A Season of Whispers Page 9

  Alas, while the proprietor—a girthful man with a mustache of eccentric length—did allow a small tailed monkey to climb onto Minerva’s shoulders, the zoological demonstration failed to contain anything larger than a house cat. Lyman strode among the tables, peering into the cages, not terribly impressed to learn such a wide and diverse array of rodents and weasels populated the planet.

  “A proud look, a lying tongue.”

  Lyman, by this time, was accustomed to hearing eerie voices uttering strange truths over his shoulder, yet nonetheless it never failed to unnerve him. He froze as if dipped in Rosendale cement; his skin turned icy; his stomach contracted into a knot, reducing his breath to short, shallow puffs. He had yet to hear the voice outside the stone house—or, at least, very far outside the house—but now it had, to all audile appearances, followed him to town.

  Slowly he turned toward the speaker.

  “A proud look, a lying tongue, and hands that shed innocent blood.”

  A gray bird regarded him from its perch upon a wooden stand, head cocked. A fine bracelet was cuffed around its ankle, connected to the dowel by a long chain knitted from tiny links. “These six things doth the Lord hate,” it said, and slowly it closed the lid over its shiny black eye in a wink.

  “Ha, ha,” said the proprietor, coming over to the stand. He stuck out two fingers and the bird obediently stepped onto them. “Merlin says such witty things, don’t you boy?” He held the bird toward Lyman for closer perusal. “A grey parrot from the jungles of Africa, sir. One of the few of God’s creations capable of human speech.”

  “Better than most,” said Merlin.

  “Remarkable,” said Lyman, still shaken. “I thought only we humans possessed the faculty to form our thoughts into words.”

  “Strictly speaking, that’s true, sir. Birds like Merlin can only mimic words and phrases they’ve heard before. They don’t voice original ideas. His original owner, for example, was fond of the Book of Proverbs, and therefore so is Merlin. Still, I have always been impressed by how well he knows when to repeat certain words. He is an uncanny judge of character and timing. Aren’t you, Merlin?”

  “Better than most.”

  Minerva had come up behind Lyman and stood on tiptoe in open-mouthed wonder at the bird. Lyman’s blood beat harder, very aware of her hands wrapped around his waist and her breasts pressed against his back. “My goodness,” she said, “your pet Merlin is a better conversationalist than most Methodists.”

  “Ha, ha. No doubt, miss. Though I’m afraid were you to have tea with Merlin, the discourse would grow cold sooner than your cup. His vocabulary is very limited.”

  “How many words does he know?” asked Lyman.

  “Oh —” The proprietor thought. “I would say no more than a hundred words. Again, they are only words he has heard spoken before.” The proprietor dropped his voice. “I always insist that no blasphemies be declared near him. I have heard other parrots say the most shocking things.”

  “Doth the Lord hate,” said Merlin.

  “Such beautiful tail feathers. Bright red,” said Minerva. “And just look at his wicked talons.” She stroked his foot with a forefinger. Though the curve of his beak remained unchanged, Merlin seemed to smile. “The scales of his legs are almost reptilian.”

  “Indeed, miss. I have often thought likewise. Frequently has it made me wonder about the true nature of the relationship between the lowest serpents in their holes and the birds in the branches overhead. The Maker’s design is truly mysterious.”

  Merlin cocked his head at Lyman. “A lying tongue,” he said, “better than most.”

  •••

  There is never a lack of chores to perform on a farm, and more than one plowman will opinionate that tasks multiply rather than lessen once the crops have been collected and the calendar descends into its penultimate month. With the harvest complete, the hogs sold, and the corn shucked, Bonaventure turned its focus toward winter.

  Repairs number among such tasks, and a particular antemeridian found Minerva and her father along a back acre mending a fence broken by time and weather. These were the chores Minerva liked best, the ones that took her outside the Consulate and, more specifically, outside its kitchen. Shelling peas and kneading dough were necessities she understood well, but they were jobs best left to rainy days. When the sun shone and one’s spine and arms were strong, what finer way could there be than to spend the hours out-of-doors, notching posts, and fitting rails? Not to mention more satisfying. Peas and bread rarely last until the morrow but a solid fence will sustain years.

  As they worked, Minerva scanned the tree line and was reminded of John Tyler the hog, who she imagined somewhere beyond—either wild in the woods, or more likely, butchered on the plate by some thief. This thread of thought led her to other disappearances as well.

  “I cannot help but take Mr. Sutton’s departure personally,” she said as they dug to extricate a broken post from its hole. “He isn’t the first to leave without an auf wiedersehen.”

  Her father stepped upon his shovel, driving it deeper into the soil at the base of the post. “I think his note explains all. He was driven by humiliation and leaving so quickly saved him embarrassment.”

  “Still, the hurt remains.”

  “For you, perhaps, and the rest. I believe too often it’s ourselves we wish to save from hurt, and in so doing, we cause incidental hurt to others.”

  “Do you remember John Bradway?”

  “I do.” Some emotion clouded her father’s face.

  “He likewise left without a farewell.”

  “The circumstances of his departure were much different.”

  Minerva ceased at the digging. “Why? Did you see him leave?”

  “Indeed. I was the last to see him go because I was the one to dismiss him.”

  “Father,” she said, “you didn’t.”

  His daughter regarded him with such intensity that Grosvenor was forced to stop and lean on his shovel. “I’m sorry, Minerva. I know you had tender feelings for each other. But I learned things about his past, things you don’t know, and I felt he did not have your best interests in mind.”

  “What sorts of things?”

  “Things I will not repeat. Things that don’t matter now. Regardless, when I confronted him and asked if they were true, he admitted they were. I therefore asked him to pack and depart the farm immediately.”

  “And that is why he never said good-bye to me,” said Minerva. “Did anyone else see him go?”

  Grosvenor shrugged. “I don’t recall. He left within the hour of our conversation.”

  They worked for another few moments in silence.

  “I know you remember Clemmie Russell,” said Minerva.

  “Of course.” Grosvenor smiled. “She was a sweet girl.”

  Minerva eyed him carefully. “And presumably still is. What was the context of her leaving, again? I fail to recollect the details.”

  “Her mother had taken ill. Clemmie had received a letter in the day’s post and departed by nightfall.”

  “Yes. That’s it. Again, I never saw her off. Strange that she’s never written to us since, if even to let us know her mother’s condition.”

  “Out of sight, out of mind, so the saying goes. Probably Clemmie forgot all about us in the turmoil of caring for her mother.” Grosvenor smiled at her. “You’re a suspicious sort this morning. What’s bothering you?”

  “Why, nothing at all.”

  Minerva laid aside her shovel, and pulling together, they dragged the post stump from its bed. Then they carried a fresh post from the cart and, with some huffing and puffing, placed it in the hole. They paused to catch their breaths.

  “Minerva,” said Grosvenor, “you must understand the differences here at Bonaventure.” He cleaned his glasses on his handkerchief. “We strive for egalitarianism, it’s true. But in the end, it doesn’t exist.”

  “How is that?”


  “Because it’s my name on the deed.” He replaced the glasses on his nose. “I speak plainly with you because as my daughter you bear some of the risk. Subscribers—people, friends—may come and go to Bonaventure, and take it and leave it as they wish. And that is precisely what they do, in the end. They come for a while, as it suits them, and then depart, again, as it suits them.”

  “There are the subscriptions, however. It’s not as simple as rolling a mattress into a bindle and wandering off down the road.”

  “No, you’re right—and thank Providence for that. If it weren’t for those stakes in Bonaventure, the turnover would be even higher. Yet even such money is no firm tether. Mr. Bradway asked for his money back, which I returned immediately. Mr. Sutton will probably do so once the full flush of his embarrassment passes. As I recall, Clemmie Russell never paid that much to begin with, so little was lost there.” He looked hard and frank at her. “If Bonaventure fails, then the members lose only what they’ve paid. They can always return to their old lives or start over again somewhere new. But if it fails, we—you and I and your mother—will be bankrupted. We will be indebted and hounded by creditors, forced into penury. In a word: ruined. We have much more to lose than the any of the rest. So much more. That’s why I wouldn’t worry yourself over departures. Let them go. We’re the ones who can’t leave.”

  Minerva nodded and bit her lip, the gravity of her father’s words falling on her like a shadow. And yet they still didn’t quite explain an absence of simple good-byes.

  •••

  The following morning, as she descended the staircase, Minerva saw the young man before he saw her.

  He sat on the bench by the front parlor window, his arm on the ledge, the other idly fingering the planter’s hat in his lap. As he gazed through the glass his head was turned slightly from her, and with her mind’s scissors, Minerva couldn’t help but cut the sharply defined features of his silhouette from black card stock. She was sure he was unaware of her presence, and yet the way he sat seemed almost a pose, as if he was an artist’s model silently listening to the pen or the brush as it moved over a canvas. For whom the pose was intended Minerva couldn’t guess, unless it was something learned after a lifetime of being self-conscious about his own handsomeness until it finally became unself-conscious.

  Not willing to be caught staring, Minerva intentionally brought her foot down on a specific lower step. At the stair’s squeak, the man sprang to his feet.

  “Beg your pardon, miss,” said the man, “I didn’t see you there.” His face was scrupulously clean shaven.

  “Another new recruit! No need for begging or pardons at Bonaventure.” She held out her hand. “I’m Minerva Grosvenor. So glad you’re ready to join our undertaking.”

  Instead of shaking her hand, however, he pressed it to his lips before releasing it. “I have to beg your pardon again, Miss Grosvenor. I’m not here to join your commune.”

  “Oh?”

  “I have some business with your father, David—I presume he’s your father?”

  “Yes, that’s right.” He did not strike Minerva as a banker or businessman; his clothes were too simple, his sleeves and hems too worn from travel. “And you are?”

  “My name’s Isaac Rose. I introduced myself to one of the other ladies of the house and she let me in. She said your father had gone for a walk but would return soon and I should wait.”

  “I see. I apologize for the mistake.”

  “No apology necessary, miss. I’m actually glad his absence provides an opportunity to wait. I am in awe of the view outside your window.” He gestured with his hat toward his former perch. “I’ve been told that nothing is finer than New England in the autumn, and I’d yet to behold it until these last few days.”

  “I’m afraid you’re a few weeks past our best foliage.” Minerva detected a slight drawl in his voice. “Have you traveled from the south?”

  “I am from the south originally, miss—northern Georgia, in fact. But I’ve most recently come east from Ohio, where I was traveling for work.”

  “That’s a fair distance to travel. I hope your trip was a success.”

  “It was not, I’m afraid to say. But I believe I may find more fruitful results here in Connecticut.”

  “And what is your profession?”

  Rose hesitated before answering, smiling a bashful smile. “I find people who are missing. Long-lost relatives, folks who may have inherited wealth. Folks who have something coming to them.”

  Involuntarily, Minerva stepped closer to him. “Like a ratiocinator?”

  Rose looked at her, then smiled again. “I’m afraid I don’t know what that word means.”

  “I apologize. It means, an investigator. Someone who investigates a mysterious event or circumstance—like, say, a crime—and determines the truth of it.”

  “Well, I don’t investigate crimes so much, although I’m sorry to say that too often the circumstances of the people I seek involve a crime of some sort.”

  “Really.”

  “I’ll admit something to you, Miss Grosvenor, although it does no credit to my reputation.” That smile again. “Currently I am in need of my own services. I have a pair of business partners, a Mr. Myerson and a Mr. Doyle. Do you know them, by any chance?”

  “I can’t say I’m acquainted with either gentleman, no.”

  Rose frowned. “It’s strange. They left a letter for me in a coffeehouse in Norwalk indicating I could find them here in Saltonstall. Unfortunately, no one in the area seems to have met or seen them.”

  “Being somewhat removed, we don’t make it into town very often, so I can’t speak to their whereabouts. I must say, however,” Minerva said, “I believe we have very much in common. I’d like to help you in any way I can.”

  “I’m much obliged to you for that, Miss Grosvenor.”

  Minerva shook her head. “You mentioned you were from Georgia. It’s funny, but just now I remember a gentleman here at Bonaventure once commented that he had a southern friend who corresponded with him. You wouldn’t know Tom Lyman, would you?”

  “Now it’s my turn to say I’m unacquainted with someone. Looks like we both need to broaden our horizons and meet more people.”

  “Perhaps I could introduce you to him before you go?”

  At that moment, the front door opened and Minerva’s father walked in, fresh from his morning ramble.

  “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Rose,” said Grosvenor after introductions were made. “I’d shake your hand but I’m afraid I need to wash them.” Minerva noticed her father’s hands were chalky with stone dust, as if he had been digging or breaking rocks.

  “Mr. Grosvenor,” said Rose, his palm extended and his tone very sincere, “no man should ever be ashamed for the soil of our blessed country that covers his hands. Both my grandpappies were farmers, as is my pappy to this day. To have hands dirtied in pursuit of a man’s honest profession is an honor, never something to apologize for.”

  Grosvenor beamed ear to ear. “Well said! Bonaventure would be privileged if we had more men like you.” And they clasped hands firmly.

  When they finally disengaged, Grosvenor waved toward his office. “Why don’t we sit down and discuss how I can assist you, Mr. Rose.”

  “Thank you,” said the young man. He nodded toward Minerva. “It was the greatest pleasure meeting you, Miss Grosvenor.”

  “Oh, by all means please call me Minerva.”

  “You flatter me. I’ll be sure to ask after your Mr. Lyman before I depart. Maybe we do have friends in common after all.”

  Then with another nod, the pair stepped into the office and her father shut the door behind them.

  •••

  Being an inveterate walker, Minerva often took strolls regardless of Lyman’s schedule, or anyone else’s for that matter. Sometimes Judith the young daughter of the Albys joined her on these woodland rambles. Each found they could confide in the other because their c
ircles rarely intersected: one lived in the Consulate, the other in the cabins; one was the daughter of the founder, the other the daughter of subscribers; one worked in the kitchen and the other in the fields, when not learning her Rs. It’s easier to speak freely with someone you don’t know too well.

  Such is the bottomless energy of youth that Judith rarely walked a straight line; instead she would often parallel Minerva on the trail, weaving around trees and stumps or hopping from rock to rock. That day their conversation wandered as much as they did, jumping subject to subject from the farm’s chickens to Judith’s schoolwork to her pregnant mother to a suspected romance between Nancy and Abraham, two of the farm’s members. Finally, the dialogue alighted on the topic of John Tyler the hog, and whatever had become of him. Judith was an unshakable proponent of the thin-air hypothesis.

  “Do they ever bother you, the stories about the farm?” Judith asked.

  “Which stories? You mean the ones about people vanishing?”

  “Yes. Bitty Breadsticks told me about them once. But not too much because I think she didn’t want to frighten me.”

  “I doubt anything can frighten you. No,” said Minerva, “I can’t say they particularly do. They’re just ghost stories handed down over the generations, becoming more dramatic over time. I suspect the Garrick family wasn’t popular around here and the stories were intended to disparage them. Like the witch trials of Salem. Someone didn’t like the Garricks, so they spun lies about them being witches to hurt them.”

  “I think people really did vanish. They probably fell into sinkholes like the one that swallowed Mr. Hollin’s body.”

  Minerva frowned. The final resting place of Mr. Hollin, somewhere so deep below the ground as to be unseen, had never rested easy with her. More should’ve been done even if she didn’t know what that more was. “If sinkholes were the case, then people would just say so. They would say, ‘Watch out! The old Garrick farm is full of holes!’ The stories would maintain the rational explanation. Instead they veer into the irrational, which is a good clue they’re not trustworthy.”