it just a bit better,” Bridget said practically. “We can at least shove the bed a little closer there, and no one will see it.”
“No. You wash off your hands, Bridge. You’re a mess. I’ll tuck them in farther.”
Sophie stood and adjusted her clean skirt and smoothed a strand of blond hair back into the bun she would soon hide under her bonnet.
At that moment they heard a rumble and froze. It was the same moan they heard every morning—that of the pipes being used before the boiler had quite heated enough water.
“We’d best just leave,” Bridget whispered.
Sophie nodded, and they seized their bags and fled.
They saw not a soul as they tripped down the halls and exited the foyer. As they were leaving, Sophie turned around and stared at the place that had given them sanctuary for the most glorious of autumns.
She gasped and held her hand to her mouth, and Bridget turned back to see what had spooked her.
“Oh God,” she muttered.
They both saw it, pressed against the window of the front room. The bulbous nose, the drooping and bushy mustache. The eyes with more than a touch of madness corrupting all that lay behind them.
“Sophie,” Bridget whispered, her voice not carrying under the rumble and jouncing of the horse’s hooves and the buckboard.
“That’s him,” Sophie whispered back, her voice taking on a vicious pleasure. “And if that’s where he stays, then good for him. May he lord his madness over that house for as long as God lets him.”
“I’d prefer God kicked him right in the teeth,” Bridget prayed in a fit of fear.
“Well, I’d prefer God not know about anything that transpired tonight,” James said glumly.
Both the women startled, and Sophie said clearly, “James, you have nothing to hide from God. Do you understand me?”
James couldn’t meet his sister’s eyes. “Oh, such brave words. I’ll try to believe them, Sophie my dear. For your sake, I shall try.”
“HE DID,” Sophie said sadly, her voice breaking the spell the memory had woven over the four of them “He tried. I know he tried desperately for Henrietta—he loved the two of us, loved that we kept her company when he traveled.” She used the apron tied around her waist to wipe her eyes. “But he would fall into black moods in the autumn, and even after he confessed to Henri what we’d done, he still had trouble forgiving himself. He lived a good life, mostly, but a part of him died in that room that night. That’s what happens when a good man murders, even for the best of reasons, you understand?”
Tucker nodded, and Angel squeezed his hand. He gave a bare hint of a smile and turned back to the women.
“Sophie?”
She looked at him expectantly.
“Can you think of anything in that room that might have been James’s?” He showed her the rest of what was in the box. “Are any of these things his? A button? The letter opener? The hole punch?”
Sophie shook her head.
“No, my dear. What is it you’re looking for?”
Tucker sighed. “I’m looking for a memento. Something solid that will pull his spirit away from Daisy Place and bring it back here where it belongs.”
Bridget suddenly popped up, releasing Angel’s hand without thought. Angel’s other hand slid through Tucker’s like mist, and Angel suppressed a sigh.
It had been a lovely interlude, but now it was over.
“Sophie! Sophie!”
Sophie grinned like a girl. “Oh, I know what you’re excited about.” The two of them began walking slow circles around the pinnacle stone. “Come on, boys,” Sophie cried. “It’s a treasure hunt for sure!”
Tucker and Angel looked at each other and then began to follow in the women’s footsteps.
“What are we looking for?” Tucker asked.
“Oh, it’s too wonderful,” Sophie exclaimed, clapping. “Tucker, right there, can you feel it?”
Tucker paused then and dropped to his knees in the corner of the family plot. His face lit up, and he began to dig. The crabgrass was horrible—Angel could see that—but Tucker kept going in spite of the cuts the tougher-than-fishing-line roots left in the corners of his knuckles. Soon he had a four-inch by four-inch hole, and he rooted delicately with his fingers.
“Yes!” he cried after what seemed a breathless hour. “Angel, come here. Can you feel the story?”
Angel came toward him, and in his head….
LITTLE JIMMY, James’s namesake, whose father had died in the war, had stood there. His coat, a solid red wool, was many sizes too large and worn through in places. But it had belonged