Justice
Part IV -- Discovery
It was approximately a month after the bath incident when I discovered
the trinket. I was engaged in the task of thoroughly cleaning the
Mistress' chambers from top to bottom as I did once each week. Mistress
DeMarcco was not at home as she and the Master had gone to town for the
afternoon. It was now growing dark and they would be home soon, and I
still had much to do. The Mistress had given me a huge list of tasks to
do today in addition to my normal duties and I knew she expected me to
fail to have one or more of them complete when she returned. I, on the
other hand, was determined to succeed, and thus I worked rapidly and
efficiently, hoping and praying I could conclude my duties before the
Lady's return.
I was dusting the dresser when I noticed the cupboard door to the small
bedside table was ajar, and I went to shut it with annoyance, thinking
that another maid or perhaps the Mistress herself had neglected to shut
it properly. As I reached to shut the cabinet I opened it wider, perhaps
thinking to assure myself that nothing obstructed its closing, or maybe
I did indeed seek a glimpse of the contents. I was aware that this
particular cabinet was off limits to me. One of the first instructions
I'd received from the Mistress was a curt, "Leave that alone. I'll take
care of cleaning it." I had noticed that it normally was tightly locked,
and I did not know where she kept the key. Therefore I was surprised
she'd left it unlocked and open, and I felt a pang of naughty curiosity
as I looked at the little door, my eyes darting around the room and my
ears straining for any threatening sounds.
Inside it was dark and I did not see anything at first. Then, as my
eyes adjusted, I saw there were several items. There was a small book,
perhaps a Bible, and a stack of papers beneath that. The object that
caught my attention, however, was the vase, for I recognized instantly
as a miniature Lindsey Vase. With eager interest I took it from the
cabinet, holding it gingerly in my hands, slowly rotating it, admiring
the beautiful, intricate pattern. It was tiny, perhaps only six inches
tall, the stem barely wide enough to hold a single rose at its narrowest
point. It aroused painful memories in me, memories of days long since
faded in time, and I felt a wrenching within my heart as I looked at
that beautiful vase, though I was not positive as to the reasons behind
my reactions. I knew it was one of his later works, as it was more
polished and whole than his earlier pieces which were more common. A
completed Lindsey was rare and costly. I wondered why the Mistress kept
it locked away, hidden from view. Perhaps she was afraid a careless maid
would break it.
At this point I must inject a word of history, least you think that all
chambermaids are experts on fine porcelain. I was born and spent my
early years in the town of Triten, a small farming village down south,
and the home of the great and tragic John Lindsey. When I was scarcely
two digits old, I, and everyone else in the town, became aware of his
sudden fame. His pieces, of which almost everyone in town was the
possessor of at least one, were suddenly art, and wealthy buyers from
London and even Paris appeared to purchase them on street corners and
alleyways, at double or triple the original price. My mother sold off
several soup tureens, getting good money for each, even for the one that
was chipped on the bottom.
Overnight, it seemed, John Lindsey was a celebrity, his little dishes
making everyone wealthy. Over the next few years John's porcelain became
more and more elaborate, finer, and almost useless for any practical
purpose. Much of the town was ignorant of art, and thought John's new
works were trivial and purposeless, and people began to speak of him as
though he was a foreigner, as though he was no longer a part of our
class. It was true, in a way, because those new pieces fetched
astronomical prices, and he quickly became wealthy. I remember hearing a
schoolyard rumor of a single goblet he had created over the span of two
days that was bought for the purchase price of an entire house! At the
time most of us wondered what drink could possibly be placed in a goblet
worth so much. Surely, we decided, in our childish, ignorant manner,
only liquid gold or the blood of a virgin princess or some sweet, magic
nectar of the gods could qualify. We were far too simple to even
conceive that the goblet could have been purchased without the intention
of using it for drinking.
I had never met John Lindsey, though I had seen him on several
occasions, walking about town, and I knew my mother had done business
with him, preferring his quality to that of lessor vendors in town. That
was before he became famous, of course, because after that no one could
afford his porcelain, a fact I think he accepted but regretted. I say
this because I met him, once, and that was how he seemed.
We could have been no more than twelve at the time, my best friend
Sydney and I. It was near Christmas, and we had very little money.
Sydney's mother was dying. It was a slow disease that rotted out her
insides that was killing her, and there was nothing anyone could do to
help her. She bravely lay in bed and spoke with hushed, excited tones of
Christmas, however, as though everything was just fine and the world was
a glorious place. Everyone knew that she would not live to see another
Christmas, and Sydney was determined to make this last one special for
her mum. I had gallantly volunteered to help, if I could, as I felt
sorry for Sydney and Mrs. Jacoby had always been kind to me, giving me
pieces of sweetbread or even ginger cookies when I visited.
We roamed the town, two forlorn little bundles in the cold, wintery
air, but every shop we entered had nothing that we could afford to buy.
We stood outside one admiring a collection of Lindsey vases in the
window, Sydney almost crying with frustration. "Look there, Jay," she
whispered. "Aren't they gorgeous!" I nodded, as indeed, the vases were
beautiful and elegant, their characteristic blue and pink patterns
fascinating. But I knew we could not afford them. Even the least
expensive one would feed my whole family for two months or more. There
was no way. "Oh, but she'd love a Lindsey vase," whined Sydney with
despair. "Couldn't we at least inquire as to the price?"
It was pointless, but I agreed and we went inside. Sure enough, the
price was outrageous, and Sydney went pale. She begged the proprietor
for mercy, and told him of her dear mother, lying at home right at that
moment, possible passing on, and the man looked troubled and
sympathetic, but when she told him how much money we had he almost
choked and stood up quickly and pushed us out the door, saying that he
could not help us.
We wandered for a while, silent and forlorn. "Is that true, what you
told that man?" I asked finally. "Your mom could go at any moment?"
Sydney's eyes were red and she looked at me sadly. "The doctor was just
there this morning. He says he doubts she'll make it much past
Christmas, if till then at all."
"She will," I said firmly. "If I know your mother she will not miss
Christmas." Perhaps I had said the wrong thing, for Sydney burst into
tears at that, and I took her in my arms and comforted her, hugging her
and kissing her forehead. I did not know what to say to her, for both my
parents were alive and healthy, and I did not understand how to help
her. So I said nothing, almost always a good policy, and she just wept
for a long while.
Finally we grew cold, and began to walk again. We were on the south
side of town, very far from our homes. I was not even sure where we
were. There were few buildings here as this was the outskirts of the
town. Then I saw a large, new building on our left, two story and
elegant, obviously the house of wealthy man. As we stepped nearer I saw
the sign. It was a simple sign, white with neat blue lettering, and not
especially large. It said simply, "John Lindsey, Craftsman." There were
warm lights inside and on impulse I pulled Sydney toward the building.
We opened the door hesitantly, but the warmth drew us inside. A blazing
fire roared at one end of the room, and at first we thought no one was
there. But then we saw a tall, thin man crouched on a stool, bending
over a table, toward our left. His concentration was absolute as he
delicately hand-painted a tiny piece of porcelain. We held our breath in
the stillness and waited. The man did not appear to have noticed our
entrance, and for a reason unknown to us we did not disturb him, but
marched closer to the fire and warmed ourselves.
After a very long time, perhaps an hour, the man put down the piece
suddenly with a deep sigh, and rose and stretched his arms. He
approached the fire and suddenly stopped, staring at us as though we had
emerged at that instant from the very flames. "How did you get in here?"
he demanded, his head whirling about as though the whole place might be
filled with demons.
"We came through the doorway," I said, motioning toward it. This
appeared to puzzle him for a moment.
"How long have you been here? Do your parents know where you are? What
do you want?" His tone was brusque and rude, slightly condescending, and
he looked rather angry and annoyed, as though we had no business being
there. For a moment I thought he meant to thrash us, for he glanced
about and held out his hand as though searching for an appropriate
weapon, but then he found what he was looking for, a heavy mug of dark
liquid, precariously perched at the edge of a wooden table. He lifted it
to his lips and took a deep draught and then, with a look of disgust,
put it back down, in the same position, murmuring, "It's cold, damn it!"
At this point Sydney, her nerves on edge, began to cry. She cried a
great deal in those days, and though I thought it rather childish, as
often there was no reason to cry, I could not really blame her. She
cried now, big swollen tears dripping down her cheeks, her dark eyes
wide with fear as the man approached. "Hush, now, little one," he said
softly, and very gently he took the hem of his apron and wiped the tears
off her cheeks. "There's no reason to cry. I'm not going to hurt you.
You just surprised me, that's all. I thought I was alone and I
discovered I was not. It was a shock, you understand. Please, would you
like some warm milk?"
Sydney nodded quickly, and I did too, when the man glanced at me, and
both of us watched breathlessly as he poured fresh white milk from a
pitcher on the counter into a small iron pot which he hung over the
fire. In a few minutes it was ready, and he poured us each a large mug
full of milk, and we drank it down with relish, both of us hungry and
thirsty.
"Well, you two certainly seemed to need that!" he said laughing and
smiling, refilling our mugs again. "Now suppose you tell me why you are
here." We could not refuse this instruction, but I did not know how to
proceed. In the end I followed my mother's wisdom and simply told the
truth.
"I'm not really sure, sir," I said, seeing that Sydney was too shy to
speak. "We've been out shopping for a Christmas present for Sydney's
mum--she's dying, you see, the 'sumption, I think, and we hoped to buy
her something pretty, as it's her last Christmas and all,"--Sydney began
to cry at those words, so I hurried forward--"but we have no real money,
just a few coins." I opened my left hand and showed him our meager
savings. "We tried to buy a Lindsey vase at a shop but the owner
wouldn't sell us anything 'cause we couldn't pay enough, even though we
begged him, and then he pushed us out, see, and we wandered and ended up
out here, on the south side, and it's a long way home and we were cold,
and then we saw your sign, and the light looked warm and when we came in
you were so hard at work we didn't want to bother you, so we just stood
here by the fire and got warm.
"I'm terribly sorry if we bothered you, Mr. Lindsey, as I know you are
busy and famous now, but my mum always says good things about you, how
you're such a fine man, and your porcelain's the best on the continent,
and she won't serve Christmas dinner on nothing less than a Lindsey
platter, one of the old ones, before you started getting all fancy and
artistic, and I don't know, I just saw your house and came right on in,
thinking, I suppose, that you might have some small piece we could buy
for Sydney's mum. I know it was rude, sir, and we should have knocked,
but I suppose I thought it was like a shop, see, where you just go right
in. I'm sorry, sir, though you've been most kind and generous. Thank you
for the milk; it was wonderful. We can go now, and leave you. We don't
want to disturb your work. You create such beauty it seems impossible to
believe it's all done right here, Mr. Lindsey. I am honored just to meet
you!"
With that I just about collapsed from lack of breath, for I don't doubt
that I delivered that speech without a pause, and Mr. Lindsey just
stared at me open-mouthed with that surprised gaze that adults use when
children astonish them.
"Well, I'll be!" he exclaimed with a big smile. "Sit down, child, and
take a breath. At least one thing's for certain, you are telling the
truth. No liar could talk without breathing; it just isn't done."
He stood then, and began to wander around the room, murmuring to
himself and examining various shelves about the place. Finally, with an
expression of satisfaction and success, he selected an item, examined
it, and returned. Smiling, he handed it to Sydney. "There you go, er,
Sydney. Will that please your mother?" Sydney's eyes went wide and she
stared at the miniature vase in her hand as though she was not quite
convinced it was real.
"Now, it has a small defect," said Mr. Lindsey, pointing to a slight
imperfection in one of the thin lines near the base of the vase. "It is
not very noticeable, but of course I cannot sell it at full price. How
much did you say you had?"
I leapt to my feet and produced the money, six small coins in my open
palm. Mr. Lindsey examined my hand and carefully took two of them,
smiling at me. "That's exactly the right price," he said.
"Oh, thank you, Mr. Lindsey! You are so very kind!"
"Nonsense," he said, color rising to his face. "Like I said, it is
defective, but I doubt your mother shall mind."
"Certainly not!" murmured Sydney, shaking her head solemnly. "She loves
your beautiful artwork. She's told me so, many times. Thank you very
much!"
A few minutes later found us outside, the sky darkening with the
approaching evening, a chill wind pushing at us as we struggled
northward. The cold did not bother us, however. We scarcely felt it; our
joy was our warmth. For deep inside Sydney's coat was buried a treasure,
a gift of mammoth proportions, something more precious than any of us
knew.
It was these thoughts that passed through my mind as I slowly turned
the little vase in my hands, thoughts that took me back twenty-two
years. Mistress DeMarcco's vase was so similar to Sydney's, the same
size and shape, and even the same pattern. It quite troubled me.
Like so much that happens in life, that vase was a bittersweet memory
to me. An odd mixture of joy and sadness, pain and longing. At the time
it had been mostly sadness, but the years had softened the wounds, and
now I felt only a vague sense of loss, a longing for those bittersweet
days of yore.
The day after we left Mr. Lindsey's workshop a fierce storm arose, one
of the worst in anyone's memory. It was sudden and unexpected, and it
blanketed the entire county for two whole days. When it was over word
spread like fire that Mr. Lindsey was missing, that he had last been
seen riding to visit his sister in Richport, a mere 15 miles distant, on
the day the storm hit. A visitor from Richport said that his sister
claimed he had never arrived and she was concerned. Immediately teams of
men went out searching, for everyone liked Mr. Lindsey. Late in the
evening they returned, a sad and broken group of men, for in a lonely
ravine, far off the main road, they had found his horse, dead, with a
broken leg. Not far away, they came across the body of the great artist,
frozen in the storm.
The next day was Christmas, and it wasn't a jolly one for Triten, the
entire village cloaked with black and in mourning.
Sydney's mother died three days after Christmas.
We had taken the vase to her immediately after leaving Mr. Lindsey's
place. Sydney didn't say it but I think she was worried that her mother
wouldn't last until Christmas and she wanted to give her the vase as
soon as possible.
We arrived just as evening set, and I told Sydney I couldn't stay long
as I would be expected at home. She nodded, and we went into the house,
straight to the small room at the back. I did not like the room very
much, though I had been in it before. It was cramped and dark and full
of foreign odors, most of them unpleasant.
Mrs. Jacoby lay as though dead, covered with blankets. She seemed
smaller and more frail than I had seen her before. But there was a light
in her eyes, though it was tiny and distant. She seemed only vaguely
aware of our presence, muttering and turning her head as though she had
trouble seeing and asking plaintively, "Is that you, kitten? It that my
baby daughter?"
"Yes, mummy, it's me," whispered Sydney, grasping her mother's head and
holding it so they could look into each other's eyes. The old woman
blinked rapidly and suddenly seemed to start awake, as though from a
deep sleep.
"Sydney!" she exclaimed. "Sydney, my love! You're here. Oh, hold me,
dear, I love you so much." Sydney kissed her mother's forehead then, and
held her tightly for a few minutes. Sydney did not cry but she looked
like she expected to so at any moment.
"I have a Christmas present for you," the little girl whispered.
The mother appeared surprised, slightly confused. "Is it Christmas
already?" she said with a deep sigh. "I have so much to do. Nothing is
ready." She made a feeble effort as though to rise, but Sydney pushed
her down, hushing her gently.
"Christmas is days away, mum. Don't worry about it. There's plenty of
time." Then Sydney took the vase out of the inside of her coat, slowly
unwrapping it from the strip of cloth used to protect it.
Mrs. Wagner's eyes went wide when she saw the vase. "It's a Lindsey!"
she breathed in astonishment. "It's beautiful. But child, those cost a
fortune! How did you manage it?"
In hushed tones Sydney told her mother the story, of the cold, the warm
milk, and how nice dear Mr. Lindsey had been. The old woman cried then.
We all began to weep, and Mrs. Jacoby appeared to be very happy and
alive, her cheeks flushed with passion and vigor, eyes wet with tears,
her mouth stretched into a wide smile, almost a living ghost of her
former self.
Sydney's father came in about that time. We fell silent, for a moment,
and then Mrs. Jacoby showed him the vase, her eyes shining with joy. Mr.
Jacoby was a big man, a worker. I had rarely spoken to him, and in fact,
rarely saw him. For as long as I knew her, Sydney did not say much about
him, but always talked about her mother. He always frightened me a
little, as he seemed so stern and continually cross, as though he were
glaring at everyone in the room. But his eyes were soft, now, as he
looked at the woman in the bed. He smiled and ran his fingers through
the wisps of hair on her head. She suddenly looked so old at that moment
I wondered that she breathed at all. As we watched he whispered to her
and her eyes slowly faded and shut, and in a heartbeat she was fast
asleep, resting quietly.
The man took the vase from her loose fingers and studied it. He did not
pretend to understand impractical things like art, but he knew the piece
had to be expensive. In a low voice he said gruffly, "Where'd you get
it, girl."
Sydney told him. His face was a rock. He calmly placed the vase on the
bedside table and walked out of the room, both of us following. Without
a word we walked outside, to the small woodshed, where he silently took
down a long leather strap. I felt my eyes growing wide in astonishment.
"Do you want to tell me the truth, girl, or do you want extra for
lying?"
Sydney's face had gone pale. "I'm telling you the truth, father. Mr.
Lindsey himself gave me that vase!"
"It's true Mr. Wagner," I ventured, falling silent when he glared at
me.
"You're both liars," he said vehemently, spitting onto the ground next
to me. "I ought to thrash you both telling stories. Now tell me the
truth: where did you steal it from?" His voice roared like thunder and
his black eyes blazed with fury.
Sydney did not answer, and I looked away. Like in a dream I watched as
he pulled Sydney forward, into the shed, and thrust her bodily across
the top of a large barrel. With harsh, cruel speed he jerked her dress
and coat upward, her thin legs bare except for her stockings. He pushed
her dress up so high you could see her naked bottom, as undergarments
were reserved for Sundays. When he had her sufficiently naked for his
needs, he began to thrash her, the heavy strap rising and falling at
blinding speed. The pale flesh of her thighs and buttocks turned crimson
with each stroke and each time Sydney screamed and sobbed in pain as
though she was being burned with a live poker. The lashing continued,
red stripes painting her thighs and legs. Sydney struggled now, and her
father roared at her to be still, and the belt came down even harder,
the dreadful sound of each blow almost causing me to pee.
I stood, stunned, just outside the doorway, tears filling my eyes. I
wanted to weep at the injustice of it, I wanted to scream and fight. But
Mr. Wagner was a big man and I could not fight him. If I tried I surely
would be whipped myself, and that terrified me. It had been years since
my father had seen the need to strap me, and my memories of the last one
were vague and filled with horror and dread beyond expression. With a
pounding heart I pushed aside any guilt at abandoning my friend and
turned and ran. I ran all the way home without stopping, crying the
whole way. I felt awful about leaving her, but I couldn't just stand
there and wait for my turn. In my mind I could not rid myself of the
image of her thin legs sticking out from under her clothing, kicking so
frantically I could see between her legs all the way to the darkness of
her crotch, thick red welts covering her pale skin. The image terrified
and humiliated me. It was a reminder of my own cowardice, and yet I
couldn't imagine receiving a strapping like that.
I didn't see Sydney again until the funeral. It was a quiet affair,
just a few of us. Sydney was appropriately dressed in black. Her father
was there, tall and looming, but he did not look at me. He did not look
at anyone, really, but seemed distant and aloof. His shoulders were
squared as though he was carrying a heavy, awkward burden. As soon as
the ceremony was finished he left, curtly motioning for Sydney and her
little brother to follow.
Tears in her eyes, Sydney hastily ran to me and told me they were
leaving. I thought she meant to go home, which seemed rather obvious and
a silly thing to need to tell me, but she mentioned that her father had
relatives near Sheraton, and as he felt it too much of a burden to raise
two children on his own, they would go live with their aunt. This struck
me like a blow, and I watched in silence as my friend left, scurrying to
catch up with her father.
At home I cried. I had not known Sydney for very long, perhaps a few
years, but we had grown close, as children do, and to a child, a year
can be a lifetime. I begged my father to let me go with her, but of
course that was out of the question. A week later she was gone, and I
was alone.
Thus, in the span of a few weeks time, our village lost a hero, my
friend lost part of her family, and I lost my friend. I never saw Sydney
again, though every time I see a piece of Lindsey porcelain I think of
her. I think of her dear mother, valiant to the end. I think of her
father holding that strap and her tiny kicking legs, and of course, Mr.
Lindsey and that cozy, firelit room where we shared warm milk.
Tears blurred my vision as I thought of that terrible Christmas, so
full of tragedy and poignant joy. The vase rotated in my fingers and I
suddenly froze, my heart skipping a beat. I frantically scanned the
pattern again. Had I not seen a slight smudge in one of the lines? Just
a tiny imperfection, something so minor none but an artist would
scarcely notice it?
"How _dare_ you!" exclaimed a voice from behind me, immediately
followed by the shudder of a door slamming shut. I felt a chill pass
through me. That sound of doom echoed in my mind like a ringing bell. I
looked up to the Mistress, standing before the door, the expression on
her face one of absolute shock and betrayal. I could not move, even when
she snatched the vase from my hand, inspected it briefly, and gingerly
placed it in the cabinet. I'd seen that expression before, I realized
suddenly, when I was a child, and the authorities had taken a baby away
from its mother. I did not know why they had taken her baby, but the
look of betrayal and uncontrolled hatred in her eyes had haunted me for
months, and I saw that look in the Mistresses eyes now, a look of pure
hatred, as though I were stealing her child.
The Mistress snapped the door shut firmly. Her dark eyes blazed with
unspeakable fury, her expression suddenly reminding me of the raging Mr.
Jacoby as he flogged his daughter so many years ago. I could not look at
her, but stared straight ahead, my mind slow and numb.
"Get out," she hissed, and my heart started in surprise. Wasn't she
going to beat me? I expected nothing but the worst punishment of my
life. But she only pointed to the door and growled, "I said, get out!"
and I left immediately. Her eyes were filled with tears and she looked
like she was trembling with rage or passion. This was no game for her;
no pleasure glinted in her eyes. Instead I glimpsed fear and sadness,
two emotions I had never suspected the Lady even had the ability to
endure, let alone bear them with such a weary expression of
long-suffering.
I went straight to my room and fell onto my bed and began to weep. I
wept for Sydney and her mother, for my damned self, for the Mistress and
whatever terrible secret she bore, and for Mr. Lindsey and his vase. I
don't know how long I lay weeping, but finally I lay silent and still,
and the slowly the image of the vase returned to haunt me. My resolve
began to thicken and I knew what I had to do, regardless of the penalty.
Some how, some way, despite the horrible punishment I was waiting to
receive, I was going to have to examine that vase again, to make certain
that I had seen what I thought I had seen. Surely it was only my eyes
playing games, my mind confused by my memories, forcing me to see what I
wanted to see. But I could not be sure. I needed to look at the vase,
and though I knew the Mistress would be on her guard now more than ever,
I _had_ to examine that vase, whatever the cost!
