Eventide by Sarah Goodman

Author:Sarah Goodman
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates

20

I bided my time until Saturday morning, thinking it would be easier to talk to Miss Maeve at her house than at the school. I’d worked myself to the bone, knowing Hettie and Big Tom would be more inclined to let me go visiting if my chores were done well.

Neither Abel, Big Tom, nor Hettie asked for more details about my visit to the Mayhews. Curiosity buzzed around them like flies, but they cared about my feelings enough not to pry for specifics beyond my vague “I was wrong about having family in Argenta.”

The weekend dawned fair and hot, and after breakfast, I caught a ride to Miss Maeve’s house with Abel. He dropped me off at the Lybrand property before heading into town to visit Jasper. “Tell Lilah I said hello,” he called as I watched him ride away on Merlin.

Soon enough I’d be able to tell him this stop wasn’t about seeing Lilah. It was about seeing the woman I thought could be Mary Eve Mayhew, and possibly bringing a family back together. I’d lost my mother to the grave and my father, at least as he’d once been, to the cruel torments of a broken mind. Miss Maeve didn’t need to live without her parents. That was one tragedy in her sad story that could be rewritten.

I found her kneeling in the dirt of a rose bed. Her fingers moved deftly among the thorns, breaking off withered blossoms faded to the color of old parchment. She stood as I crossed the shade-dappled lawn. Her face betrayed a flicker of confusion, and maybe a bit of annoyance, at my unexpected arrival. “Why, Verity, how nice to see you. I’m afraid Lilah just went inside to rest. We’ve been gardening since sunup.”

Why had she chosen my sister in particular, and not any other eleven-year-old orphan girl? It struck me as strange that I’d never asked myself the question before. Did she know Lilah was Matthew Pruitt’s child, and the connection appealed to her?

“I’m sorry for coming without an invitation,” I said. “Actually, it’s you I’d like to speak with, not Lilah.”

She tilted her head, sending a lock of silvery blond hair slipping from beneath her kerchief. This decidedly not-red hair was enough to make me question my theory that Miss Maeve was Mary Mayhew. Perhaps, as with Marie-Antoinette before her execution, Miss Maeve’s hair had lost its color during a time of extreme duress.

I hesitated, unsure of how to proceed. “Miss Maeve, was your hair red when you were younger?”

Her laugh sounded breathy, and a little nervous. “What an odd question. As a matter of fact—and I can’t imagine how you guessed—it was. I believe it began turning light when I was around your age.”

She picked up a pair of hedge clippers, avoiding my eyes as she turned her attention to the climbing roses. “I’ve been told it is the result of a rare medical condition. The name of it escapes me.” Her knuckles around the handles were white. “I’ll have to ask Uncle Reuben.

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