Lily Rose shrugged. “Money. He has none. And those who have not will always take advantage of those who do.” She glanced at the Bible in Martha’s lap. “As for God ... I prefer to make my own way. God doesn’t exist. End of story. But please, get back to your reading, I won’t keep you.”
Stubborn woman. “Fine. I wish to get to the dig site earlier tomorrow, so please be ready by six.”
“Fine.”
The door clicked shut.
Lily Rose’s revelation reverberated through her.
Mother had talked to Lily Rose about Jacob? Her heart sank.
She’d dismissed the note her mother had left for her about Jacob because she was certain that Mother was just being prejudiced about the lower class. But now? It hurt to think that her own mother was talking about the man she’d come to love in such an unfavorable manner. What did Victoria know of Martha’s feelings though? She didn’t. Becausethe woman couldn’t even find time to talk with her only daughter.
Hot tears burned her eyes as the anger in her gut swelled again.
TUESDAY, JULY30, 1889
Apparently the Duncan fellow wasn’t going to die from his injuries.
Such a shame. It would have been easier that way.
But ... on the other hand, she could use him still. He’d make a perfect scapegoat.
Little Martha would get over it. Eventually.
Oh, but she had plans for Martha. And for all the bones.
Her enterprises were expanding daily, along with her bank accounts.
Wouldn’t Papa be proud?
WEDNESDAY, JULY31, 1889
Martha stared at her reflection and scowled. Even with her wide-brimmed hats and parasols, her face was getting tanner by the day. Their shadows often caused her problems with what she wanted to dig, and she pushed them back. She stretched her head to the left then the right, trying to relax. She rubbed the skin on her jaw and grimaced. It was dry. If she wasn’t careful, she’d end up looking like some of the ranchers that came to town: leathery and wrinkled.
Martha opened a small pot of facial lotion that her mother special ordered from France and smoothed it over her face with quick strokes. Wiping the residue from her fingers with a soft cloth, she leaned close to look at her face in the mirror.Satisfied she hadn’t missed a spot on her face, Martha turned her attention to her hands.
They were worse than her face. Her fingernails were jagged from digging out vertebrae earlier that afternoon. Her work gloves were cumbersome and hindered some of the more delicate bone excavations. It was a good thing Mother wasn’t around right now. The unkempt look of her only daughter would send her into a fit.
She filed down the rough edges around her nails and buffed them with a leather strap until they gleamed. Plucking a slim, purple glass bottle from the various beauty products on her vanity, Martha unscrewed the top and inhaled the sweet scent of verbena. She tipped a small amount of the lotion into her palm and smoothed it into her skin.
Her beauty routine complete, Martha relaxed into the back of her chair. Had Mother been there, she would have scolded her about being more conscientious about her complexion. About looking like a young woman of means.
She shook her head. Mother had invaded every bit of her mind the past couple days, and it had made her angry each time.
Time spent reading the Scripture had fallen by the wayside.
Why did she care so much what Mother thought? They hadn’t spoken in days.
Soft skin and delicate hands paled in comparison to feeling the sun on her face. The wind in her hair made her feel alive in a way that society functions and fancy dresses didn’t. It was like the dirt and the mountains and the bones were part of her. Couldn’t this be who she was? The quarry was becoming the only place she felt like herself.
That and any time she spent with Jacob.
She inhaled sharply. Jacob. She’d been doing her best to keep thoughts of him at bay while he recovered. But shecouldn’t. His voice, his comments haunted her. He sounded like Phoebe. Talking to her about God like she didn’t know Him. Yet, talking about God like he did.
Her eyes drifted to the black book on her bed. She’d ignored it for long enough.
When she was younger, Phoebe read it to her, or they read it together. Those stories and people felt so alive and real when she was ten.
