Mrs. d.i.c.kinson blinked. Finally, she asked, "What brought you to Amherst?

"We didn't have much choice," Ursula muttered.

"Hush, Ursula!" Mrs. Langston snapped.

Emily glanced from mother to daughter.

"My brother lives here," Mrs. Langston said. "We had lost touch, and I thought it important to spend some time with him."

Emily carefully fixed her needle to the fabric and leaned forward. "Do you have a large family? Any other brothers?

Mrs. Langston glared at Emily. "Not any longer," she said sharply.

"I'm sorry; I didn't realize it was a sensitive subject." By now all the ladies were staring at Mrs. Langston.

Shifting her weight in her seat, Mrs. Langston said, "I had another brother, Jeremiah, but he pa.s.sed away recently."

"How terribly sad," Emily said. "How did he die?

Mrs. d.i.c.kinson inhaled sharply. "Emily, enough of these personal questions. Where are your manners?"

"He was killed while prospecting in the Dakotas," Mrs. Langston said.

"Did he have any children?" Emily probed.

"No, unfortunately his only son died young." Mrs. Langston pursed her lips and glared at Emily. "And now, if you don't mind, I'd rather discuss something less upsetting."

"Emily, enough," Mrs. d.i.c.kinson agreed. "I declare you are becoming quite morbid."

Emily could have screamed with frustration. How was she going to discover anything if her mother kept cutting the conversation short? She jabbed her needle hard through the fabric and inadvertently stabbed the fleshy part of her thumb. She stared as a drop of red blood dripped onto the white fabric and spread like a plague across her careful st.i.tches.

I measure every grief I meet

With a.n.a.lytic eyes;

I wonder if it weighs like mine,

Or has an easier size.

CHAPTER 13.

"Emily, you're bleeding," Vinnie exclaimed.

"It's nothing," Emily said. She noticed that Ursula was staring at the b.l.o.o.d.y marks on the fabric, her face pale.

A knock on the door rescued Emily from being the center of attention. "I'll answer the door." She put aside her embroidery and jumped up.

"Not even a maid to greet your guests?" Violet Langston murmured, just loud enough for Emily to hear.

"Mother!" Ursula whispered.

Sucking on her p.r.i.c.ked thumb, Emily left the parlor. A gust of wind tugged the oak door out of her hand so it slammed against the wall. A young man wearing oilskins stood there. His face was all too familiar.

"You!" Emily said.

He peered into the dark hallway. When he saw Emily, he stepped back into the rain. "You! What are you doing here?"

"This is my home," Emily said.

Suddenly Mrs. Langston's shrill voice broke the spell. "Henry! Come in out of the rain. What are you doing here?"

Henry pulled back his hood and, with a wary glance at Emily, leaned forward to kiss his mother on the cheek. "I arrived on the stage this morning. Father told me you were here, so I came to fetch you. I hope I'm not too early."

"And who is this?" Mrs. d.i.c.kinson had followed Mrs. Langston into the hallway.

Mrs. Langston beamed. "Mrs. d.i.c.kinson and Miss Emily d.i.c.kinson, let me introduce you to my son, Henry Langston. He has just arrived from New Haven."

She paused, waiting for someone to ask. Emily finally obliged. "Do you go to Yale, Mr. Langston?"

"Yes, I'm studying law." He gave her a quick conspiratorial grin that thanked her for humoring his sn.o.bbish mother.

"And you only arrived today?" Emily pressed, giving him a hard look. His grin faded, and she could see a flush creeping up the back of his neck.

Ursula appeared in the crowded hallway. Seeing her brother, she squealed and ran into his embrace. "Henry!"

"Ursula, you'll get your dress wet," he said, laughing.

Emily felt a pang for her own absent brother. For the first time, she envied Ursula.

Mrs. Langston performed the introductions.

"It's a pleasure to meet you all." Henry glanced outside. "But as I think the weather is clearing, I should bring my mother and sister home right away."

For a few minutes, confusion reigned as coats were donned and umbrellas lost and found. Henry held the door open for his mother and sister. With him at their elbows, they picked their way down the muddy path into a waiting carriage. Emily stayed in the doorway while the other guests returned to the parlor.

"Mr. Langston," Emily called after him. He closed the door of the carriage and came halfway up the path, almost as if he were keeping a safe distance from her.

"Yes, Miss d.i.c.kinson?"

She slipped on wooden clogs over her slippers and walked out into the rain, sheltered only by her inadequate umbrella. Her heels sank into the mud. "Now that we know each other's names, perhaps we should be honest about a few other facts."

"I beg your pardon?" He avoided looking directly at her.

"We both know that you didn't arrive in Amherst today," Emily said.

He glanced at the carriage. "It's not necessary to mention that to my mother, is it?"

"Of course not," Emily said. "Not if you meet me at the church at three this afternoon." She pointed to the spire of the First Congregational Church up the hill. "I have something to show you."

"I'm not sure I can get away," he said.

"Then I'm not sure I can keep what I know to myself," Emily replied.

"I'll try to be there," he said grudgingly, stepping through the mud back to the carriage. He swung himself up to the box seat and took up the reins.

After the carriage had turned onto the road, Emily couldn't take her eyes off its tracks unspooling before her. They were quickly filling up with mud, but inside the imprint left by the right side wheel, Emily noticed a square mark.

"So there, Vinnie," she murmured to herself. "We didn't need to go looking for the wheel. It rolled right to our front door."

Henry Langston was waiting at the top of the steps to the church when Emily arrived. They were alone-the rain had kept most of Amherst indoors. Neither was inclined to break the awkward silence.

"Why did you ask me to meet you here?" Henry finally asked.

"Why did you agree to come?" she countered.

He said nothing.

"You were in Sam Wentworth's house yesterday," Emily said finally. "And possibly a few days before that."

"So? I'm his nephew." He leaned against the wall, reminding her of Mr. n.o.body when he had reclined against the wooden post in the stable. "You were the one trespa.s.sing."

"Why did you lie to your mother?"

He stiffened. "If I choose to spend time with my uncle without my mother knowing, that's my affair."

"Were you there five days ago?" Emily felt like a lawyer in court, trying to pin down a recalcitrant witness.

"Why are you asking all these questions?" he complained. "I agreed to meet you because I was curious. You upset my uncle badly, and I want to know why."

"I'll explain, but first please tell me . . . five days ago?"

"I was there, but my uncle was in Northampton purchasing the carriage you saw this morning."

"And did you give someone some of your uncle's honeycomb?"

"How do you know that?" He stepped back. "Miss d.i.c.kinson, I begin to think perhaps you are a witch!" The expression on his face reminded her of Mr. n.o.body's- but this young man lacked Mr. n.o.body's insouciant charm.

"Mr. Langston, I need the answer to my question. It's more important than you can possibly guess."

He looked around, as though he was afraid they were being watched. "I gave some honey to my cousin," he admitted.

"Is he your age? And of your build and complexion?"

"When we were younger, people commented we could have been brothers."

Emily nodded. Hadn't she been taken aback by the uncanny resemblance? "His name?" Her words hung in the humid air, their simplicity demanding an answer.

"I must insist you explain what my family's private business is to you," Mr. Langston said, bristling with suspicion.

Emily took a deep breath. "I'm so sorry to have to do this." She turned to pull open the church door. Automatically, he stepped forward to hold it open. In silence, she led him to the bas.e.m.e.nt vestry.

Her plan had seemed so simple the other night in the kitchen, but now she wasn't so sure of herself. If her deductions were correct, she was about to subject Mr. Langston to a dreadful ordeal.

His eyes shifted rapidly from one corner of the dim interior to another until they lit on the table. "Is that a body?" he asked.

Emily reflected that he might be the only person in Amherst who didn't know about the body in the vestry. News must not often reach Sam Wentworth's farm.

Without a word, she led him to the makeshift bier. Studying Mr. Langston's countenance, she gently lifted the cloth from the corpse's face.

Mr. Langston gasped and recoiled. "Cousin James!"

"James," Emily repeated, her suspicions confirmed. Finally her mysterious friend had a name, and she felt a weight lift from her shoulders. James Wentworth. The dead cousin, miraculously resurrected, only to perish again.

Henry Langston was staring at the body. His face was pale, and Emily could see beads of sweat on his forehead that had nothing to do with the sticky weather. How do you read guilt or innocence in a man's expression? He seemed shocked, and that boded well. Besides, Emily knew for a fact that Mr. n.o.body, or James as she should call him now, had been alive and well when he left his cousin, honeycomb in pocket.

He stepped closer to get a better look. Then he whirled around and turned on Emily. "How dare you not warn me that my own cousin lay here?"

He loomed over her, and she stepped back involuntarily. Emily defended herself. "I wasn't sure; I only suspected."

"What is he doing here? He was fine on Friday." He rubbed his damp forehead with the back of his hand. "I have to tell my parents that we've lost him again."

"Again?" Emily asked, although she suspected she understood very well.

"We received word of his death months ago. You could have knocked me down with a feather when he showed up at Uncle's door." He groaned. "This will kill Mother."

"She doesn't know?" Emily asked, watching him closely. "What about Ursula?"