Chapter 35 "Hollow Creek"
HOLLOW CREEK AUTUMN, 1906
The afternoon sun hung low over Hollow Creek, Massachusetts, casting long shadows across the dirt roads and modest houses that made up the small town. The air smelled of wood smoke and approaching winter, crisp and clean in a way that spoke of simpler times.
Children's laughter echoed through the fields behind the Ashcroft estate boys chasing each other with sticks, pretending to be soldiers, while girls in pinafores played a clapping game, their voices carrying on the breeze.
Near the barn, a woman in a faded cotton dress and worn apron knelt beside a wooden stool, her weathered hands working rhythmically as she milked their Jersey cow. The metal pail rang with each stream of milk, a steady percussion that marked the passing of the day.
The woman's face was lined with years of hard work and harder winters. Her name was Martha Ashcroft, wife to Thomas Ashcroft, and she'd been milking this same cow at this same time for fifteen years.
"Martha!"
She didn't look up at her husband's call, just kept working, her hands never slowing their practiced rhythm.
Thomas Ashcroft strode across the yard a big man, broad-shouldered and thick-waisted, with a face that had once been handsome but was now bloated with too much drink and too little work. He wore the clothes of a prosperous farmer, though his hands were soft from letting others do the actual farming.
"Martha, I need coin," he said, stopping beside her. "For supplies in town."
"Supplies," Martha repeated, her voice flat. "You mean for whiskey at the tavern."
"Don't start with me, woman. Just give me the coin."
Martha's hands stilled on the cow's teats. She reached into the pocket of her apron and pulled out three coins all she had from selling eggs at the market that morning. She counted them into Thomas's outstretched palm, each one hitting his skin with a sharp clink.
"That's all there is," she said. "Make it last."
Thomas closed his fist around the coins, already turning away. "Have Rosanna prepare my supper. I'll be back by sunset."
He strode toward the house, pocketing the coins, already thinking about the taste of whiskey and the company of men who didn't look at him with disappointment in their eyes.
INSIDE THE ASHCROFT HOUSE
The interior of the Ashcroft house was modest but well-kept polished wood floors, lace curtains on the windows, a sitting room with furniture that had been fashionable twenty years ago.
On her hands and knees in the front hallway, scrubbing the already-clean floor with a brush and bucket of soapy water, was Rosanna Vale.
She was twenty-four years old, with dark hair pinned back under a simple cap and a face that would have been beautiful if not for the exhaustion that lined it. Her dress was plain grey cotton, mended in several places, with sleeves rolled up to reveal slender arms that were red from cold water and hard work.
Rosanna had been scrubbing this floor for the better part of an hour, though it hadn't needed scrubbing. Mrs. Ashcroft had insisted it was dirty. Mrs. Ashcroft always insisted something was dirty.
The front door opened, and Rosanna didn't look up. She knew those heavy footsteps.
Thomas Ashcroft stepped directly onto the section of floor she'd just cleaned, his boots leaving muddy prints across the wet wood.
Rosanna's hands stilled on the brush. She stared at the boot prints, at the mud now smeared across her work, and felt rage build in her chest hot and bitter and useless.
Then Thomas raised his boot and brought it down hard on the floor she'd just scrubbed, grinding the mud in with deliberate cruelty.
"Missed a spot," he said, his voice carrying that edge of cruelty that meant he'd already been drinking, even at this hour.
Rosanna stood slowly, her back aching from hours bent over, her hands raw from the lye soap. She looked at Thomas Ashcroft at this man who owned her time, her labor, her very life until her contract was complete and wanted to scream.
But she couldn't. She was an indentured servant. She had no rights. No voice. No power.
"Master Ashcroft," she said, the word tasting like ash in her mouth. "I just cleaned"
"Then clean it again," Thomas interrupted, moving closer. Too close. "That's what you're paid for, isn't it? To clean when I tell you to clean."
He was standing right in front of her now, close enough that Rosanna could smell the whiskey on his breath, could see the way his eyes moved over her body with an interest that made her skin crawl.
"You're a pretty thing, Rosanna," he said, his voice dropping lower. "Too pretty to be scrubbing floors. You should be doing... other things."
His hand reached out, fingers grazing her arm.
Rosanna jerked back, her heart hammering. "Master Ashcroft, please"
"Please what?" His smile was predatory. "Please stop? Or please continue?"
He moved closer, his hand reaching for her waist, and Rosanna did the only thing she could do.
She shoved him.
Not hard. Not violently. Just enough to create space between them, her hands pushing against his chest with all the force of her desperation.
Thomas stumbled back a step, surprise flashing across his face. Surprise that quickly turned to anger.
"You dare" he started, his hand rising.
"Thomas?"
They both froze.
Margaret Ashcroft stood in the doorway to the sitting room, her arms crossed, her face unreadable. She was a handsome woman in her mid-forties, with steel-grey hair pulled back in a severe bun and eyes that missed nothing.
"I hope there's no problem here," Margaret said, her voice calm but carrying an edge of warning.
Rosanna's heart was racing. She looked between husband and wife, knowing that whatever she said next could determine whether she kept her position or was thrown out onto the street with nothing.
"No, ma'am," Rosanna said quickly, lowering her eyes. "No problem at all."
Margaret's gaze moved to her husband, who was straightening his jacket, trying to look dignified despite being caught in the act of harassing the help.
"I was just inspecting the floor," Thomas said. "Making sure it was properly cleaned."
"I'm sure." Margaret's tone suggested she believed nothing of the sort. She turned to Rosanna. "Go get the dirty laundry from our chamber. It needs washing."
"Yes, ma'am." Rosanna grabbed her bucket and brush, grateful for the escape. She hurried past Thomas, careful not to meet his eyes, and climbed the narrow stairs.
Behind her, she heard Margaret's voice, low and sharp: "If I catch you bothering that girl again, Thomas, you'll regret it."
"She's just a servant"
"She's our servant. And I won't have you creating scandal in our own house. Do you understand?"
Rosanna didn't wait to hear Thomas's response. She hurried into the Ashcrofts' bedroom a spacious room with a large bed, a wardrobe, and a washstand and gathered the dirty laundry from the basket in the corner.
Shirts stained with sweat and dirt. Undergarments that Rosanna tried not to look at too closely. Bedsheets that needed changing.
She bundled everything into her arms and carried it back downstairs, moving quickly through the house and out the back door before Thomas could corner her again.