When he climbed to the top, it took him a moment to realize that I was lying across the threshold of my mother’s room, blocking his way.

“Mary? What’re you doing? Go to bed, stupid girl.”

“Not tonight, Papa.”

“Outta my way.” He nudged my side with his boot. Betsy gave a low growl. “And tell that feckin’ dog to shut up.”

“Not any more nights,” I said.

He teetered on the landing. I thought he might fall backward. Hit his head and die and be gone forever. And then hated myself for thinking it. Betsy stood close by, ready to defend me.

“I could just walk over you.”

“Then walk over me,” I said. “But you’ll have to do it, Papa. Every night from now on.”

I woke in my bed that morning, with no memory of how I got there. Heard Betsy downstairs, pawing at the door to get out, and was surprised to hear Papa’s voice: “C’mon, girl. Out this way.” As if all was forgotten. Soon little James was crying—I can still hear it now—the clatter in the kitchen, the cook’s voice, Everina singing a nursery rhyme. I heard Eliza tell Mama that I was sick and ought to stay in bed, as if they knew what I’d done.

When I got up and dressed, pulling my shawl tight around me, and ventured downstairs, everyone but Mama looked at me. I stood on the threshold.

“Good morning, Mama.”

“Morning, Mary.” Her shoulders sank with shame; I could feel it, but she didn’t turn to greet me. “Too sick to fetch some eggs from the chicken house?”

The cook offered to do it in my stead.

“No. I need the fresh air.” I took the basket from a shelf and left by the front door, stopping to take in the bright morning. I looked around for Betsy, who ought to be waiting for me at the front step. I called her name, then headed down the path, still calling, thinking she would rush from the hedgerow any moment to frolic by my side. Maybe we’d breach the gates of Walkington this fine day.

And then I saw her. Dear Betsy.

Hanging in a noose from my tree.

Mrs. B

September 1, 1797