The Witch of Tin Mountain(73)

Charleston had broadened her world and made her see that life outside of Tin Mountain was rich and full of possibilities, though the draw of home was nearly as sweet now that Gentry had gone and Robbie had renewed his promises.

Later that day, as Deirdre sat on her bed crafting a letter to Robbie while Esme napped, clouds gathered outside the window and a fickle wind tossed the palms to and fro. It was nearly September, and Esme had warned her about the massive storms that roared through Charleston with the fall. As rain began to spit at the windowpanes, a knock came at their door. Deirdre rose from her bed and went to answer it.

Phoebe Darrow stood in the doorway, raised from the dead with a demon’s kiss and hearty as ever. Deirdre’s stomach lurched. What did she want now? “Good afternoon, Miss Darrow.”

Phoebe gave a contemptuous sniff and produced an envelope from her pocket. “Telegram, Miss Werner. It arrived this morning, while you were away.”

Deirdre took the envelope from Phoebe, who quickly went on her way. A twist of dread snaked through Deirdre. Good news hardly ever came by wire. She sat on the edge of the bed and held the envelope gingerly. She could sense the wretchedness of what lay inside through the thin paper.

Esme stirred and sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. She came to Deirdre’s side and looked over her shoulder. “What is it, my love? Why don’t you open it?”

Deirdre drew in a quick breath and tore the envelope open. There were only two lines on the paper:

Your mother is dying (stop)

Please come home (stop) Pa

“It’s Mama.” The solidness of Deirdre’s world dissolved. Gentry’s healing powers had been false. Mama’s recovery from the consumption had been a ruse. And now, she was dying, with so much left unsaid between them. She and Mama had too many wounds to heal. Things to mend before she passed.

She had to get home.

Esme climbed onto the mattress and wrapped her arms around Deirdre from behind, resting her pointed chin on Deirdre’s head. “I’m so sorry, my darling.”

“I have to leave,” Deirdre said quietly. “Tonight.”

“Of course you do. Especially with this storm coming.” Esme glanced toward the window. The sky had taken on a greenish hue. “It looks to be a bad one. Do you have enough money?”

“I . . . I don’t know if I have enough.” Pa hadn’t sent money with his last letter, and with the expense of her new Charleston wardrobe, her savings had dwindled to the five dollars tucked beneath her underthings in the dresser. She had no idea how much a train ticket would cost. Pa had arranged all that last time.

“I can give you the money to get home. And back again, too, once things are settled.”

Back again.

Deirdre pulled away from Esme’s clinging hands and took the carpetbag from beneath her bed. She packed the grimoire first, then began filling the valise with her clothes.

“You are planning on returning, aren’t you?”

She pressed her lips together and turned away from the pleading tone in Esme’s voice. “I’m not sure. Pa’s getting old. He won’t be able to work much longer. And Robbie’s waiting for me . . . we’re supposed to have a harvest wedding.”

Esme burst into sudden, dramatic tears. “Deirdre, you can’t let this tear us apart.”

A shard of anger broke off in Deirdre and settled in her belly, hardening her. “That’s a mighty selfish thing to say, Esme. Given the circumstances.”

Esme rushed to her side, grabbed her by the arm, and tried to turn her. “I’m sorry, Deirdre. I shouldn’t have said that. Just promise me you’ll come back.”

Deirdre whirled on her. “For what? I love you, too, Esme, but this will never work. We’ve always been on borrowed time. We don’t live in a world where we can be together. It’s impossible. Can’t you see that?”

Esme’s tears began in earnest then. She sat at the foot of Deirdre’s bed, clad only in her bloomers and stockings, and buried her face in her hands. “I could come with you, couldn’t I?”

Deirdre tried to imagine Esme in Tin Mountain, with her city ways. Esme might think it a novel thing, for a few days. Until the boredom set in, and the resentment began to fester. She thought of how lonely Hannah Bledsoe was in that big house at the end of Main Street—shunned by the other women because of her money and fancy clothes. An orchid in a field full of cow parsley. Women like Esme and Hannah were always bending to every fickle wind. Too soft, too tender. The Werners were hard, like cedar and pine—solid and evergreen. Mountain people. No. It was time to end things. What she’d had with Esme was a shining seduction. A feverish fantasy, gone on too long.

“You can’t come with me, Esme. You’d hate Tin Mountain. You belong with Lionel, in a big house surrounded by fancy things. After you’re married, I’ll come visit you, I promise.”

“It’s that easy for you to leave, then?” Esme cried, her face red and angry as she stood to face Deirdre. “You can’t wait to get back to your blessed Robbie and that sad little one-horse town. Well, let me tell you something, Deirdre. I’ve seen visions in a dream. I’ve seen the far-off years and the loneliness they hold for you. You’ll rue the mistakes you’ve made and the day you left the one who truly loves you.”

Deirdre’s skin prickled. The way Esme spoke made her words sound almost like prophecy. Like a curse. “Are you cursin’ me and speaking death over my head, Esme Buchanan?”