“Oh, no, not him. He says anything from the sale is rightly his for taking care of Ma and the babies all this time. No. This here is a letter.” He handed it to her, studying her face the while. “From Luke.”
“Luke who?”
“Lyddie! Our friend, Luke. Our neighbor Luke Stevens.” He seemed shocked. He couldn’t know she was two lifetimes away from the day Luke had driven them to the village and at least one lifetime from the day the Quaker boy had stood on the doorstep of Number Five in his peculiar disguise.
She tucked the letter in her apron pocket. “Thank you,” she said, “and good-bye, I reckon. I’ll not be here in the morning when you come.”
“It’ll be all right, Lyddie. It’ll be best for us all, ey?” His voice was anxious. “It’ll work out best for you, as well.”
“You forgot your bag,” she said.
“No, that’s for Rachel.” He picked it up and handed it to her. He put out his hand as if to shake hers, but hers were tightly wrapped around the handle of the bag. She nodded instead. The next she saw him he would be taller than she, Lyddie thought. If there was a next time. She led him to the door. “Good-bye,” she mouthed the words. She couldn’t have spoken them aloud if she’d dared.
She climbed the stairs like an old, decrepit woman, clinging to the banister and pulling herself up step by step. Rachel was fast asleep. She would not wake her. In the candlelight she studied the lovely little face. Too thin, too pale, the skin nearly transparent. Lyddie brushed back a curl that had escaped its plait and smoothed it against Rachel’s cheek. Any minute she would start to cough, her little body wracked, the bed shaking. Mrs. Phinney would keep her safe. She could go to school. She would have a good life, a real mother. And she will forget me, plain, rough, miserly Lyddie who only bought her ribbons because she was shamed to it. Will she ever know how much I loved her? How I would have gladly laid down my life and died for her? How, O Lord, I am dying this very minute for her?
She took out the dress. It was a lovely sprigged muslin. It looked too big for Rachel’s tiny frame, but the child would grow into it. She would lengthen and fatten and turn once again into a stranger. Lyddie’s tears were soaking the dress. She wiped her face on her own apron skirt, then laid out the new garments—the frilly little bonnet with ribbons and lace, a petticoat fit for a wedding. A length of pink ribbon was woven in and out all around the top of the hem, wasted, pure waste where no one would ever see it. Except Rachie.
She packed the bag. It took less than a minute. Rachel had so little. She remembered the primer, and then decided to keep it. Rachel would have a new one, a better one now. She took the book of verses off the nightstand and shut it in the bag, then took it out again. She got her box of writing materials, dipped her pen in the ink, and wrote in painful, careful script on the fly leaf: “For Rachel Worthen from her sister Lydia Worthen, June 24, 1846,” wiping her face carefully on her apron as she wrote so as not to blot the page.
She lay awake most of the night listening to Rachel cough, the sound rasping and sawing through her own body. But the pain of it was her salvation. She knew, if she had ever doubted before, she was absolutely certain, that Rachel must leave Lowell.
When the first bell rang, instead of waking Rachel as usual, she waited until she herself was dressed and ready to go. Then she shook her gently.
Rachel awoke at once, alarmed. “I’m late! Why did you let me sleep?”
“You got a treat today, Rachie. Charlie’s come to fetch you.”
“Charlie? My brother Charlie?” She was as excited as if she could really remember him. Lyddie brushed away a cobweb of envy. “He’s come to take you for a visit.”
“He wants me to visit him?” She was plainly thrilled, but then she caught something in Lyddie’s face. “You coming too, ain’t you Lyddie?”
“No, not me. I got to work, ey?” The child’s face darkened. “I’ll come later.” She stretched out her hand. “Here, up you go, you got to get ready.”
Rachel took Lyddie’s hand and pulled herself upright, then threw back the covers. The child always slept under a quilt, even in the terrible summer heat. “How long will I be gone, Lyddie?”
“I don’t rightly know. We both, me and Charlie, we both think you should stay awhile. Make sure you get rid of that silly cough, ey? The factory is too hot in summer, anyways. Lots of the girls take off, come July.”
“Will you take off, Lyddie?” She was standing in her little night shift, scratching one leg with the bare toes of the other.
“I just might. Who knows, ey?” Lyddie wrung out the cloth over the basin and handed it to Rachel to wash.
“Come with me now, Lyddie.”
“Over on the other bed is a new dress for you to put on. You got to dress fancy for riding on a train.”
“A railroad train?”
“Luckiest girl I know. New dress and bonnet, train ride, holiday with a handsome man …” She took the cloth from Rachel’s hand, tipped up the child’s chin, and began to wash her upturned face. “Now you learn your letters better so you can write me all about that train ride.” The bell began to ring. She turned swiftly, wringing the cloth out over the basin, her face to the wall, lest she betray herself. “He’ll be here to fetch you in a hour or so,” she said brightly. “So get yourself dressed and go down and ask Mrs. Bedlow to give you a extra big breakfast.” She turned only long enough to give Rachel a light kiss on the cheek and then hurried out the door.
“Come soon, Lyddie.” Rachel’s voice followed her down the stairs. “I’ll miss you.”
“Be a good girl for Charlie,” she called back, and rushed on down the stairs with a great clatter to erase any more sounds, any more doubts.
* * *
* * *
Rachel had been gone nearly a week when she found the letter with her name written on it in small, neat handwriting. She had stuffed it into her trunk some days before and couldn’t remember at first where it had come from. She unsealed it curiously.