Jack in the Pulpit by Riggs Cynthia

Author:Riggs, Cynthia [Riggs, Cynthia]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery, Martha's Vineyard
ISBN: 9780312330118
Google: S_9cGPH3wl0C
Amazon: 0312330111
Goodreads: 2189173
Publisher: Minotaur Books
Published: 2004-06-01T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 13

For some time Elizabeth had been meaning to organize the books in Victoria’s library. Today/ the storm Jessica had predicted hit, a blustery nor’easter, perfect for book sorting. The day was still mild enough, though, so she wouldn’t freeze in the unheated library, especially if she lighted a fire in the fireplace.

The rain pockmarked the fish pond to the east, pelted against the small windowpanes, ran down the glass in coalescing streams. Elizabeth could look through the library door and through the dining room windows and see the yellow leaves of the maple drop to the ground under the weight of the rain, laying a soggy yellow carpet. It was hard to tell where the drive left off and the lawn began.

She laid the fire in the library, brought in kindling, brittle sticks her grandmother had gathered from under the maple trees and stored in brown paper grocery bags. She felt a moment’s guilt as she brought in one of the bags. She was always hassling her grandmother about how trashy the paper bags of sticks looked in the entry. Yet on a wet day like this she was glad to have the kindling.

She would put poetry books next to the east window, travel and history books along the inside west wall next to the door that led into the dark front hall. Now the weather was cooler, she and Victoria kept all four hail doors closed, the grand front entrance and the doors that led into the parlor, the library, and the dining room. When Victoria hosted the Kippers’ meetings, members entered through the front door. Otherwise, it was seldom used.

Why did they put so many doors in houses back then? she wondered.

The room was full of furniture. No one had ever, ever thrown anything out, and as long as Elizabeth could remember, the library, a beautifully proportioned room, had been used as a junk room. Here was a tiny chair that had belonged to her great-great-grandmother, who had shortened its legs because she was so small. One of many objections to great-great-grandfather’s off-Island bride, besides the fact that she came from off-Island and his mother had already selected a local woman for her son’s wife, was that she was not statuesque like the Trumbulls.

Elizabeth carried some of the furniture up to the attic. She made three trips with chairs and tables, until, the library less cluttered, she had more room there in which to sort books.

The northeast wind blew a sheet of rain against the front windows, rattled the windowpanes, and moved the sheer curtains. Yellow leaves plastered against the panes. The fire flared briefly, then resumed a quiet hum.

Elizabeth culled out poetry books from every room in the house, including the downstairs bathroom, and carried them to the library, where she stacked them. The room above the library had been Aunt Rebecca’s room, two hundred years ago. It, too, had stacks of books that Elizabeth took down to the library.

Her grandmother appeared suddenly in the dining

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