The Last Days of Dogtown

Cornelius nodded.

“I’ll be going then,” said Oliver and put his hand out, but Cornelius was already holding the door for him.

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Oliver put his collar up and decided not to tell Polly that he’d been there. She would be hurt if he told her about Cornelius’s rudeness, and indeed, he had to admit to feeling the sting of it, himself. After walking all the way up that miserable road just to pay a call, Cornelius hadn’t even asked him to sit down.

Everett and Polly often teased Oliver of being an easy mark for anyone with a hard-luck story, and where Cornelius was concerned, he knew it was true. The African was a touchstone for Oliver’s Dogtown days, and Oliver had longed to step in and help Cornelius, as no one had helped him. He’d given Cornelius more than a fair bargain in the store, but since those few weeks when he and Polly had cared for him after he’d hurt his leg, Oliver had found no way to do the man a good turn.

As he made his way home, Oliver pulled the wooden block out of his pocket and decided it was as handsome as any he’d ever seen. He’d go back the following week, he decided, and buy the rest of them, certain he could sell them to the summer trade.

And he’d bring a spring tonic, too. What Cornelius needed was a good strong purge. This plan made Oliver feel better about the whole visit. For a moment, he thought of telling Judy Rhines about Cornelius’s sad state, and of his plan to help. But of course he would not speak of it to her.

It would embarrass both of them, especially now that she had become such a lady.

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Since Martha Cook’s death, Judy had become “Mistress Rhines” in town, greeted with deference by the shopkeepers and with polite smiles by the neighboring matrons. She wore soft leather slippers outdoors as well as inside and favored lace collars when she attended the Sunday service at First Parish, where Reverend Hildreth’s sermons now extolled the importance of good works. She had Cape Ann’s best library at her disposal, and she savored its riches under a satin coverlet in what had once been the best guest room, but was now her bedchamber.

She bought herself oranges whenever she wished. She felt like a princess.

Martha Cook used to assure her that, after her death, the Judge would turn her gratitude into a material reward, but

Judy had harbored few expectations of a man she so thoroughly detested. As Martha weakened, Judy had tried to resign herself to a life of service as a nurse or companion in some lesser home where she would be treated like a servant rather than a sister. These thoughts shamed her terribly during Martha’s gruesome last weeks, but they would not abate and added extra pangs to her grief.

The day of the funeral was long and bitter. A somber multitude of Gloucester’s most prominent citizens walked through the house, whispering, sipping, and shaking their heads. Most of them looked straight through Judy, as invisible as the housemaid.

After the last guest had murmured her condolences to the Judge, he asked Judy to join him in the parlor. But as she began to clear the clutter of teacups and wineglasses, he took them from her hands and said, “Please, Mistress Rhines. I wonder if I could impose upon you to sit with me

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for a few moments.” He drew two chairs together, forcing her to sit knee to knee and face him squarely.

Joshua Cook was a well-made man, admired for his aristocratic nose, strong chin, and deep-set eyes fringed with the kind of lashes that were the envy of every girl and woman who ever met him. “I wish to speak frankly,” he said. “I hope that you will forgive me for my candor, but it is necessary to make things clear as glass between us so that I can discuss your future in a forthright manner.”

The Judge’s demeanor was formal as befits a member of the bench, though it had been several years since he’d resigned his court duties. Judy had always found it difficult to decipher his mood, but she could see the agitation beneath his polished manner. She folded her hands and stared at her shoes, afraid that she would not be able to mask her disgust for the man who had caused the death of her friend.

“Did you ever wonder how it was that I was never taken ill? Especially given the nature of Mrs. Cook’s distress.”

Judy was so startled that she let down her guard and glared at him with undisguised anger.

“I beg your pardon,” he said. “But Dr. Beech has informed me that he had shared his diagnosis of Martha with you, so I assume that you, like he, consider me the worst sort of man, a degenerate. A monster who, well . . .”

He sighed. “It explains your coolness toward me these past years. But now that I understand the source of your enmity, it speaks even more highly of your devotion to Martha and of your perfect discretion.

“Which brings me, again, to the question of whether you ever puzzled over the mystery of my good health.