by Emma Beaven
She felt eyes on her, so she turned to face Maggie.
Her sister leaned close to her ear and placed a hand carefully in front of it. “This is odd, yes?” she whispered.
Rose shook her head quickly, lips pursed.
“No one’s talking.”
Rose sighed and placed her own hand against her sister’s ear. “What does it matter if no one’s talking?”
Maggie frowned at Rose and turned back to her plate. A servant shuffled in and poured more wine into their empty glasses. She removed herself quickly, and the guests were left once more to their awkward silence.
“Shall we retreat to the parlor for a drink?” Henry asked suddenly, his chair screeching briefly against the floor as he stood.
Her father stood as if an invisible hand had drawn him up by the collar. He stepped to the side of his chair and, his legs moving woodenly, began a slow walk toward the door, all the while keeping his eyes averted from his daughters. Rose and Maggie glanced at one another uncomfortably.
“Well then, shall we women go to the sitting room?” Mrs. McCann asked softly.
Rose watched as her hand shook, the stem of her wineglass colliding sharply with the edge of her plate. She planted the glass firmly and slid out of her chair, gesturing to a servant who was hovering in the doorway. She smiled at them, but her expression appeared strained.
Mrs. McCann moved unsteadily toward the door while Rose and Maggie watched. Even Maggie seemed unsure of herself.
Maggie glanced at Rose and nodded at the door. Rose glared at her and forced herself to move. She had to keep going, no matter how odd this tableau was. She was so close.
The girls sat in silence, glasses gripped tightly as they tried not to stare at their host. Mrs. McCann sat rigidly on the sitting room sofa, her gaze locked on the set of doors that led into the parlor. Every so often, she would turn to her guests and flash the same uncomfortable smile.
Rose’s head was itching again, and she wished there was some way to sneak back out into the empty entrance hall to scratch. Every movement the sisters made, however, had Mrs. McCann refocusing her gaze.
Rose looked at a painting on the wall above the sofa, a formal one similar to the one that leered at her from her own family’s parlor.
The background was of the bay, a large schooner drifting far out into the background. In the foreground stood a woman in a dress with a large beige silk skirt, the bell of which stretched so far it partially obscured a young boy of about ten, who stood perfectly straight beside the woman. The woman’s arm lay on his shoulder, the matching lace at her elbow falling over the boy’s jacket.
“Dresses were beautiful back then, weren’t they?” Mrs. McCann said dreamily, her eyes on the painting. “Today the women dress so plainly. I loved my beautiful dresses and matching petticoats and lace. Look at you girls dressed all in white with no real skirt to speak of.”
“When was this painted?” Rose asked abruptly, causing Maggie to shoot her a disapproving look.
“In 1775. That was my favorite dress.” Mrs. McCann smiled and reached up toward the painting.
“Do you have another son?”
“Rose!” Maggie hissed, her head shaking quickly as she frowned so hard at Rose that her face pinched.
“Oh no, just Henry,” Mrs. McCann said.
Rose stared hard at the painting. “How old is he there?”
Maggie let out a loud breath. “Mrs. McCann, I apologize! Rose hasn’t been feeling well. Please forgive her rudeness.”
“Twelve years old,” Mrs. McCann replied, ignoring Maggie.
Rose’s jaw dropped open. “But he doesn’t look that old!”
“Rose!” Maggie snatched her arm and yanked her up as Mrs. McCann’s expression suddenly changed, her eyes refocusing.
“I need to get my father. I need to get her home. I’m so sorry.” Maggie pulled hard at Rose, her horror at her sister’s behavior painted across her face.
“You’d better ask soon, Miss Shedd,” Mrs. McCann whispered harshly. “Make it soon.”
Sixty
Rose was giddy the entire rest of the week and the one following. Maggie, on the other hand, had become more sober, her eyes constantly following her sister wherever she turned. Once again, Maggie could sense a secret, one just out of her grasp, out of her hearing, out of her sight. But this time, there were more people involved.
The days of Rose’s courtship flew by in a haze of muted conversation and alcohol. Previously Maggie would have reveled in it, but now she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. Each time she stepped into the parlor or dining room, she felt like an unwanted guest.
And so she had taken to caring for her stepmother. Maggie had made a special request to Rachel that she serve goose and turnips, Mariotta’s favorite, and when supper was done, she had carefully slipped a plate into the tight, airless bedroom to which Mariotta was confined.
Each day she entered, the smell was unbearable, like rotting food remains left out in the sun. Mariotta was frequently left in a soiled day dress—its once brilliant red faded to a dull pinkish brown. Her hair lay lank and oily across her pillow, leaving foul-smelling stains on the bedclothes. Rachel had tried to attend to her, but Mariotta frequently shouted at her, hurling brushes and perfumes and anything else she could get her hands on at her as she screamed.
Maggie had smuggled reading material from her father’s study into the bedroom, but Mariotta hardly glanced at it, instead fixated on the dividing door between her room and the sisters’. She had tried to read to Mariotta, but her stepmother seemed completely disinterested. When she could stand the smell and the horrid oppression no longer, she retreated to the sitting room, hoping Rose would be elsewhere. She looked around for Rachel and Violet, but they weren’t to be found.
The heat had become absolutely dreadful again, and Maggie suspected it was adding to the stink emanating from the back bedroom. It was overwhelmingly burdensome dealing with her stepmother, and Maggie was starting to hold it against her sister, who flitted cheerfully about the downstairs and outside, her thoughts only reaching as far as her new beau. Maggie, on the other hand, could think only of the strange atmosphere that seemed to have grown bloated where it festered in the rooms of the house.
Mariotta seemed to be growing worse rather than better. She mumbled to herself constantly, and yesterday, Maggie had found her picking at the lock to the door that divided the rooms. Despite that she’d been caring for the woman, it disturbed her to think of the dirty, disheveled creature sliding her uncut nails into the keyhole while her cracked hand struggled to turn the knob.
Today, Mariotta had been trying to comb her oily hair. She was muttering oddly, and Maggie suppressed her revulsion in order to try and discern her words.
“I know, I know,” she whispered frantically, causing Maggie to wince. “I can’t make her. I shouldn’t have tried. I know that now.” Mariotta paused as if listening. “I can’t ask her. I won’t ask her again. She got what she deserved.”
“Mariotta,” Maggie called gently. “Who are you talking to?”
“You know,” Mariotta responded, and Maggie was sure she was actually answering her question.
“No I don’t. Please tell me.”
“She says you know.”
A horrible cold invaded Maggie’s skin. Mariotta had turned to stare at the foot of her bed, nodding ever so slightly as if she was communicating with someone sitting there. Maggie had the urge to run, to flee that horrible room immediately, but she felt paralyzed.
“You see her,” Mariotta said and smiled a horrible knowing smile.
“Why don’t I draw you a bath?” Maggie said in a tight voice, her body resisting all attempts to move. “We’ll wash your hair.”
“She says you had better hurry.”
Maggie gulped, her eyes trying to focus on the door rather than the empty spot on the bed.
“She says if she doesn’t do it soon, she’ll never get another chance.”
�
��Are you talking about Rose?” Maggie managed to force out. She noticed the blanket at the foot of the bed was slightly wrinkled, the edge crimped and dangling off the corner rather than being firmly tucked. As if someone had been sitting there.
Mariotta’s smile grew to a gleeful grin as she nodded. “I wouldn’t have told you,” she said softly, “but she made me. I think she got what she deserved.”
Maggie turned, her desire to flee overtaking her. She whirled around, hurtling out the door as fast as she could move when Mariotta called out to her.
“Aren’t you going to say goodbye?”
Maggie knew she wasn’t referring to herself. Knew it with every fiber of her being.
As Maggie dashed down the stairs, nearly taking a tumble, the image of the wrinkled blanket floated in her head.
Sixty-One
Rose straightened her dress carefully as Henry McCann entered the parlor. Maggie, sitting primly in a flanking chair, pulled a stray strand of hair back into her perfectly arranged curls that were contained at the top of her head by a large ribbon. Rose glanced toward her father, vaguely searching for some guidance before discarding the notion and refocusing her attention.
Her father had become even more reclusive, remaining in his sitting room for hours on end and paying little attention to what his daughters were doing or where they were going during the day. It wasn’t, Rose felt, that she was in particular need of moral guidance—Maggie’s disapproving glances functioned well enough in that respect—but it seemed strange that her father offered no advice whatsoever when her relationship with Henry was growing so close. If anything, he remained quiet and resigned, observing their blossoming relationship from a distance.
Today, Rose suspected, Henry would ask to marry her. She wore a white silk brocaded dress with a pink ribbon below her bosom. It was perfectly pin-tucked at the front and cascaded to the floor to form a bit of a train. Rose, like Maggie, had pinned her rag curls to the top of her head, leaving a few soft waves to drift by the sides of her face.
Henry greeted them politely, his hand lingering slightly on Rose’s. She glanced at her sister, still unsure whether it could really be her to whom such attention was being paid. Maggie barely smiled as she returned to her seat, her back rigid and hands properly folded.
Rose quietly waited in the overwhelming silence for the conversation to begin. She’d given up expecting her father to start with the usual niceties that preceded every visit. Eventually, unable to help herself, Maggie began to chatter, and the parlor unexpectedly became warmer and livelier. Rose faded out, her mind reaching to what she hoped was to come.
The smell of braised turkey filtered into the room, causing Rose’s thoughts to drift to dinner. The conversation seemed removed from her, as if she were staring through a window. Over the rushing sea of voices, she could hear the creaks and groans of the floorboards upstairs. Mariotta was walking again.
Rose coughed loudly, concerned her guest must hear the overly loud creaking and groaning that slid from one side of the room to the other, a seemingly endless back-and-forth. She flicked her fan daintily and brazenly met Henry’s eyes, her own lids fluttering gently. The creaks became louder, threading their way into the floorboards and through the ceiling. Rose thought it odd that the noise could be so loud when Mariotta’s room wasn’t even above the parlor.
“I wonder if we should go for a walk,” she said, nervousness poisoning her voice, raising it conspicuously and drawing more attention than she wanted.
“Rose, why don’t we find some entertainment inside,” Maggie said pointedly, her eyes fixed on her sister’s. “Surely we don’t want to risk illness in this weather.”
Rose suppressed a frown and waited for the conversation to resume. Her dress was starting to dig deeply into her skin, and she imagined the seams slipping beneath her flesh and attaching themselves to her insides.
As she drifted in and out, the conversation died in the still air. Suddenly everyone was moving, and Maggie was giving her an odd look, her usually clear blue eyes clouded. Her father had opened the door leading to the hallway, and Rachel was slinking in a corner within the entrance hall, her own eyes questioning.
Rose tried desperately to figure out what had just transpired. She assumed they were going somewhere, but it disturbed her that she’d been completely oblivious to every word that had been spoken in front of her, almost as if she hadn’t really been there. Maggie gestured to her sharply, and Rose hopped up, scurrying after her sister as she glanced at her father and Henry.
“What are you doing?” Maggie hissed, and Rose was suddenly worried. Usually when she faded out, she was at least vaguely aware of the gist of the conversation and was able to react appropriately. This time she’d been completely lost.
Maggie snatched her arm and rushed her toward the stairwell. “What were you doing in there?”
“I….” Rose paused, wondering what she could say to keep Maggie from questioning her any longer. “I don’t feel well.”
“I don’t believe you,” Maggie said. “They’re going to have brandy. I’m going to check on Mariotta. Do you want to come with me?”
Rose shook her head, icy cold running through her veins at just the mention of her stepmother. “Maybe I should bring some flowers in for the table.”
Maggie looked at her oddly. “Are you all right, Rose?”
Rose met her eyes firmly, but her heart was racing wildly. “Of course.” She spun around, trying to figure out what she could do that would be considered a reasonable way to occupy her time. “I just don’t think it’s a good idea, considering….”
“Right,” Maggie said, concern lining her face.
Rose watched as Maggie made her way to the second floor, her head turning ever so slightly, as if she was trying to catch a glimpse of Rose from the corner of her eye. “Wait! Maggie?”
Maggie paused and turned to face her sister, a melancholy frown stretching her skin. “What?”
“Do you think it’ll be soon?” Rose gave Maggie her biggest smile as she fluttered her eyelids.
“I can’t imagine. Rose?”
“What?”
“If it is, I don’t think you should go.”
Rose’s face quickly clouded as she frowned at her sister, the white of her teeth showing slightly between her lips. “Why is that?”
“I don’t know exactly,” Maggie said, her voice strained. “It’s just… something’s not right.”
“You’re jealous, Maggie,” Rose said coldly, fine lines etching themselves deeply upon her face as she scowled at her sister.
“For God’s sake, Rose, you must feel it too! You’re writhing in the thick of it.”
And Rose, despite the chill that started in her spine and quickly spread through her extremities, turned on her heel and called over her shoulder, “I will marry Henry McCann!”
The New House
In the fall, as the month of October spread its dying wings over the earth, in the wake of tumbling dried leaves whisked about in the smoke-scented wind, Rose was married. As the summer had drained from the house and the heat rose out into the atmosphere, the whole feeling of the place had changed. Rose had even slept well beside her sister from night to night, though she felt Maggie rustling constantly, her sleep disturbed and racked by nightmares.
She had begged Rose not to go. But now, when Rose had finally achieved everything she’d dreamed of, she wouldn’t turn back to face her former troubled life. Everything was right with her again. Everything was right with the house. Her feelings of apprehension were nothing more than the stress of the changes.
That morning, when Rose had finally awakened, the sky was filled with puffy gray clouds that cluttered the sky like clods of dirty cotton. The rain was already beginning to slacken, but the chilly, wet morning had permeated the bedroom. She could almost feel the cold, moldy-smelling damp crawling from her clothing to her skin.
Maggie, with sweat crowning her brow, was still tossing uncomfortably in the sheets. Rose
put a hand to the back of her head, pushing her fingers into the strange pulsating itching that had been stalking her since Mariotta had hit her in the head. She knew it was odd, this constant itch that had come again out of nowhere—and, of course, the scabs. She still bled intermittently from the wound, the scabs quickly forming just to be ripped back off by her probing fingers.
Maggie finally opened her eyes to watch Rose carefully fasten her striped bonnet as she fretted, her fingers clenching one another. “Let me go with you, just for now. Just for a visit.”
“It’s too soon,” Rose said as she wrapped her lace shawl around her shoulders. Her head itched like mad today. If given the choice, she would have chosen her old headaches just to get rid of the damnable itch.
Maggie pulled hard on the back of her fichu, pretending to stretch as she tried to think of some way to keep her sister with her. “Please, Rose, think about this.”
Rose fixed her gaze on Maggie as she pointedly continued to get ready. “I can’t wait to be done with this house.” As she said it, a shadow slipped softly by the corner of her eye, causing Rose to turn quickly, seeking one last glance of that unholy thing that had been with her so long.
Maggie suddenly turned her head and cocked it as if listening to something. “Mariotta’s talking to someone again.”
Rose froze as a beaded white cotton dress slid messily off her fingers into the trunk. “I don’t hear anything.”
“Listen.”
And Rose heard it, the soft mumbling that was punctuated by shrill imploring every so often. She was surprised she could hear it so loudly through the wall, and she wondered if perhaps Mariotta wanted her to hear. “You see why I can’t wait to leave?”
“She’s upset about something,” Maggie said in a dreamy voice that chilled Rose’s blood until it felt thick like jelly.
“I don’t have time for this,” Rose said, quickly picking up the dress to refold it.
