Broken face and all, Father is off on tour again before three weeks have passed. One night, something, a premonition or an unexpected noise—Rosalie doesn’t know what—wakes her. She makes her silent way to the stairs and down. In the dark, she skirts the chairs and tables by finding the edge of the Turkish rug and sticking to it until she’s at the front door, which she opens. She might be dreaming. The moon is high and shiny as a dime above the trees. Masses of stars have been carelessly tossed about it. The nearby owl calls. A raven launches into the air and Rosalie can hear the whomp whomp whomp of its wings. The world is black and silver. She can smell that rain is coming.
The dogs are lying at the front of the cabin. They rise suddenly, their hair stiffening. They bark and continue barking. Rosalie feels a panic in her chest. She goes upstairs for June, shakes him up, fetches Father’s unloaded rifle for him. They stand together on the doorstep in their nightclothes, listening to the dogs.
Mother joins them in the doorway, Grandfather a moment later. Suddenly Rosalie sees how frail Grandfather has become. If they’re about to be killed, he won’t be the man to stop it.
Figures appear, emerging from the darkness and the trees. They clarify into a man, a woman, and an enormous number of children. The woman seems misshapen until she comes close enough that they see she’s carrying a baby in her arms. Closer, and they see that all are dressed in the most outlandish fashion—theater costumes from completely different plays, dramas and comedies and Greek tableaus. One boy is wearing women’s pantaloons, far too big. He holds them up with his hand as he walks. He’s barefoot. The man is dressed in a long-tailed green velvet coat. The woman wears a toga with a shawl around her shoulders—half goddess and half Irish washerwoman. The dogs growl and snap, but the people come ahead regardless.
Rosalie has never seen these people before; neither has June, nor Mother. The man speaks first to June and his rifle. “You’d be young Junius,” he says. “I’m your uncle Mitchell.”
The woman looks past Rosalie’s head to where Grandfather stands. “Hello, Father,” she says. “Here we are. All the way from England, through such trials as you can scarcely imagine.”
“I’ve no welcome for you,” Grandfather tells her. “Keep walking.” He steps back inside and closes the door. June and Rosalie have been left on the wrong side of it just as the rain arrives.
* * *
—
James Mitchell is a man of no accomplishments and no employment. Long ago he was a bootblack who persuaded Father’s sister to marry him. It’s one thing for Grandfather to admire the democratic spirit of the American revolutionaries. It’s quite another to see his daughter elope against his explicit command, and marry so far beneath her. Grandfather immediately disinherited her and, until this night, he hasn’t spoken a word to her. Nor will he again.
They will soon learn that, sometime during that terrible visit to England, before Henry had fallen ill, Father had gone secretly to see his sister. Distressed by her circumstances, the extreme poverty and the abusive, drunken husband, he’d given her enough money to bring herself and her children to Maryland. This money came with the specific proviso that her husband not be one of the party. This money was meant for Jane Mitchell’s escape.
Obviously, Aunt Mitchell has ignored these instructions. They made it to New York on Father’s money, but arrived as paupers, with no luggage and no provision. On they came, sometimes on foot and sometimes on charity in a passing coach or wagon, to Baltimore. There, their only clothing in rags, they’d applied to the local theater company and, on the strength of Father’s name, got the bits of costumes they are wearing plus directions to the farm.
Mother opens the door and lets them all into the house. The seven strange children have runny noses and blistered feet. Drops of rain are beaded on their greasy hair and streaking their cheeks. They smell awful.
Uncle Mitchell looks around at the cramped room, the dirt floor, the low ceiling. Even in charitable candlelight, the shabbiness is undeniable. He holds a candle in front of a picture on the wall, makes a show of looking it over—a barnyard scene, a boy feeding a horse from his hand. The rain taps lightly at first, then louder and faster on the roof. “Where will we all sleep?” he asks.
First they eat. They fall on whatever cold food and stale bread remains in the pantry and complain that there’s no meat. “In the morning,” Uncle Mitchell says, “I’ll kill a couple of your chickens.”
“You can’t do that,” June tells him.
“Don’t contradict your elders and betters,” Uncle Mitchell says. “I’ll do as I please.” There is no more conversation.
Mother has been upstairs organizing. Mr. and Mrs. Mitchell will take Mother and Father’s bed. The Mitchell girls are sent to sleep with Asia, all of them laid crossways on the mattress like fence posts. June retires to the carriage house with Joe Hall so that the boys can have the bed he shares with Edwin. Rosalie and her mother sleep, or mostly don’t sleep, on the rug downstairs. Rosalie wraps herself in Macbeth’s cape for warmth. All night the rain starts and stops, starts and stops. Next morning, Rosalie’s mind is muddled with fatigue.
The day that dawns is mild and sunny. Mother is able to open the doors and windows, air the cabin out. This season is always such a beautiful one on the farm—the trees in tender leaf, the air filled with the scent of jasmine and the songs of birds and streams. It’s a shame that Father so often misses it. He is always deeply moved by nature resurrecting.
The older Mitchells are still asleep, and Rosalie takes the children as far as the spring so the house will stay quiet. Mother suggested the woods, but Rosalie sees no need to go that far, expose the new children to the curiosity of the dead ones. The Mitchells are all limping, feet raw and swollen. The boys are drowning in June’s clothing. The girls are wrapped in woven blankets with their legs bare. A walk would be unkind.
Besides, Rosalie would have to carry little Charlotte and then Asia would demand to be carried, too. “I don’t like them,” Asia tells her, right where they can hear, and Rosalie whispers not to worry, the Mitchells will be gone soon enough. Anyone can see there’s no room.