Cutler 02 - Secrets of the Morning

longer cared. One of the reasons I was anxious for the baby's birth and my leaving The Meadows was renewing my relationship with Jimmy, if I could. I was afraid that after he had learned all that I had done and all that had happened, he might very well not want to have anything more to do with me.
    "Stop that daydreaming!" Miss Emily screamed from a window.
    I returned to the sofa cushions and beat out the dust that had made its home in them so long.
    Miss Emily was apparently satisfied with how much work we did accomplish, however, for after dinner she decided I could read or go to sleep as early as I wished. I did go into the library to peruse some family pictures I had discovered when I had done the thorough cleaning of the shelves. I turned the pages and gazed at the sepia photographs capturing Grandmother Cutler, Miss Emily, and Charlotte as children.
    Grandmother Cutler was by far the prettiest of the three. Even as a child, Miss Emily had that pinched face and those cold, hard eyes. Charlotte was always on the plump side, but she always had that happy, innocent look of a child. There were even some pictures here and there in which Luther could be seen in the background. He was once a tall, strapping and even handsome man. In all of the pictures of Father and Mother Booth, Mother Booth was standing and Father Booth was sitting with Mother Booth behind him, her hand on his shoulder. Neither of them smiled—perhaps they thought that smiling would bring the devil. The pictures of the grounds were nice, however, and I understood that the plantation was once a bright and rich place. I couldn't help but wonder about the forces and events that had changed everything so dramatically and made this family so horrid.
    Thinking about all these mysteries reminded me of my intention to explore the west wing. I went up to my room to get some rest and wait until it was much, much later when I would be certain Miss Emily would be asleep. I didn't anticipate how deep my own fatigue from the day's hard work went, however, and I practically passed out the moment my head hit the pillow. It was nearly morning when I woke up again, but it was still dark enough for me to begin my explorations.
    I rose out of bed and lit the kerosene lamp, then I stepped out into the dark corridor and made my way toward the west wing, determined to discover if there was even the slightest shred of truth to Charlotte Booth's fantasies.
    When I reached the stairway, I hesitated. It was almost as if there really was an invisible wall, a border that I would have to cross and the moment I did, I would risk bringing the full wrath of Miss Emily down upon me. The west wing corridor was pitch dark, and I had no idea where anything was, but I continued forward, hovering near the wall on the right as I did so.
    Just like in my corridor, there were some decorative furnishings and many old paintings. There were two rather large portraits of Father and Mother Booth side by side, and as in all the other pictures, neither smiled, both looked angry and unhappy. These pictures hung on the wall directly across from the first door. I stopped and listened. Was this Miss Emily's or Charlotte's room? I turned the knob slowly and pressed against the door. At first, it didn't budge and then it got unstuck and I practically fell into the room.
    I held up the lamp, afraid that I had blundered into Miss Emily's quarters, but it was immediately obvious to me that no one had lived in this room for years, so I turned up the lamp and gazed around. It was an enormous room with a great oak bed. It had pillars that went up as high as the ceiling and an enormous half moon headboard. The bed still had all its pillows and blankets, but the cobwebs on it were so thick it was clear no one had come in to clean it for ages.
    There was a stone fireplace at least twenty feet long on the wall with large windows on either side. Long curtains were drawn tightly closed and looked weighed down with dust and grime. Above the fireplace was a portrait of a young Father Booth, I thought, or perhaps his father. He stood holding a rifle in one hand and a string of ducks in the other. It was one of the few pictures in the house where someone had something of a smile on his face.
    There was a lot of dark, beautiful antique furniture in the room, and on the night table there was a copy of the Bible with a pair of reading glasses beside it.
    The room smelled musty and stale and looked as if its inhabitants