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  She knew Lou was right—something was wrong with Mother. But there was nothing she could do. There was never anything she could do. Except wish her father hadn’t come back.

  “I used to think,” Lou’s voice called her attention, “if I was an orphan—especially when my pa goes after me.”

  But Lou’s father was a bad man—even with the new law prohibiting liquor, Lou’s father managed to go on getting drunk because he had found a job on boats smuggling illegal whiskey down from Canada. Except for the smuggling job, Lou’s father didn’t keep any work he got. He’d moved to Maine when he was through working in the Rhode Island mills; he lived as a coastal for a season, gathering up whatever debris floated down from the lumber camps, and lumber mills, selling it wherever he could. Then he moved into the village, rented a two-room lean-to behind the blacksmiths stable, and hired his sons out to lobstermen and fishermen when they needed an extra hand, taking their wages himself. Lou, he had brought with him, that first day when he came out to ask Mother if she needed a man to work the fields. “She’s strong and she’s obedient,” he’d said. Lou hadn’t said anything. “And she’s honest,” he’d added, as if Mother might be wondering about that.

  “I don’t know that being an orphan is so bad,” Lou said.

  What did Lou think, if she thought she could feel sorry for Clothilde, and Mother? Clothilde couldn’t stand people feeling sorry for her. She didn’t want anybody’s pity. Especially a servant’s.

  She didn’t say a word to Lou, didn’t even show she’d heard the words. She picked up the bucket by its steel handle and went out, through the ell. If there were going to be wars, she thought, going outside onto the grassy yard, then it should be different. If God wanted there to be wars, and men wanted to kill people and conquer other countries—it wasn’t just men who got hurt, either, it was people who had nothing to do with it, women and children, old people, sick people—Edith Cavell, she had been a nurse and they shot her, and they dropped bombs on the city of London where all kinds of people lived, not just soldiers—and there were French farms and towns that got used as battlefields….

  If she were God, Clothilde thought, crossing the grass, she wouldn’t have wars. Or, if there had to be wars, then the men would either get killed or not. There wouldn’t be any wounded, there wouldn’t be anybody like Jeb Twohey, it would be everything or it would be nothing. You’d die or you’d come back fine.

  She went down the wooden steps to the beach, holding the railing carefully with one hand. She had read the newspapers the teacher brought to school. She could read through them, she had plenty of time at recesses—she could tell when someone was too stupid to see the truth of what he was describing, or when he was trying to hide the truth—and that showed what he was trying to hide. You couldn’t trust what they said in the newspaper, she’d figured that out. Clothilde read the articles, and looked at the maps, and used her head, and she couldn’t understand why God let anybody have a war.

  She crossed the beach, walking out until she met the incoming tide. She lifted the bucket up and poured its contents back into the water.

  The man in the boathouse had come back a week ago. He had walked up the driveway, with the sun behind him, so he was like a walking shadow, dark and featureless. He wore a short coat and his hat brim hid his face, and his bent head hid his face. He walked slowly, arms stiff. By the time he got to the front door, they had all gathered there, except Lou, because Lou spent Sunday nights in the village with her family.

  It was last Sunday, the Sabbath, when the man returned. He stood there with his head down, so all they could see was the top of his broad hat. Then he lifted his face to let them see him.

  Dierdre cried out, and cried for Mother. She ran to hide behind Mother’s skirts, and scream. Nate turned abruptly and went back into the house, and they didn’t see him again that night. Clothilde just stood there.

  The face had skin that was not like human skin, not smoothly fitted over its bones. The skin was red and lumped, like a statue made out of clay by a child who didn’t know how to make anything. The far end of one eyelid drooped down, lumpy, white, and the face had no eyebrows.

  The face had dark blue eyes, eyes that looked at them all, at the place where Nate had stood, and at Dierdre clutching at Mother’s skirt, trying to climb up into Mother’s arms, at Clothilde. Mother bent down and took Dierdre into her arms. Dierdre, sobbing, hid her face in Mother’s neck, and her hands clutched at Mother’s shoulders. Mother had tears pouring down her cheeks, and she didn’t say a word.

  Clothilde wished she would run away, or hide her face and scream. Her pain and anger—they burned in her until she thought if she had a gun she would shoot it at the face, and kill him.

  The face had no expression. The mouth started to move.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, in Father’s voice.

  Sorry for what? Clothilde’s mind asked, so bitter her mouth dried up around the question.

  He just stood there, his boots coated with dust and mud, as if he’d walked all the way from France, all the years. “I’m home.”

  Chapter 3

  In the evening, after Clothilde and Lou had made the chowder, they gathered together in the parlor where, as always, Mother read the Gospels to them. They had eaten a supper of thick toasted bread, spread with butter and sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar. After the meal, while Mother gave Dierdre her bath, Lou washed the few dishes and Clothilde chopped onions and potatoes. Now the chowder was simmering on the stove and they were all sitting around the parlor while Mother read.

  Lou and Clothilde had handiwork to do, but Nate sat motionless. He was too old to whittle the way he had when he was younger. Dierdre sat on the rug with the cloth doll Mother had made for her. Lou darned stockings, mostly Clothilde’s because she seemed to get more tears in hers than anyone else. Lou’s black thread wove back and forth, over and under, mending the tear. Clothilde had been given Father’s opera cloak to carefully unmake, separating the white silk lining from the fine-woven black wool. She would have the black, for a dress if there was enough material, or a skirt. Dierdre would have the lining for a party dress, if there should be a party for her to go to, where a white silk dress would be the proper thing to wear. Clothilde cut through the tiny stitches, one by one, with the little sharp tool Mother had for ripping out hems. Nate sat on the sofa beside Mother, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, his chin on his elbows, his eyes on the floor.

  Mother read in a smooth, light voice. When she read from the Bible it was a slower speech than when she talked because her mouth formed the syllables more carefully. She read Acts. How many times in her twelve years she had heard this, Clothilde couldn’t have said. Between Mother’s nightly readings and church on Sundays, many times. “For as I passed by, and beheld your devotions, I found an altar with this inscription,TO THE UNKNOWN GOD. Whom therefore ye ignorantly worship, Him declare I unto you,” Mother read. She didn’t read dramatically, with a voice that rose and fell, making the words important. Mother read quietly.

  Clothilde’s hand worked along the seams of the voluminous cloak. She had removed the frogs that closed the neck and now she was taking off the collar piece. The tiny stitches came close together, and she bent over the work, with the light from the gas lamp illuminating each stitch. One after the other, with no discernible difference between them, the stitches waited. She severed them, each one. When she had a few inches done, she went back to pick out the threads. Her mind wandered off from the reading.

  They didn’t even know for sure about God, that was what the Bible was saying. There were people who said, and the minister had made sermons on the subject, that the war was foretold in Revelations, that the stars falling like figs were like the bombs falling, that the Anti-Christ was a symbol for the Germans and Austrians, that the four horsemen, who rode ahead of the Apocalypse itself, had been seen, riding across Europe. Clothilde almost hoped they were right, because then you could understand what God was up to.

&n
bsp; When Father told them he was going away to war, it was at Grandfather’s dinner table. Though dinner in Maine was eaten at the kitchen table, dinner at Grandfather’s had always been a formal meal. Only on Sunday night did Nate and Clothilde and Mother eat with Father’s family. So it must have been a Sunday.

  At Grandfather’s, the table was covered with linen, and the heavy silver was set out at each place, forks on the left, knife and spoons on the right. The servants didn’t sit down with them, of course. Harkness and May waited on the table, serving the food Mrs. Oxford had cooked. There was a lot of food, so if you wanted dessert you had to eat lightly of the other courses, the soup, the roast, the dishes of potatoes and vegetables Harkness and May carried around the table, offering servings. Grandfather sat at one end of the table and carved. Aunt Leona sat at the other, because she was the oldest woman, so she was the hostess. Father and Aunt Nora sat across from Mother, who had Nate on one side of her and Clothilde on the other. Clothilde remembered.

  “I’ve enlisted,” Father announced. In his white dress shirt and dark evening jacket, he was handsome. When he was happy, his dark blue eyes shone. They shone then, under the long golden lashes.

  “Why do a fool thing like that?” Grandfather said. The aunts murmured “Oh, Benjamin,” almost in unison, as if Father was Clothilde’s age and had been caught with his fingers in one of Mrs. Oxford’s puddings. Mother didn’t say anything. She sat there as if she were nothing more than a painting, a portrait of a woman in a red-and-silver striped dress. “I asked you a question,” Grandfather said.

  “Well, sir, you know how everybody says C’est la guerre —this is my chance to find out what that means,” Father said. That was a joke, his smiling face said. Nobody smiled back at him.

  For a long time, nobody said anything. From where she sat, Clothilde could see Harkness make a face at May, the same kind of face Nurse made at Clothilde to warn her to be silent. The aunts waited for what Grandfather would say. Mother twisted her napkin in her hands. Clothilde couldn’t see Nate, but she guessed he must be proud. Father would make a fine soldier, she thought. He should be a captain, because he was so strong and brave. There wasn’t anyone who took fences as boldly as Father, and he was always there at the kill, when the fox was finally run to earth. She would have liked to say something, but she knew what would happen if she did. Children, as Nurse told them, were to be seen and not heard.

  Grandfather picked up his knife and fork again. He cut a bite of roast and chewed on it. He stared at Father, who leaned back and smiled. Grandfather took a drink of wine, still staring, and Father, who wasn’t afraid of Grandfather, smiled right back.

  But Grandfather was angry. He was always cross at Clothilde and Nate and Mother, but this was more. He picked up his fork and ate a carrot, chewed and swallowed it. His gray eyes were always cold, like a November sky, but this was more, this was like ice on a frozen pond. Grandfather ate a roasted potato. He drank a sip of wine. He ate a tiny white onion, chewed it, and swallowed. He stared at Father and Father smiled. The only sound was the sound of Grandfather’s fork and knife, clinking on the china plate.

  “You know how I feel about you joining up,” Grandfather finally said. His thick gray eyebrows lowered when he was angry. They were low now. “One assumes that, not having completed your college education, the army doesn’t care to make you an officer.”

  “It’s the cavalry, actually, sir,” Father answered. He sounded as if he thought Grandfather was funny. “I’m taking Bucephalus.”

  Grandfather’s eyebrows sank lower still, and gathered themselves together over the bridge of his nose. “Are you informing me that you are going to give over to the army a horse for which I paid one thousand dollars? To be used as a battle mount? Do you mean to sit here and tell me that, as if it were something humorous?”

  “He’s intelligent and he trusts me absolutely. He’s the best choice. A horse like that—he may well save my life, sir.” As if he knew what Grandfather would say to that, Father went on. “You did give him to me.”

  “I don’t give gifts so they can be thrown away,” Grandfather said. “A fine hunter which can later be used to breed colts that others will be eager to own—that’s not the proper use of a good investment, giving it to the army.”

  “Cavalry,” Father corrected.

  Grandfather was eating, but only the aunts joined him. Mother sat twisting her napkin. Grandfather knew everyone was waiting for him to speak, so they would know what to say, but he chewed and thought. Clothilde wondered if he could make Father stay home, or tell him he had to take another horse. Bucephalus was big and dark, muscular and wild-looking, like a real war horse.

  Grandfather patted his mouth with his napkin, then placed it neatly beside his plate, to show he was finished eating. “What plans have you made for your family, Benjamin?” he asked.

  Father hadn’t expected that question, and neither had Mother, whose fingers stopped moving.

  “My family will remain here while I’m away,” Father said. “This is my home.”

  “This ismy home,” Grandfather corrected him. “As long as you are living here, it is your home too.” He gave Father a minute to think about that. Now Grandfather was smiling. “If you leave home, I’m going to ask you to take your family with you.”

  “Don’t you think you’re being unreasonable?” Father asked Grandfather.

  Grandfather picked up his wine glass. The facets of the cut glass caught at the candlelights, flashing different colors, glassy red, glassy yellow, glassy green. Grandfather’s hand turned the glass around. “No, I don’t. In fact, I think I’ve been more than reasonable. Other men, if their sons, their only sons, ran off to marry some unsuitable woman, might refuse to have the woman or her children in the house. Other fathers might disown their sons. No, Benjamin, I don’t think you can tell me I’m unreasonable.”

  Father didn’t try to argue. “We’ll rent a house then, perhaps in Boston. My family can live there while I’m away.”

  “Live on what?” Grandfather asked, so pleasantly that it worried Clothilde.

  “There’s my share of the income from the trust fund that Mother left to her children,” Father reminded Grandfather.

  “I’m afraid that, as the only executor of that trust, I cannot permit the money to be used in that fashion. As sole executor, my decision would be that while you are away from home, and in no need of the money, all income should be held in the bank, earning interest, to await your return.”

  Aunt Leona smiled at Aunt Nora when Grandfather said that. Clothilde, looking at them, saw it. It was just a little smile, and Aunt Nora smiled a little cat smile back. They didn’t say anything. This was men’s business, and this was Grandfather’s house.

  “I’ll support my family by what I am paid, then,” Father said.

  Clothilde didn’t know her father could earn money.

  Grandfather, however, had another idea about it. “Do you have any idea what an ordinary cavalry man earns, Benjamin? I imagine you didn’t even inquire. If you hadn’t been asked to leave Yale College, of course, you might well have been made an officer. Perhaps then your family would have been able to live on what you earned, but as things are….”

  When Father was angry his cheeks got red and his neck stiff. Clothilde watched his cheeks flush and his neck, above the starched white collar, stiffen. But he always sounded as if things didn’t matter, as if everything was a game. “You have a long memory, Father. It must be a source of great comfort to you. But I do wish that you could also remember what happens when you try to force me to do your bidding.”

  Grandfather put his glass back on the table. He wanted to say something, but he didn’t. His gray eyebrows drew together.

  “In that case,” Father said, “the best thing is for my family to go to Maine, to Clothilde’s property. They’ll live at Speer Point.”

  Clothilde hadn’t known she had a property, and she wasn’t sure what property was but she was glad if it helped Father
beat Grandfather. She looked across Mother to try to catch Nate’s eye, but Nate was staring at his plate.

  “Your aunt’s house burned to the ground,” Grandfather said. “You know that.”

  Father wasn’t worried. “There’s a farmhouse, where the caretaker lived.”

  “You’ll put your family into a farmhouse?” Grandfather asked. Clothilde wondered what was so bad about a farmhouse that she didn’t know about. “You’d do better to send them back to that nuns’ orphanage where your wife came from.”

  But the orphanage was only for girls, and what would Nate do? The orphanage was for orphans.

  “I will take care of my family,” Father repeated. “We’ll all be leaving your home.”

  Clothilde didn’t know where they were going. She’d never lived anywhere else.

  “And the factory?” Grandfather asked.

  “As I told you,” Father said, smiling again, his blue eyes laughing at Grandfather. He knew he’d won. Clothilde had, somehow, helped him win, and she didn’t know now if she was glad or not. “My country is at war, and I have a duty to fulfill.”

  Now Clothilde understood. Father didn’t want the factory, Grandfather’s factory, which manufactured carriages. It used to make carriages for horses to pull but Grandfather had changed it so it now made carriages for electric automobiles. Nate sometimes pointed an automobile out to her and told her that it had a Speer carriage, made in Grandfather’s factory. It made Grandfather angry that Father didn’t want his factory, wasn’t interested in it, wouldn’t go there to work. By going to war, Father was getting away from the factory.