Captain Jack Hawley bade George Stout goodnight and knocked at the door to the room where Johanna sat waiting. Moments earlier he'd been shocked to see George's ghoulish daughter, Rose, hanging by her heels from a rope in the center of the store.
He rushed toward her.
"Are you all right? Who did this to you?" he said.
As he drew near, she opened her eyes and made a terrifying face at him.
Jack said, "Fine. Get yourself down."
Rose laughed and pulled herself up the rope, all the way to the beam. Jack marveled at her dexterity. Once atop the beam, she began untying her ankles. Jack turned away and started walking toward the bedroom where Johanna was waiting.
Rose shouted "Catch me!"
Jack turned and was horrified to see Rose plummeting toward the floor. He dove under her and caught her just before impact.
She got to her feet, clapped the dust off her hands and said, "Why, thank you Henry!" and headed off to bed.
Jack gathered himself to a standing position and let out a deep breath. Though not a religious man, he made the sign of the cross on his chest. When Johanna opened the door, he said, "If you like Rugby's looks, you'd best keep her away from Rose. She's apt to cast a spell to cover Rugby's body with feathers."
Johanna giggled. She took Jack's hand, kissed it and pressed it to her bosom vigorously, in a way that revealed the entire contents of her nightshirt to his touch. Jack jerked his hand away as if he'd touched a hot stone. His face contorted into a horrified expression.
"Please don't be angry," she said. "I know I'm small, but that will change ere long."
"But…But you're-" Jack sputtered, unable to form a sentence.
Johanna smiled. "I'm ready, Henry. It's our time. I'm not experienced, but you'll teach me."
"I'll do nothing of the sort," he said with a huff.
He led her to the bed and sat her down. She, on the verge of tears, said "Why not?"
"You're…for God's sake, you're…you're only twelve years old!"
Johanna stuck her chin out in defiance.
"And so what if I am? My mother was twelve when she married, and her mother, too. And Marie as well. And all of them pregnant before turning thirteen!"
"It's obscene."
"It's life, Henry."
"It's wrong."
"How old was your mother when she had you?"
He waved his hand dismissively. "I don't know," he lied.
"Truly?"
Jack frowned. "It's not something I wish to think about in any case."
Johanna started crying. Softly at first, and then it began to build.
"You don't love me," she sobbed.
"I barely know you!"
"It always starts with barely knowing," she said, trying to catch her breath between sobs. "Then it grows. Ask anyone."
"You're a child," he said, instantly regretting the remark when he saw the heartbreak in her eyes. A few seconds passed before she exploded into a frenzy of tears, and when it happened, Jack felt awful. But he was a practical man, and what he said couldn't be taken back, so he kissed her forehead and turned away. He walked to the foot of the bed and eased himself to the floor where soon he fell asleep, even as she cried her eyes out a few feet away on the bed.
Four hours later Jack began tossing and turning. He spoke in his sleep of a thin, blond girl from long ago or far away who kept saying her name. Johanna wanted to wake him out of his dream, in case it was a nightmare, but she couldn't afford to make him angry again, not if she intended to get her family started.
And she did so intend.
But getting her family started, as everyone knew, began with the process of rutting.
On the subject of rutting, Johanna knew she had a lot to learn. That men wanted to rut was not a question. But perhaps not all men were like her father, who rutted at night in a violent, angry way after consuming serious quantities of liquor. Maybe her Henry was the type of man who preferred to rut in the morning.
Johanna yawned. She was exhausted from the long day's work, fatigued from crying half the night over Henry's rejection, and these were too many issues for her to ponder. Tomorrow would be another day, a better day, and maybe Henry would wake up refreshed and ready to rut. Johanna closed her eyes and settled into her pillow. She could wait until tomorrow to ask about his dream. Tomorrow morning, after rutting, she'd ask Henry who Libby Vail was.
At that very moment, four miles away in downtown St. Alban's, Pim finally got his sign.
It had taken him well over an hour to stumble the two miles of dark road from Sinner's Row to town, and once there he spied a lodging house a couple of blocks away. As he headed there to get a room he saw a crudely written bulletin nailed to a post. Pim wasn't an accomplished reader, but he'd learned enough of his letters to make out the gist of the announcement: the next morning at noon someone's wife was going to be auctioned off in the town square.
Auctioned off? Someone's wife?
Pim looked up and thanked God for sending such a bold sign. He meant to have a look at this woman, and if she pleased him, buy her.