The Giver of Stars(108)
Van Cleve, who was still smarting from the discovery of Sven’s long-standing relationship with Margery O’Hare, said it was good riddance, that he had been a spy and a traitor, despite there being no evidence for either, and warned that if that snake Gustavsson was seen heading inside the Hoffman gates again he would be shot without warning, just like his godless hussy.
Sven would have liked to move into Margery’s cabin, Alice knew, to be in some way closer to her, but instead, ever the gentleman, he refused her offer so that Alice could escape the censure of those in the town who would have seen something suspect in a man and a woman resting under the same roof, even if it was clear to all that both loved the same woman, albeit in very different ways.
Besides, Alice was no longer afraid to stay alone in the little cabin. She slept early and deeply, rose at 4.30 a.m. with the sun, splashed herself with icy water from the spring, fed the animals, climbed into whatever clothes she had laid out to dry and cooked herself a breakfast of eggs and bread, scattering the remaining crumbs to the hens and the red cardinals that gathered on the windowsill. She ate while reading one of Margery’s books, and every other morning she baked a pan of fresh cornbread to take to the jailhouse. Around her the early-morning mountain rang with birdsong, the leaves of the trees glowing orange, then blue, then emerald green, the long grass mottled with lilies and sage grass, and as the screen door closed, huge wild turkeys rose up in an ungainly flap, or small deer skittered back into the woods, as if it were she who was the intruder.
She turned Charley out from the barn into the small paddock that backed the cabin, and checked the chicken coop for eggs. If she had time she would prepare food for the evening, knowing she would be tired when she returned home. Then she saddled Spirit, packed whatever she needed that day into the saddlebags, slammed the broad-brimmed hat onto her head, and rode down the mountain to the library. As she passed along the dirt track, she let the reins hang loose on Spirit’s neck, and used both hands to tie a cotton handkerchief around her collar. She barely used the reins any more; Spirit would gauge where they were going as soon as she started each route, and stride out, ears pricked, just another creature who knew – and loved – her job.
Most evenings Alice would stay an hour later at the library alongside Sophia, just for the company, and occasionally Fred would join them, bringing food from the house. Twice she had walked up the track and eaten at Fred’s, suspecting she was old news, and that few people were likely to see her make that short journey anyhow. She loved Fred’s house, with its scent of beeswax, and its well-worn comforts, less rough and ready than Margery’s, and with rugs and furniture that told of family money that went back more than one generation.
There was a reassuring lack of ornaments.
They would eat Fred’s food and talk of everything and nothing, breaking off to smile at each other like fools. Some nights Alice would ride the track back to Margery’s and have no idea what they had even said to each other, the hum of want and need in her ears drumming out whatever conversation had occurred. Sometimes she wanted him so badly she would have to pinch her hand under the table to stop herself reaching out for him. And then she would arrive back at the empty cabin and lie under the covers, her mind trying to conjure what might happen if once, just once, she invited him to come in with her.
Sven’s lawyer visited every fortnight, and Sven asked if the meetings could take place at Fred’s house, and whether she and Fred would sit alongside him. Alice understood that it was because Sven became so anxious, his leg jiggling with uncharacteristic nerves, his fingers tapping on the table, that afterwards he would invariably have forgotten half of what he’d been told. The lawyer tended to speak in the least straightforward way possible, his language ornate and tortured, taking routes around and under what he meant to say rather than just state it outright.
He observed that, despite the unexpected disappearance of the relevant ledger (he left a meaningful pause at this point), the Commonwealth was confident of the evidence against Margery O’Hare. In her initial interview the old woman had placed Miss O’Hare at the scene, no matter what she claimed afterwards. The library book, spattered with blood, appeared to be the only possible murder weapon, given there were no gunshot or stabbing injuries. No other of the packhorse librarians rode as far as Miss O’Hare, judging by the other ledgers, so the chances of anyone else using a library book as a weapon at that spot were limited. And then there was the difficult matter of Margery’s character, the many people who would happily speak up about the long-standing feud between her family and the McCulloughs, and Margery’s habit of saying the least palatable things without considering the impact her words might have on those around her.
‘She will need to be mindful of these things when we come to trial,’ he said, gathering his papers. ‘It’s important that the jury find her a … sympathetic defendant.’
Sven shook his head mutely.
‘You won’t get Marge to be anyone other than who she is,’ said Fred.
‘I’m not saying she has to be someone else. But if she cannot win the sympathy of the judge and the jury, her chances of freedom are severely diminished.’
The lawyer sat back in his chair and put both hands on the table. ‘This is not just about truth, Mr Gustavsson. It’s about strategy. And no matter what the truth of this matter is, you can bet that the other side is working hardest on theirs.’