The Witch of Tin Mountain(40)

She raised her neat brown head from a book. Dark-lashed eyes blinked behind wire spectacles. She was the prettiest thing Deirdre had ever seen, with a narrow, pointed chin and freckles sprayed like stars over her nose.

Suddenly self-conscious under the girl’s quiet regard, Deirdre ran a hand over her sweating brow. She must look a sight.

“I’ve brought your new roommate.” Phoebe’s lip curled. “This one’s from the sticks. You should hear how it talks.”

It. Deirdre clenched her teeth. She had the feeling if she didn’t stand up for herself from the start with Phoebe, things would only get worse. “My name’s Deirdre, like I told you. And you should know, Miss Darrow, if you aim to cast aspersions, I give as good as I get.”

Across the room, a tiny smile lifted the corner of the pretty girl’s lips. Deirdre couldn’t mark whether the smile was friendly or merely amused.

“Dinner’s at seven.” Phoebe crossed her arms and eyed Deirdre’s rumpled clothes. “Surely, you’ve brought something better to wear? What you’ve got on now won’t do.”

“I’ll manage.” Deirdre set her valise on the bed by the window. The springs creaked in protestation. Phoebe gave a curt nod and stalked off.

Tears pricked at the corner of Deirdre’s eyes. It wasn’t right, coming to this big city school with these rich girls who thought themselves better than she was. They didn’t need someone else’s charity in order to be here. She should have been bolder—should have run to Robbie and eloped. He’d have protected her from Gentry.

“Phoebe will come around,” the other girl said softly. “She just thinks she’s in charge, being one of the oldest. And she’s having trouble finding a suitor. You’re very pretty, and she’s jealous. That’s all.”

“That ain’t no reason for her to be so mean. I can’t help how I look.”

“That isn’t any reason for her to be so mean. You’ll need to use proper grammar here. Miss Munro doesn’t tolerate country talk, even if it’s how you were raised. Phoebe was rude and didn’t introduce us. I’m Esme Buchanan. From Missouri. You?”

“Deirdre Werner. Tin Mountain, Arkansas. Just over the border between our states.”

Esme smiled and closed her book. “Well. We’re compatriots, then.”

“What brought you all the way here?” Deirdre started unpacking, shaking out her plain dresses. Everything was hopelessly wrinkled.

“My grandmother insisted on sending me here,” Esme said, coming to her side to help. “Mostly because I was getting on too well with our gardener. I’ve something you can borrow. We’re the same size, I think.”

At first, Deirdre’s pride reared up, then embarrassment. None of her dresses were good enough, then. “That would be real kind of you.”

“I was new once. I remember how it feels to be so far from home.” Esme went to the end of her bed and opened a leather trunk. She started pulling out beautiful dresses, perfumed with lavender and as fine as anything in Hannah Bledsoe’s wardrobe.

Hannah had given her money—tucked it into her hand before Pa drove her to the station. Nearly twenty dollars. She would put some of it toward summer muslins and the new corset she’d already been needing.

“What’s your favorite color?” Esme asked. “Blue? Yellow?”

Deirdre smiled. “Blue.”

“I figured as much, with your eyes. I’ve got just the thing. And we’ll need to do your hair. I plait well. Would you like braids? They’ll tame your curls in this heat. It’s really something, isn’t it? It took me a time to get used to it. But the rain is a blessing when it comes. Cools everything down. And best of all, there’s the ocean. From the top of the cupola, you can see the whole harbor. I’d never seen the ocean till I came to Charleston.”

So, the coopla was the tower. The tension drained from Deirdre’s shoulders. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad here after all, so long as Esme stayed as nice as she seemed. She never knew if kindness would last with other girls. She glanced outside the window, at the waving, strange trees. “What are them funny-looking trees called?”

Esme laughed. “Those trees are called palmettos. Or palms. You’ll get used to them, too.”





FIFTEEN

GRACELYNN





1931




Abigail Louisa Cash loves me. I can hardly believe it.

I gather myself in one of Granny’s crocheted afghans and go out to feed the chickens, my head and my heart abuzz from the night before. A fool grin is still plastered on my face. Circe, our prize laying hen, cocks her head at me and clucks.

I reach into my pocket and spread millet on the ground. The other hens, each one of them named for a famous witch or wise woman, come chattering out of the henhouse in a line, followed by Gentry, the proud little rooster who thinks he runs the place. I squat and watch them peck.

Gentry. That name. It’s what Granny called Josiah Bellflower, the night she shot at him.

“Mornin’, Gracie.” I turn to see Morris limping toward me. His face is still swollen, and his right arm’ll be bound up in a sling for a while, but it’s good to see him on his feet again. I only wish Granny was. She’s wasting away to nothing, lying in that bed.