by Hester Fox
When he speaks, he doesn’t meet my eye. “I was rather hoping it would be you who wrote to invite me over, not your aunt. A fellow doesn’t like to always feel as if he’s intruding in a lady’s parlor, you know.”
“And yet that’s exactly what you’re doing.”
“Yes, well.” He tugs at his cravat and looks like he wants to say something else, but just goes to the sideboard and pours himself a drink. I don’t know how he can drink so much and still stand upright.
He downs the contents in one long gulp then wipes his mouth on the back of his sleeve. “Are you sure you won’t sit down?”
When I don’t make any move to sit, he takes a few steps toward me, then stops in his tracks a few feet away as if thinking better of it. “Well, Lyd, have you thought about it?” He is doggedly persistent, I will give him that.
For all his menacing accusations and threats the last time, he sounds like an earnest young suitor now, and when his eyes finally meet and hold mine, they’re wide and unsure.
I stand up as tall as I can, determined not to be fooled by his act. “I’m not a trick monkey, something to be possessed.”
“Of course you’re not, I never meant to imply you were,” he says quickly, taking my hand in his. It’s damp, and tightens around mine as if he’s afraid I might let go. “It’s only that you are such a rare flower—I don’t think you even understand yourself just how rare—and it saddens me to see you deny your true potential. How many other men do you think would say that after what happened the other day?” He’s launching into his case again, this time rapidly telling me just how much I stand to gain by marrying him. “I would do anything for you, Lydia. I’d fight a duel for you if it came down to it. I’d protect you from all the gossip of Boston, setting you up in a fine house, making you the envy of all those who drove you out. You’ll not want for anything.”
“Because you’ll be living off my father’s money,” I say sharply, pulling my hand back. “Money that you’re extorting from me.”
He looks hurt. “Only at first,” he says softly. “I’ve a good mind for investing, and after the first year or so I’ll have the business up and running again and bringing in all sorts of capital.”
I stare at the repeating geometric pattern of the carpet, unable to focus my eyes. What is Mr. Barrett doing right now? Is he escorting Abby Tidewell to the tailor to have her measurements taken for her wedding dress? Is he tilting her chin up to him so that he can steal a kiss before he returns her back home to her mother? His silence in response to my letters all makes so much sickening sense now.
And what of my own mother? Catherine’s letter mentioned that she was sick, but she said it wasn’t anything serious. Even so, could Mother handle the shock of seeing Catherine’s shameful secret in black and white in the papers?
Cyrus must read the battle going on in my face, because he moves closer to me, slipping his arms around my waist. “Say yes,” he murmurs down into my hair, pulling me close. “We’ll be so happy together.”
My body goes rigid, but I don’t pull away. “I’ll marry you,” I whisper. “But we’ll never be happy.”
30
THERE ARE ANY number of things I should be feeling that night as I slowly undress and get ready for bed. But as I slide between the sheets and blow out the lamp, I’m filled only with numb acceptance. It washes over me like a frigid wave, leaving me cold and cleansed. I won’t have to worry about Mother ever finding out about what went on between Catherine and Charles, about the child that now rests at the bottom of the pond. I won’t have to worry about whatever it is that’s inside of me bubbling out because Cyrus has already seen it, and he simply doesn’t care. If I give him what he wants, maybe he won’t use it against me later. I won’t have to worry about scandals or rumors or anything that could hurt Father’s business ever again. Catherine and I won’t have reason to be enemies; we won’t even have reason to live in the same town for that matter. It’s for the best. The only thing that gives me pause is Emeline. She will walk the woods of Willow Hall for eternity because I am too cowardly to come back and find a way to set her free.
But no matter how much sense my decision makes, a painful tug of my heart drags my mind in the other direction. I idly trace a path with my fingers down my collarbone, between my breasts and to my navel, then up again. What would it have been like to lie naked beside John Barrett as his wife? What would it have been like to share not just my body, but my soul, my life with him? My fingers skitter lower. I imagine him embracing me, pulling my body tight against his, a refuge of love and passion. His mouth hot and urgent as it finds mine as my body rises to meet him. I can almost smell him, that clean, woodsy scent with the underlying musk of male sweat.
I stop my hand. Nothing good can come of thinking like this. What if Catherine and Cyrus are right, and there is something wrong with me, something that makes me different? Would Mr. Barrett have really wanted me, knowing that? Cyrus was right about one thing when he asked how many other men would be willing to accept me as I am. Maybe it’s better this way. From now on I must cut free my silly hopes and impossible dreams. I must be an empty vessel. Even if I shatter completely, at least I will have nothing to lose. At least my family will be protected.
* * *
A letter arrives the next day from Catherine. I’m sitting, struggling to keep my eyes open after a night spent lying awake when Blake comes in with that silver tray I’ve learned to hate. This time the letter is for me. I sit up straighter, my eyes widening as I quickly take in the few hastily written lines. Mother has taken a turn for the worse, and I must come, right away. Apparently the illness is far graver than Catherine let on, and the doctor thinks Mother might not have much time.
Aunt Phillips hovers in the door, propped up on her crutch, worrying at her pearl necklace as she watches me throw things into my trunk. “But what about Mr. Thompson? He told me the good news before he left last night...you can’t just up and leave now! What will I tell him?”
I press my fingers against my eyelids. I don’t want to think about what’s waiting for me at home, but if the worst happens and Mother is gone and Mr. Barrett is married, I’ll be back here again soon.
“Tell him whatever you want,” I say, slamming down the lid of my half-filled trunk. “He’s waited this long, another few weeks won’t kill him.”
* * *
If Boston had been indifferent to my return, then Willow Hall has been waiting for me, holding its breath every moment that I was gone. My heart sinks as I step out of the carriage. The house glares at me accusingly from behind tight shutters and a mantle of snow. Look what happens when you leave. You thought you could run away, that you could abandon your sorrows here, but there is no escaping the sorrow that I hold in my walls.
I shut my ears against the house’s taunts and race inside, nearly slipping on the ice, my heart in my throat. What if I’m too late?
Ada intercepts me in the hall. Before I can say anything, she throws her skinny arms around me, squeezing like her life depended on it. “Oh, thank goodness you’ve come, miss. You’re in time, but she’s been asking for you.”
The air comes out of me in a whoosh of relief, and my knees sag under me. “Oh, thank God. What did the doctor say?”
Ada shakes her head and looks away, but her fingers fidget nervously at her cuffs. “It’s a fever, and he’s afraid it will move to her brain.”
I slump against the wall. A fever is never something to be taken lightly, especially for someone who is already so diminished and frail. A few summers ago a fever swept over Boston, taking with it dozens of lives of elderly people and children. Our neighbor alone lost her three little boys.
“Can I do anything for you, miss?”
Ada looks at me expectantly, her small, freckled face etched with concern, and I find myself pulling her back into my embrace. “I don’t know what we ever did to deserve you, Ada. Than
k you, for everything.”
She flushes and mumbles something, but I catch the fleeting smile as she runs off to the kitchen to make tea.
I find Father in his study, stacks of papers and ledgers towering above him, threatening to topple over and bury him completely. He’s pale, his eyes dull and filmy. I have to knock on the doorframe three times before he looks up. “Oh, Lydia. You’re back,” he says, as if I had just stepped out for a walk and not gone to Boston for three weeks.
“Yes, Father.”
He gives a heavy sigh, chin in hand. “All these papers, all these reports and contracts and meaningless numbers. How will I go on? How will I do it without my Martha?”
I’ve never seen my father like this, so helpless and drained. I put my frozen hand over his and squeeze. “I know, Father. It’s all right. She’ll be all right.” But the truth is I don’t know that she’ll be all right, and I have to brace myself for what I’ll find when I go upstairs.
“All these papers and numbers,” he repeats listlessly, already lost in his own thoughts again.
Catherine’s voice floats down the hall. “Ada, I asked about that broth over an hour ago, don’t tell me it’s still not ready. And have you checked the windows in Mother’s rooms? They were letting in a draft before. I want them tight as a ship.” I wince at the way she orders Ada around when Ada is already doing so much to help.
When she passes by the open door she stops and frowns at me. “Oh, you’re here.”
“You told me to come.”
Her arms are full of stained linen, her eyes shadowed and bloodshot. “The doctor just left. Mother is resting now.”
I nod, mute. What is there to say? Catherine gives me a curt nod in return and then disappears down the hall, already an expert in her new role as capable daughter and nurse.
I force my tired legs to take the stairs two at a time. When I get to the top of the landing, I stop, hand gripping the railing for support. Her door is closed, and maybe if I leave it closed it will keep all the bad things away, keep her safe. But whatever has my mother in its clutches is already here, and no amount of childish superstition will protect her. With a deep breath and a silent prayer, I slowly open the door and slip inside.
The embers of a dying fire cast the room in dim light, and before I go to her—or perhaps because I wish to postpone it just a little longer—I slowly take up the poker and cajole the lazy flames until they crackle and dance. I stare at the flickering pattern, mesmerized as my face prickles with heat. When my eyes start to water I finally turn away.
The bed swallows her up, she’s so shrunken and fragile. When I take her hand in mine I can feel each bone, and the light, fluttery pulse of her heart. She looks like a paper doll, crumpled and used up.
For all that I tried to protect her, save her, it’s been for nothing. First it was the rumors that shook her faith in her family, then it was Emeline’s death that cracked her heart open. When I tried to take my own life it shattered the tender filaments that remained. Mother has been in a long, slow decline since then. It’s all my fault. I should have tried harder.
“Lydia,” she says, her voice so breathy and faint that I think I must have imagined it. “You came.”
A chair is already by the bed, draped in a quilt, probably used by Catherine or Father as they kept vigil over the last few days. I lower myself down, still in my heavy wool traveling cloak. “Of course I did, as soon as I heard. Is...is there anything you need?”
She closes her eyes and gives an almost imperceptible shake of her head. “Ada and Catherine are taking good care of me.”
There’s something about a sickroom, a stillness, an absence of time, as if all the forces of nature bow their heads and hold their breath. No movement, no sound, the problems and troubles of the world all impossibly far away. Just a sick woman, fragile as a leaf, clinging to life.
“Oh, Mother,” I say, unable to keep the sob in my throat from bubbling up. “I’m so sorry. I haven’t been a good daughter. I’ve been a child, fighting with Catherine and spending too much time in my books instead of helping you around the house. If...if you... I’ll never forgive myself,” I blubber. Even now I can’t help acting like a child, forcing my poor sick mother to comfort me when she should be resting.
“Lydia, listen to me.” The weight of her voice slows my tears. “I’m the one who is sorry.”
“Mother, you’re perfect. You have nothing to be sorry for.”
She’s struggling to sit up, grasping at my arm to brace herself. Gently, I remove her hand and try to make her lie back down. Despite her frantic movements and the urgency of her words, her dark eyes are sharp and lucid. “I have to tell you something.”
I hastily wipe away the last of my tears. “Please, try to rest. You can tell me as many things as you want later, once you’re better, but now you need to rest.”
“There won’t be a later. I need to tell you now.”
My heart wrenches, but she looks so desperate that I have no choice but to nod and let her speak.
Relief settles over her waxy features and she closes her eyes. Her dry tongue flickers over her lips in a vain attempt to wet them. I reach for the pitcher of water beside the bed and she takes a grateful sip before she goes on.
“I let you go through life, never knowing what you really are. I thought I could make it go away, that if you didn’t know, maybe it would just disappear, and that by doing so I would protect you from the world. But instead I’m afraid it only caused you pain and confusion. I thought we could come here...” She lifts her hand and gives a weak wave around the room. “That this place could be a new start for all of us. But instead...”
I suck in my breath. The slumbering thing inside of me stirs again, Cyrus’s and Catherine’s words echo in my head. I’m afraid that I know what she’s going to say even before she says it. My fingers curl around the arms of the chair.
“Instead it seems to have awoken it. It runs in the women of our family—my family. Even then, only some of us seem to carry it. My mother was one. I know the signs. I suspected it when you were very little, but it wasn’t until that day that I knew for sure.”
I don’t need to ask her what day she’s talking about.
The room spins. I take a deep, trembling breath and fight the growing wave of nausea in my stomach. My ears are ringing, Mother’s words faraway.
“When Catherine was born I wondered if she would have it, but it didn’t come down through her. It’s been hard for her, I think. She knew that you were different and she wanted to be like you.” She gives a wistful sigh. “I hope you two will find a way to be friends in the future.”
I don’t say anything because I don’t want to crush Mother’s hopes on that front. I swallow. “Does that mean that you are?”
She gives a little shake of her head. “It didn’t come down to me. Sometimes I wish it had so that I could have better guided you.”
“And...Emeline?”
Mother closes her eyes, her lids as translucent and papery as the skin of an onion. Her answer comes out on the back of her breath. “Yes.”
I should be as shocked at this revelation as I was at my own, but Emeline was always special, I knew that. The aching loss of her death folds itself around me all over again. Here is a journey we should have taken together, learning what we were, united in our secret. Instead I must feel my way forward in the dark with neither my mother nor my dearest sister.
“That night when the doors slammed...that was the first time I realized she might carry it too. You would have been too young to remember, but you used to do similar things when you were little. Whenever you got angry I had to whisk you away somewhere just in case something happened. Windows would fly open, candles would gutter and go out. One time a plate even flew up into the air.”
“I...I don’t remember any of that,” I say in amazement. “But why only when I’m angr
y?” Surely I’m not such a dark creature as that? Is there nothing in me but anger and destruction?
“No, not only when you were angry. There were other times too, though not as often. Little things, like when your father brought home that cat. You were so happy, dancing about like a pixie child. When I looked at the ground, little flowers had sprung up in your wake. You didn’t notice, and I daresay no one else did either. Perhaps it was those quieter moments that were more often overlooked.” She reaches for my hand. “There is not one drop of evil in you, Lydia. Please do not think that.”
Tears prick my eyes, and before I can blink them back they’re streaming down my face, hot and fast. I bury my head in the blankets over my mother’s frail body, sobbing like a little child. I don’t want this, I don’t want to be the thing that apparently I am, that I’ve always been. I can’t even say the word. How am I supposed to go through life knowing this?
“You can’t just tell me this and then leave me! What if other people find out? What will happen to me?” I think of the dour portrait of Mary Hale Preston downstairs, her shrewd eyes boring into me. Warning me. And then her visit to tell me as much. The last public hanging on Boston Common was only a couple of years ago, and though it was on a charge of larceny, I can’t help but imagining myself as the swinging corpse.
“You’re strong, Lydia. And is it any wonder? I haven’t been any kind of mother to you. You don’t need me. You’ve been strong this whole time.”
But she doesn’t know that I’m not strong. She doesn’t know that I’m empty and weak, that I’ve taken the easy way out of our problems by giving Cyrus what he wants.
She lets me exhaust my tears against her chest, gently stroking my head. “There’s something I want you to have.” She nods toward the chest at the end of the bed. “In there, under the quilt. There should be a book.”
My heart jumps. The book that Mary Preston told me about, the one that supposedly holds all the answers to my questions. The book that may well be the key to giving Emeline the peace she so badly needs. Perhaps I should be mad that Mother has kept it from me this long, but how can I be angry at her when all she wanted for me was the best?
