Dinner was eventful.

Jenny could have predicted that from the moment her mother’s cool glare fixed on Elizabeth, as she emerged from her room yawning, with a sheet of parchment bunched in her hand.  Elizabeth had never helped unpack, had merely looked up once or twice as her things were loaded into the room.  Neither she nor Dr. Larson had helped cook or set the table for dinner; as soon as Dr. Larson was settled into his room, he’d retired among his books.  Jenny was willing to forgive the offense, as they most likely would have just gotten in the way, but in Caroline’s mind, it was the thought that counted.

Dr. Larson, to his credit, had insisted on carrying his own very heavy bags of books into his room.  Since they had no bookshelf, Jenny had watched with moderate interest as he sighed and stacked the volumes in a dusty corner of the recently unabandoned spare room.  Usually it was reserved for boarders or farmhands, but this summer had chased most of them away.

For not the first time, Jenny wished that she could read more than she did.  She had only ever learned to read necessary things: bills and Bibles, grocery lists; nothing for study or for pleasure.  Of course, if given the chance, Jenny doubted that she would have wasted her little leisure time on things like that.  But she still itched to know things, like what that word meant— “Melancholia”—printed in bold letters on the leather cover of Dr. Larson’s thickest book.  She asked him.

Dr. Larson stopped what he was doing and frowned at Jenny’s question.  He seemed bemused by her ignorance, which made Jenny’s face flush. 

“Well,” he said carefully, “it’s the condition that your cousin suffers from.”

“But what does it mean?” Jenny asked again, impatient.

Dr. Larson adjusted his spectacles, pushing them farther up the long bridge of his nose.  “Melancholia is a depressed state characterized by a pensive mood and a general disinterest in life.  Those affected by it tend to be in low spirits, secluded, and—lost.”  He said all this as if he were reciting it, or as if he had explained it many times before.

Well, it sounded dreadful.  “Is it because of her mother?” Jenny asked. 

Dr. Larson pressed his lips together.  Again, he seemed to be treading lightly.  “Yes and no, I suppose.  A great deal does stem from that, but—well, some people are just more prone to melancholy—to sadness—” He mumbled something about humors and Jenny surmised that he didn’t know the cause either.  She had never heard of anyone she knew being afflicted by it; perhaps it was a disease only the wealthy caught.  The symptoms were familiar, but when her sister Abigail would stay in bed for days with no reason at all, her eyes pointed to the walls and glazing over, they’d just called her slothful. 

Jenny imagined a sharp-toothed, winged beast called Melancholy, one that flew through glass-windows and crept in under the cover of night, sinking its fangs into a helpless victim, leaving its thick venom coursing through their blood.

“Of course, melancholy’s nothing to be frightened of,” Dr. Larson continued.  “It can be dealt with.  And it isn’t contagious.”

Jenny looked at him seriously.  “I’m not frightened of it.”

“Yes, but—some people are.  I just want you to know that you needn’t be.”  Dr. Larson picked at the ends of his linen sleeves.  “Would you tell your parents that too?  El—Miss Pineghast is very anxious to make a good impression.  I’d hate for—unsubstantiated beliefs to get in the way.  She’s just lovely once you know her well enough.”

Perhaps that was true.  Despite her shyness, Elizabeth was quite charming.  She didn’t say very much at dinner, but whatever she did comment was clever or poetic or undeniably true, about the way light rippled off waves, or the moment that your stomach seized on a bumpy wagon ride.

The five of them sat around a well-worn oak table, the one that had heard countless graces and “amens,” that held history in its wood.  Jenny knew those stories like she knew the feel of grass on bare feet, or the color of clouds just before a bad rain.  She also knew that, to Elizabeth and Dr. Larson, it was just an old table.

Though Caroline wasn’t particularly fond of her guests, she was still an excellent host.  The table had been spread with the finest meal Jenny had seen in ages: cooked cod, freshly caught; potato and cabbage soup; dark brown bread, coarse but filling.  Jenny’s mouth watered.  This summer’s unusual cold made such a meal a rare, almost singular treat.  If the whole summer was going to be like this, she wouldn’t have worried herself about the guests at all. 

“Now if I’m not mistaken,” said Dr. Larson, carefully cutting his bread, “Jenny has several siblings.  Is that correct?”

“Seven,” Jenny said, before realizing that the question hadn’t been directed at her.

“Yes,” said Samuel, pausing from spooning soup into his mouth.  “They wanted to come to greet you both, but were too busy, what with the harvest and all.  And Oliver’s employed on a merchant ship, so he couldn’t have come anyway.  I’m sure you’ll meet the rest of them soon enough, though.”

He did not mention that their absence was entirely by choice.  Yes, the harvest meant things were busy, but they could have spared just one night off.  There wasn’t much to harvest anyway. 

The fact was that Jenny’s brothers and sisters had taken her mother’s side in things, and weren’t very happy that Elizabeth had decided on visiting during the worst, coldest summer in living memory.  They knew that it was hard enough for their mother and father to feed three, let alone five.  And given that they all now had families of their own, they were entitled to make a few of their own decisions.  Though her father had mostly stayed silent on the matter, Jenny suspected that it weighed on him.

Whatever the case, Jenny was fine with her siblings not being there; it meant more food for her.  She was helping herself to a second serving of cod when her mother slapped her hand, making her drop her fork. 

“What?” she snapped, before adding “Ma’am,” in a much sweeter tone.

Her mother glowered at her, but seemed to decide not to punish her in front of guests.  She instead flicked her eyes towards Elizabeth.  “Your cousin hasn’t finished her first serving yet.” 

Elizabeth, who had been concentrating on her lap for the majority of the meal, jerked up her head, as if it had been tied to a string.  “It’s perfectly fine if she wants more.  I don’t eat very much.”

Caroline froze.  She seemed to be trying to decide if this was an insult to her cooking or not.

Samuel cleared his throat.  “Lovely meal, Caroline.”

Elizabeth nodded vigorously, clearly feeling Caroline’s glare upon her.  That glare needed somewhere new to go, so it pounced on Jenny.  “Well, Elizabeth, I wish Jenny could say the same as you.  She’d eat me out of house and home, yet she stays skinny as a rail.”

Jenny huffed.  Both Samuel and Dr. Larson shifted awkwardly in their seats.

Elizabeth, who was perfectly plump and well-fed despite her insistence that she was “such a light eater,” gave a small, self-deprecating smile.  “I suppose it takes all kinds.  Horses and birds need not pit themselves against one another.” 

Samuel gave a hearty laugh and Dr. Larson a small chuckle.  Jenny didn’t move a muscle.  Perhaps Elizabeth was just trying to break the tension, but Jenny did not appreciate being referred to as a horse.

Caroline stood, clearing the crumb-filled plate that had once held the bread.  “Elizabeth,” she said, changing the subject, “you must be quite the writer.”

“Oh.”  Elizabeth’s eyes widened and her cheeks reddened.  “No, I simply—”

“Elizabeth is a very gifted poet,” Dr. Larson interrupted.  “She has a remarkable knack for diction.”

“I really don’t,” Elizabeth protested automatically.  “Dr. Larson exaggerates in my favor.”  She looked at him desperately, as if willing him to concede that.  Just accept the compliment and be done with it, Jenny thought.

Caroline smiled, just a little snidely.  “I’m sure he doesn’t.  It’s a shame how all you young ladies are made to be so modest.  Coyness is just another way to lie, you know.  Or to dig for more compliments.”

Elizabeth looked down, utterly mortified, precisely how Jenny had felt only moments ago.  Now she felt ashamed.  Her mother knew exactly what she was doing. 

Beneath the table, Jenny could see Dr. Larson’s fist clenched, though his face was perfectly composed. 

Caroline continued gleefully.  “Regardless, you must be a talented poet—you seem to devote so much time to it, after all.”

“I don’t—”

“Come now, you couldn’t even find the time to help prepare the table because of your scribblings!”  Caroline scrunched her nose in satisfaction, as the room fell silent.  Jenny resisted the urge to speak in Elizabeth’s defense.  Though she would have liked to, she couldn’t begrudge her mother the simple comfort of taunting an Englishwoman.  But she hated that her mother needed cruelty to cope.

Elizabeth opened her mouth, then closed it, her face stricken with guilt. 

Dr. Larson stood, shaking the table just a bit.  “My apologies, Mrs. O’Brien,” he said.  “I don’t believe that Elsie knew you desired our assistance.”

Caroline pursed her lips.  “I wonder how someone could be so ignorant.”

Elizabeth stood then.  All eyes turned towards her.  “If you’ll excuse me,” she said delicately.  “Dinner was excellent.”

Dr. Larson watched her leave with an almost wounded expression.  He seemed to expect her to come back, but when she didn’t, he sighed and said, “Excuse me,” in a tired sort of way.  He went after her and left Jenny and her family alone. 

Friction hung in the air, and wasn’t broken until Samuel rubbed his eyes, then continued to eat.  Jenny followed his cue.  Caroline hummed by the fire as she busied herself with knitting.  As Jenny chewed her bread methodically, she considered the disaster that had just occurred, and how odd it was that Dr. Larson had called Elizabeth Elsie.