“No harm done, then.” Mother’s lips twisted up with scorn. “I’ll talk to her,” she said, mostly to make him leave, I think, as she never did anything of the sort. She never told Father what had happened either.
When Olavsen was gone, I found Little Brynhild up in the loft. She was sitting by the small window, on top of her mattress, clutching her woolen blanket. She had likely climbed up there the very moment she heard who was outside the door. The pale light that filtered in gave her round face a cold pallor. Her mouth was turned down at the edges and her gaze brimmed with defiant anger. When I settled down beside her on the mattress, she pursed her lips and her gaze drifted down in her lap.
I fussed a little with her shawl, pulled it further onto her shoulders. “It’s not the dog’s fault,” I told her. “It’s the master that rules the dog, not the other way around. It won’t help punishing the animal.”
She did not answer, but I could see her jaw working, grinding away in the dim light.
“Now, I’m not saying that you should throw rocks at Gustav Olavsen, but I think he deserves it more than—”
“I missed,” she muttered, still not looking up. “I didn’t hit the dog.”
“I know.”
“I was angry with it for scaring me.”
“It’s a dog, Little Brynhild. You cannot blame it for being what it is.”
“Why not?”
I shrugged. “It is just how it is. A dog has its own nature. It cannot think like us.”
She did not reply at first, and neither did she look up again. She just sat there staring down in her lap. “I could throw rocks at them both, then.”
“No.” I sighed. “Not at any of them.”
“Why?”
“Because it will only make it worse for you. People like us will always get punished, even if what we do is just.” I reached out and let my hand rest on her arm. “Let it go, Little Brynhild. That is all you can do. It won’t do you any good to struggle.”
She did not speak to argue, but I could feel her muscles tense up under the cotton, and a week later, Olavsen was back, claiming that she had set a fire in his hayloft. No one had seen her there, and the fire had died before it could do much harm, but the farmer was still red with fury, and Father gave her a lashing just in case.
When I asked her if she had done it, she just shook her head and averted her gaze, refusing to tell me either way.
She had never been one to let go of a grudge.
46.
Belle
La Porte, 1908
Choosing an ally like Lamphere was stupid. A drunkard is no one’s friend—not even his own. I so dearly wanted to kill him, and no one would have batted an eye if he died. Men like Lamphere are expected to go to an early grave—but I had said I would not kill again, and so I stayed my hand.
It was the hardest thing I ever did.
We had barely entered the month of February when the next troublesome news reached me. My neighbor, Mr. Nicholson, came by one bleak cold morning. He stood in my kitchen, clearly uncomfortable, refusing to sit down.
“What is it?” I asked. “Why are you so strange this morning?” I was ashamed of the state of my house then; the table was crammed with dirty pots and pans, the floors were dusty, and I worried that he could smell the reek from the pantry. I could smell myself too: the unwashed skin. My shirtwaist was stained under the apron. Only the children were clean in those days, neatly combed and braided. We brought out the tub every Saturday, and they all had their turn in the water.
“I won’t stay long.” Nicholson toyed with the cap in his hands. “I just wanted to inform you that your man Lamphere is perhaps not your friend.”
“That Lamphere, he is mad.” I slumped down in a chair. “He has been gone now for three whole days; I cannot trust him at all. What has he been saying?” I felt cold with dread, but I do not think it showed.
“He is sitting at the bar with Elizabeth Smith, bragging that he has some sway over you, that he can make you bend your knee and give him whatever he wants. His words, ma’am, not mine.”
“And what is it he thinks he knows?”
The old man shrugged. “He didn’t say specifically, but he tells all who want to hear that he knows some secret of yours. He says he can make you give him as much money as he likes.”
“Lamphere is a liar, you know that. I’ve been trying to get rid of him for some time, but he doesn’t want to leave the farm. I was thinking of speaking to the sheriff about him.”
“Yes, I figured you’d had some dispute.”
“Whatever could he have on me? A lonely widow with three small children—”
“He said it had something to do with the way you make money.” His face lit up as if he just recalled.
“What money? I have nothing but the farm and the land—”
“Of course, but Lamphere insists there’s a second source of income, one that won’t stand the light of day . . . I’m sorry, Mrs. Gunness, I’m just telling it like it is.”
“And I’m glad that you do. It won’t do at all having that madman telling lies about me.”
“We have to look out for each other.” The man was still clutching his cap.
“It’s good to have good neighbors.”
“Anytime, Mrs. Gunness.” He placed the cap back on his head. “My wife would never forgive me if I didn’t tell you.”
“Of course. She knows how vulnerable a woman’s reputation is, especially if she lives alone.”
“You should get rid of him, Mrs. Gunness.”
“Oh, I will.”
I was fuming with fury when he had left. Of course Lamphere would betray me—he always did betray me. I had not forgotten the slight when he failed to purchase that insurance for me, had not forgotten how that drunken fool rejected my suggestion of marriage in effect. Now he was telling tales, suggesting that he knew some dark secret—it would not do at all.
I changed my clothes and pinned my hair, got the buggy out, and set out for La Porte. I was going to place another advertisement, looking for a farmhand this time. If Lamphere thought he could keep Belle Gunness shivering and on her knees, he’d better think again. I would not stand for it—could not stand for it.
I told him as much when he finally arrived that night, drunk off his feet and reeking of perfume. He had been staying with Lizzie Smith, an old whore he had been slumming with from time to time, just as fond of liquor as he was.
“You can get your things and go.” I stood before him by the kitchen table, holding the cleaver to make my point. It would look strange if he disappeared just after saying those things, but no one would blame me for chasing him off. It was what any decent woman would do.
Lamphere poured himself more drink; he had been in my pantry without asking. “I don’t think you get to decide that, Belle. I decide from now on.”
“Is that what you believe? Have you seen nothing?”
“I have and I do. I know what you are. People would like to know too.”