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Sing, Little Bird

Lucky Sarah, the other girls had said. Lucky Sarah! She is going up to the country, did you hear? No, another one had said, no, I didn't. And why is she going up to the country?

A woman came down from there, in a plum dress, and told Mrs. Harold that she was going to take Sarah home with her! A woman came into the house and told Mrs. Harold! Told her! Taking Sarah off to Wellington, she said, for my Peggy needs a companion and who better than my Sarah? Imagine it!

Sarah heard them whisper and thought she was not lucky. Not at all. The woman in the plum dress was not a stranger. That woman was Mrs. Carlyle, who had always been kind. She came down from the country and asked after her every few months. She had always brought a peppermint and a several tales of her daughter, who Sarah understood to be quite the fantastic creature, if Mrs. Carlyle's stories could be taken as truth.

Such a pretty child, Mrs. Carlyle had first said. Sarah liked Mrs. Carlyle well enough. A kindly woman, somewhere between thirty and forty, becoming round, with curling brown hair and fine blue eyes. She always smelled of dust and mint.

Poor little orphan girl, Mrs. Carlyle always said, when she came. Mrs. Harold, you are good to this poor little girl? Your home provides for her?

Always, madam, Mrs. Harold always said. Always. I care for this little orphan as I do all my little girls.

Sarah did not think she was lucky at all. But Mrs. Harold was the matron of the orphan girls' house, and her word was law. And so Sarah went.

The carriage had stopped on the outskirts of the city and they had been put into a wagon after that. They had rattled and shaken all the way until dusk, with Mrs. Carlyle speaking all the way. Sarah said nothing.

She had descended from the wagon with the sun setting and met the dark eyes of a man who had been standing on the verandah. He had watched as the wagoner helped her down and had continued to gaze. His eyes were very dark and his smile like a knife's blade.

Mr. Carlyle, said Mrs. Carlyle, this is Sarah, who will be our Peggy's companion. Isn't she pretty?

The man had smiled and when Mrs. Carlyle had left, kissed Sarah's hand.

Very pretty, he said.

That night, lying in her shift under the quilt, Sarah had remembered his face when he had said it. The sharp whip of the smile, the soft press of his lips. The glow in his dark, dark eyes. Sarah turned over, the quilt brushing against her skin.

Peggy, Peggy, cried Mrs. Carlyle in the morning, Peggy! Come to town with me, you must have a new hat!

Peggy was fourteen and liked ribbons, could one blame her for leaving Sarah's side so quickly? So Sarah lost her companion of some two hours, and thought little of it. Peggy went out of the house and left Sarah with a cold cup of tea, embroidering a bird on a cushion.

Out the window, she watched Peggy go with her mother, the pair of them whipping up the wagon horses. Then she saw the dark eyes and the knife-blade smile reflected in the glass.

Sarah, Sarah, are you all alone? Mr. Carlyle was loitering on the threshold of the parlour. Poor Sarah, abandoned. My Peggy is rude to you.

Sarah said nothing.

Pretty Sarah, do you speak? Mr. Carlyle asked. Perhaps you sing. Shall I make you sing, little bird?

Sarah had not known what to say. Mr. Carlyle had laughed and gone away. That night, with the sweat damp on her skin, and her shaking hand between her legs, she wanted Mr. Carlyle to make her sing.

Mrs. Carlyle called Sarah her sweet one, and told her how much she had come to adore her, and Sarah smiled for the woman was kind, but she brought no such joy as her husband did. Sarah was waiting for him to make her sing and he toyed with her as a cat does with a bird before it kills it - would Sarah let him touch her sweet white hand? Would she give him a kiss for his trouble in getting her an orange? Would she let him lie in her lap, for it was the warmest place by the fire?