Free The Dark by Claire Mulligan Page B

bible box. She takes a small bag of grain and goes out into the limpid spring morning, into Mechanics Square Park, and settles on the narrow bench far from the other park-goers. Sparrows, just returned from their winter vanishing, flick jewel-drops of water from a pedestal bath. The sparrows slumber underground some learned men say. Others speak more fantastically of the birds flying to Africa, which might as well be the moon, and that is a theory also.
    Leah tosses some grain and more birds swoop to the flagstones. Oriole and warbler. Vesper sparrow and kingbird. Humility bird. Finch. She can identify many. Is happy as a treasure hunter when she spies a new variety. Oddly, she does not wish them stuffed and put in a curiosity cupboard to be viewed at her leisure, not even though the cross-hatch scars on her forearms were dealt her by birds, by, indeed, a multitudinous flock of the passenger pigeons. This incident—witnessed by her father only—is hazed by years, and engenders no terror or resentment, only a certainty she has been marked somehow, a certainty that grows when she hears, as now, the birds give voice to what must be God’s music for God’s enjoyment; for why else would He bid them sing? A pity that Leah lacks the daring to write music that warbles and trills, music that is an improvisation without clear pattern or end. Music bursting with colour. God would enjoy such music. And Leah surely would. But it would perplex all others.
    She tosses the last of the grain. Pushes any thought of her father from her mind, any thought of his letter. She must rouse the girls. She will tell them “enough.” This peddler’s ghost must depart. He has no use among the living except to annoy the neighbours. Not the worst of uses … Still. Her father might be correct. She should not make too much of the raps. It might be courting trouble, disaster even.
    Just then a cardinal, brilliant red, larger than all the others, hurtles to the flagstones. The other birds are no match for him. They scatter as he takes his due from what has been cast down.
    A fortnight later, Leah writes a letter of her own. She addresses it to her mother only. The girls have been asking for their mother, andLeah could certainly use her help with cooking and care-taking. And then there is the no small matter of Calvin Brown’s arrival a week ago. Leah knows her reputation is solid as hewn oak. Still, her mother’s presence will thwart any stray gossip about the gangle-limbed Calvin being too handsome and solicitous to be anyone’s adopted brother.
    30 June, 1848
    Dearest Mother,
    I have news of great and terrible import. You must come forthwith to Rochester. The girls and I so need your support and worthy presence. I suppose Father is too busy building that house of his and he has said the knocks need be ignored and are of no consequence anywise. I am in complete disagreement, as one might as well ignore a charging ox or a musical crescendo!
    Now, the moment our dear Calvin heard of our travails he came bounding into Mechanics Square. How we needed his manly courage last night. My heavens. My word! Such terror and havoc. The wretched ghost must have stolen the candles, for none could be found in the dark and we were as blind as moles whilst the ghost heaved up our bed and tore off our bedclothes. The ghost was soon joined by others and the horrid things then pelted poor Calvin with carpet balls and struck him with a candlestick, bloodying his lip. That stopped the dramatics, I assure you. I played nurse as best I could. Calvin begged I dab his lip ever harder to staunch the dreadful bleeding, while Margaretta, Katherina and Elizabeth all watched in tears. And then Calvin seized my hand and swore that he would protect us or die in the attempt, that he would give up everything for me, for us, and so on. He drew up all manner of strategies and battle plans. You know how he is.
    That, naturally, is not the terrible news of great import. No, it is this: