steeling herself to look him in the face. "What about you, then?" she asked, remembering not to betray her eavesdropping by call- ing him Henry. "Perhaps a long-lost member of the family came to visit and you offered him some honey?"

The young man's face darkened and he burst out, "I don't talk about my family to strangers."

"I told you that someone was listening outside the window," Mr. Wentworth said grimly. He moved closer to Emily. The nephew shifted from one foot to another and licked his lips nervously. Emily felt her breath come more quickly. She retreated and found herself backed against the house. Mr. Wentworth came toward her.

Suddenly there were voices from the road. Through the apple trees, Emily saw a farmer and a lad driving a small herd of cows toward town.

"Uncle . . . " the young man said urgently.

Emily seized her chance. While their attention was on the potential witnesses, she gathered all her fear and courage and took off through the trees. She was halfway to the road before Mr. Wentworth even saw that she was gone.

Bursting though the creaking gate, she startled the farmer and his cows. Falling into step with her unlikely rescuers, she glanced back. Mr. Wentworth had taken a few steps, but his nephew restrained him. Their glares followed her down the dirt road.

Nature -the gentlest mother is.

Impatient of no child -,

The feeblest or the waywardest -

Her admonition mild -

CHAPTER 8.

It was afternoon by the time Emily arrived home; she had missed dinner. She went straight to the pump in the garden. Her skin was tight with dried sweat. Cupping her hands to catch the ice-cold water, she splashed her face. Then she filled the tin cup hanging on a hook by the pump and drank until she was as refreshed as she could be without a change of clothing.

Eyeing the house, she decided to enter by the front door. With any luck, her mother would still be resting and Emily could slip by and postpone the inevitable scolding. Since Emily knew exactly what would be said, she saw no reason to rush toward the confrontation.

"Emily Elizabeth!"

Perhaps there was no more luck to be had today.

"Where have you been?" Her mother was waiting in the parlor. She must have been watching for Emily's return. "Look at that dress! You'll be lucky if those stains come out. What have you been doing to get so dirty?

Emily felt fatigued down to the marrow of her bones. Her feet hurt and the bee sting throbbed. Worse, her chest was beginning to feel hollow, a sure sign that the coughing was not too far behind. Once her mother heard her cough, Emily's freedom would be gone. She needed to rest and, above all, she needed time to think. But her mother's anger filled the room.

"Well, Emily?"

"Mother, I'm confused. Which question should I answer first?" She felt guilty the moment she said it. It was one of her worst character flaws to resort to impertinence when she was in the wrong.

"Emily, your tone is unacceptable." Her mother pushed herself up from the chair. Emily could make out the spidery veins under the surface of her mother's pale complexion. With a rush of contrition, she hurried to her mother's side and placed a careful arm around her waist.

"Mother, you don't look well. Let me help you to bed." She led her mother upstairs to her bedroom, a room that felt too large when Mr. d.i.c.kinson was away.

"Emily . . ."

"Mother, I know I've been an awful daughter. Please don't exhaust yourself by scolding me right now." Emily added mischievously, "If you like, I can punish myself while you take a nap."

In spite of herself, a wan smile appeared on her mother's lips.

"I'll be better, I promise." Emily fluffed her mother's pillow and tucked a quilt around her mother's legs.

"You will have no choice," Mrs. d.i.c.kinson said simply. "Your father is coming home."

Emily's hands froze. "Father?"

Mrs. d.i.c.kinson closed her eyes and said sleepily, "Yes. I asked him to come home for a quick visit. If you won't pay me any attention, I know you'll listen to him."

"When will he be here?"

"Next Monday."

That meant Emily had only six days to discover the ident.i.ty of Mr. n.o.body and why he died. Not a long time, especially when she had ch.o.r.es. But Mr. d.i.c.kinson worried about Emily's health, too. He could not be got around as easily as her mother. And with a sinking stomach, Emily realized that once Mr. d.i.c.kinson found out what she was doing, her investigation would be over.

She drew the curtains in her mother's room and was closing the door quietly behind her when her mother's voice, still gentle but with a hint of steel, said, "Emily, my dear, tomorrow you'll do the laundry by yourself."

All solicitude for her invalid mother forgotten, Emily protested loudly, "By myself! That will take an eternity. It's not fair."

"Your sister isn't jumping into ponds or rolling in the gra.s.s. Your soiled dresses make up half the laundry basket. You will do it by yourself."

"Yes, Mother," Emily said dutifully, though she was seething. How could she pursue her investigations while she was up to her elbows in soapy water? But there was no arguing with her mother once her mind was made up.

"Emily, sometimes I think you don't listen to my stories from the newspaper. Do you remember the girl in Atlanta who died of overexertion? She was running outside." Her mother was still mumbling drowsily as Emily closed the door. "I daresay her dress was dirty, too."

Fifteen minutes later, Emily was in a clean dress and her hair was neatly brushed and securely tucked under a net cap. She went warily down the back stairs to the kitchen. The encounter with her mother had gone so poorly that she could not predict how sour Vinnie's welcome would be. But when she came into the kitchen there were no remonstrations, no temper-not even a question. Vinnie was finishing up the washing from the dinner that Emily had missed.

"Vinnie?" There was no reply. "Darling Vinnie, I'm so sorry."

Silence.

"I had something important to do and I lost track of time. Please forgive me."

Vinnie finished the last dish. She dried her hands and calmly walked past Emily into the parlor. Emily, growing frustrated, followed. "Vinnie, I said I was sorry. You're being petty."

As Emily had hoped, Vinnie couldn't stand to be put in the wrong. She whirled around and faced her sister, hands on her hips. "Petty? I did your ch.o.r.es today. I told tales to keep you out of trouble. I prepared dinner by myself. And I took care of mother. I haven't had a moment to myself all day!"

Emily clasped her sister's hands between her own. "I know, darling Vinnie. And it's my fault. Tomorrow you shall gambol with your kittens and eat bonbons all day if I have to make them myself." With an air of extreme virtue, she said, "I'll even do all the laundry alone."

"You are a complete fraud." Vinnie burst out laughing. "I know that Mother is making you do the washing tomorrow, so don't offer it up to me on a sacrificial platter!"

"All right, I'll clean the chamber pots for a week!"

"Now that is a sacrifice." Vinnie grinned.

Relieved to have her sister's good humor back, Emily sank onto the sofa.

"If you were truly sorry," Vinnie said as she perched in the coziest armchair, "you would tell me what you've been doing."