A Wounded Name (Fiction - Young Adult)

by Hutchison, Dot

  “What could make a man kill his own brother?” I whisper, the thoughts too dark for the bright day.

  “Why did Cain kill Abel?”

  “He was jealous,” I answer automatically, words before comprehension. My eyes widen as I realize the meaning. “He was jealous …”

  “Been here a long time, Miss Ophelia. I remember those boys at school. Never a thing the elder had the younger didn’t want, never a privilege or an honor earned by the elder that the younger didn’t expect a share in. Back when the Fourth was losing to the sickness, when he went to choose between his boys to succeed him, how quick the younger came running back, when the elder had been here working for the school all along.”

  “He’s already submitted for the position,” I tell him quietly. “The Board is doing the final interviews this week and next.”

  “That’s one way of it,” he agrees, his tone so mild I know to turn the idea over again to look for what I’m missing.

  I think of the way Claudius tried to sit at the head of the table, the way he greeted mourners at the funeral as if welcoming them to his home, the way his hand— “Gertrude.”

  “Beautiful woman. Both boys courted her here at school.”

  “But she chose Hamlet.”

  “Which is when the younger one left, off to make a fortune in dealings he never did speak of. Off to Europe and Asia to wager other men’s money in businesses I would rather not understand. Only back when summoned for family occasions, and never a letter in between.” Jack scowls down at his tools. “Never seen a man run so far from a good family.”

  “A prestigious position and a beautiful wife,” I murmur. “I suppose men have killed for less. But a brother …” I flinch at the touch of cool metal on my other hand and realize I’m clutching Dane’s class ring, like I’m trying to protect any piece of him from this terrible conversation. “You know Claudius better than I do.”

  “I don’t suppose anyone could know that man. His words don’t give much of himself.”

  True enough. “Will there be proof?”

  Jack shakes his head and indicates the syringe. “That’s as much as we’ll find, I’d wager, and that’s careless enough to make me wonder, unless he just couldn’t get far enough away and still be close enough to hear the discovery.”

  “You’d think he’d want to be far away when the discovery was made.”

  “But then who would comfort Mrs. Danemark from the terrible sight? Who would be seen doing his best to rescue both her husband and her son?”

  “Hamlet was strong. How could Claudius have injected the poison without there being a fight of some sort? Some kind of cry?”

  “Poison to sleep, poison to die. One’s much like another, and the Headmaster was sleeping very heavy that day.”

  I stare at the syringe, at the remnants of the cloudy liquid that smear the inside of the glass. “Jack … what do I do?”

  “What do you think you should do?”

  It’s the question my mother would have asked. Father would give me a lecture on rules and regulations, on duty, but Mama would just turn the question back so there’s no easy answer. Mama thought easy answers were the worst kind of self-deception, of foolishness.

  Mama thought Father was the biggest kind of fool.

  I take a deep breath, the carvings on the ring band pressing into my skin. “There’s no proof.”

  “None whatsoever.”

  “Dane and Gertrude would be hurt if I accused without proof.”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  “There’s Father.”

  He doesn’t even say anything to that; doesn’t have to. Even if I did have proof, Father would send me back to the cold place until the medications are adjusted and working properly again. For my own good, ostensibly, and yet how much would he suffer for it as well, bearing the guilt of locking me away? Hamlet greeted my return with violets, but Father always brought me home with palpable relief—and to an emptier liquor cabinet.

  “I’m the only one who can see his ghost.”

  “Choose your debts carefully, Miss Ophelia. A debt’s as good as a promise.”

  To whom do we owe the greater debt, the living or the dead?

  To the memory of the man who taught me integrity, who prized honor and truth and strength of character, I owe the courage to make this known, whatever the consequences, whatever the price I have to pay to ensure that a murderer doesn’t get away with his unnatural deeds.

  But what about the things I owe Dane—the promises I made—as his friend, as his maybe something more? What about what I owe Gertrude, who shows such grace even in her grief and treats me like a daughter? What do I owe Father and Laertes? How do the debts balance until one is greater than the others?

  Jack’s advice about being careful may be too late.

  “There’s no proof,” I whisper.

  Jack just shakes his head.

  I slowly place the syringe in the pocket of my sundress. “I’ll regret this.”

  “Can’t escape that no matter what you choose,” he tells me, not unkindly. From the sagging tool belt around his hips, he pulls out a pair of hand snips and delicately shears away a violet blossom from the main branch of its plant. He places the indigo flower in my palm, where the syringe so recently rested. “Regret follows any decision where there isn’t a good choice to make. Be careful, Miss Ophelia. Knowledge got us exiled from the garden that was; that wasn’t the worst thing it’s done to us.”

  I curl my fingers around the violet. It would be so easy to clench my fist, to crush the flower until the clear sap stings my skin and the bruised petals rip apart like silk. It’s so easy to destroy.

  Jack stands with an effort and touches my shoulder, a faint smear of dirt left behind. Without another word, he tugs me to my feet and walks me to another alcove, a different bench, and leaves me there in the sunlight and the bright blue sky with its shredded wisps of white cloud.

  When Dane finds me there, the violet is still safe in my palm. He doesn’t see it though, and when he takes my hand, the blossom is crushed between us.

  I don’t tell him about the poison.

  CHAPTER 9

  The syringe is hidden in my room, buried in the cedar chest at the foot of the bed between all the layers of my mother’s gowns. I can make it disappear from sight, but I can’t forget it, can’t help but think of it whenever I look at Claudius walking around the Headmaster’s House, when I see his hand at the base of Gertrude’s back, the way he leans in too close to whisper in her ear.

  Dane is mostly civil to him, though. I don’t know if Gertrude has spoken to him or if he has truly come to believe in the Danemark legacy, but he seems resigned to the general expectation that Claudius will be the next headmaster. The other applicants have been ruled against, one by one, until only Claudius and one other remain.

  The Fortins have been involved with Elsinore Academy nearly as long as the Danemarks and have always held a position on the Board of Governors. Their children have attended the school as long as it has been open, until just recently. For the past forty years or so, the Fortins and the Danemarks have stood on opposite sides of a fierce debate over the education the students receive. The Fortins argue that the girls should be held to the same standard as the boys, given the same opportunities, rather than grow up into generation after generation of trophy wives.

  I see the virtue in it, see the appeal, but the Danemarks stand by tradition, and most of the Board stands with them. After all, most of the Board attended the school, most of them have wives who attended the school. They have no reason to see anything wrong with the traditions that make us as we are. Even Dane and Laertes see nothing wrong, and Horatio has stopped trying to make them understand.

  Reggie Fortin was the first Fortin not to attend Elsinore Academy. While his uncle remains on the Board of Governors and continues the debate at every opportunity, young Fortin attended a different prestigious institution and joined the faculty there in turn.

  I know Ha
mlet respected the younger Fortin, even admired his passion for education, but he also was adamant about not changing the curriculum.

  One afternoon Father sends word through the servants that we are going out to eat in town with the Danemarks, and that we should dress appropriately. We always dress for dinner, and there is no restaurant in town so grand that extra care is ever actually appropriate, but just as we have our traditions, there is something of reputation to consider as well.

  Gertrude knocks on my door as I stand in front of my closet. Her knock is distinctive, light and soft, almost impossible to hear because it’s more a tap of fingernails against wood than any true knock. When I open the door for her, I see she is already dressed, elegant in a sheath of red satin with an understated ruby and diamond design at her throat and ears. Her blonde hair, just a hint of strawberry to it, frames her face and leaves her slender neck bare except for the gold chain for the pendant.

  “I thought I might help, if that’s all right?” she says with a smile.

  I step aside to let her enter. “You look lovely.”

  “Thank you.” She kisses my cheek as she walks past, scarlet heels sinking into the thick carpet, but she doesn’t so much as wobble.

  I’m glad she’s here; seeing her, I know I would have been woefully underdressed. We don’t often eat in town, so there must be some occasion to celebrate. I decide Claudius must have been selected as the Headmaster. She’s dressed too finely for any of the restaurants in town, dressed for the city and the establishments without menus or prices, but somehow she won’t look out of place.

  She skips past the array of clothing meant for usual dinners and sorts through the dresses and gowns I have for more formal occasions. Some of them are patently unsuitable even as finely dressed as she is, but after a few minutes she selects a dusky rose that almost contrives to bring color to my face. Father dislikes that dress because it comes off my shoulders, shows too clearly that I’m not a little girl anymore, but I’ve always loved the deep neckline and the lace-edged crinoline that gives shape to the calf-length skirt.

  She helps me with the long row of cloth-covered buttons up the back, using a short metal hook to drag the satin cord loops over the fastenings. As I sit at the vanity to adjust my light makeup to better suit the dress, she stands behind me and brushes the day’s tangles from my hair. For dinner and nicer events, I generally wear it down with an Alice band or a bit of ribbon to keep it out of my face, a youthful style that seems to reassure Father, but Gertrude pulls my small container of pins to the edge of the table and sorts through them with a thoughtful look on her face.

  She smiles at my reflection in the mirror, kissing my temple. She presses our cheeks together so she can meet the reflection of my eyes. “You’re not a little girl anymore, Ophelia. Polonius needs to see the young woman you’re becoming.”

  A child can be controlled; he’s afraid the woman cannot be. But I don’t say this, because Gertrude has never really understood the complicated relationship between Laertes, Father, and me. We revolve around my dead mother and the space she left behind, revolve around the fear and uncertainty and sense of loss, each of us having lost something very different. Instead, I just watch as she pins my hair into an elegant, heavy twist on the back of my head. This morning’s basket of flowers included a mass of delicate white star-of-Bethlehem. She pins these in as well along one side.

  I’m a different creature under her ministrations. I’m no longer the sylph that disappears in the shadows, overlooked and forgotten. I’m someone to be seen, noticed.

  I’m not sure I like the change. I like being able to disappear in plain sight, like knowing who will see me no matter how I disappear. Horatio always sees me. Dane always sees me. I dislike when people notice me only because someone else has brought attention to me.

  Gertrude’s hands rest on my bare shoulders, her fingertips light against my collarbones, and I see the glint of a blocky diamond on one finger. “You look more like your mother every day,” she tells me.

  It occurs to me that she must not know Father as well as I thought she did if she believes this to be a good thing.

  She frowns slightly at the thin silver chain at my throat, the ring tucked in the hollow of my breasts. She can’t see the ring, but the chain is clearly not the best choice for the dress. I press one hand against the neckline, keep the ring hidden from sight, and she gives me this small preference.

  We’re the last ones downstairs. Horatio isn’t there, but Dane wears a heavy leather jacket over his suit coat, the black plastic handle of a comb sticking out from one pocket. The sight, ridiculous as it, cheers me; if he’s riding his motorcycle again, his general mood must be improving. He enjoys the thrill too much to ride it when he’s depressed. He still wears all black, down to the tie that’s too loosely knotted against his silk shirt, but he smiles when he sees me, and his dark grey eyes light up. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t have to; his eyes show me a clearer reflection than the mirror upstairs.

  Laertes scowls. He should look more comfortable, his blue shirt open at the throat—he hates ties and only wears them when he has a hickey to conceal—but he hunches into his jacket and quickly steps between me and Dane. “You’re overdressed,” he growls under his breath.

  “Gertrude selected it.”

  There’s nothing he can say to that, but it’s clear he’s distressed over it. He keeps himself between me and Dane, unable to see the mocking gleam in our friend’s eyes. Dane knows exactly what my brother is doing, and it amuses him in a way that isn’t entirely kind. He winks at me when Laertes can’t see him, even blows me a teasing kiss.

  Gertrude must have told Father of her wish to help me dress because he tells me only that I look quite presentable. Memories of Mama darken his eyes as he says it, though, and he keeps his gaze on my face. Claudius helps Gertrude into a light summer jacket that precisely matches her dress and leads us outside to the limousine that waits on the long circular drive. Just behind it stands Dane’s motorcycle, the helmet balanced on the seat. As much as his mother hates the bike and the dangers it presents, I think she’s too relieved to see him take an interest in anything to tell him to ride with the rest of us in the car.

  It’s not a long drive into town, but it’s done in silence. I stare out the window so I can’t see the way Claudius has Gertrude’s hand clasped against his knee. I think of the syringe, of Cain and Abel, and I just can’t bear to see it.

  Dane reaches the restaurant before us; when the limo pulls in to release us, he stands at the doors combing his hair into some semblance of order. He offers his hand to help me from the car and, when Laertes and Father can’t see, brushes a hand against the silver chain where it disappears under the fabric, where his ring rests. He says nothing, but I can see the pleasure in his expression that I wear it.

  The other patrons of the restaurant stare at us as we pass through to a private room. Town and school have little to do with each other, even when the older students come down on the weekends for a chance to escape the grounds. They think us arrogant, and perhaps we are, invading this place in our too-fine clothing.

  Laertes manages to seat me between him and Father; Dane actually laughs when he sees it and promptly sits across from me. His good humor is such a change from the grieving boy of the past month. It’s a joy to see, even if my brother bears the sting of it. Then again, I don’t think Laertes realizes our friend is laughing at him. My brother doesn’t always realize when he’s being mocked.

  A waiter hovers in one corner of the room. He’s young enough that this is probably his first summer working; he’s clearly nervous. As he pours water and wine into our glasses, his hands shake so much it’s a wonder he doesn’t tip anything over. He blushes every time he looks at me, his eyes snapping away from my neckline or face.

  Dane watches him closely as he leans over my shoulder to take away the half-eaten plate of fruit I had in place of a salad. “Didn’t you like the melons?” Dane asks innocently, his timing
impeccable.

  The waiter looks at the plate directly in front of my chest, his eyes widening at the view straight down my dress, and backs away so suddenly the plate bangs against my shoulder. A piece of cantaloupe slides off the plate with the violent motion, dropping into the dress. I’m not sure who’s blushing more fiercely, me or the poor waiter, but Dane leans forward in his seat.

  “Do you need some help?”

  Father glances over and frowns, distracted from Claudius and Gertrude’s conversation. “Help with what? Do you need some help, Ophelia?”

  Dane grins at me. Or at my scowling brother. It’s hard to be certain.

  “No, Father, I don’t need help, but may I be excused to the restroom?” I’m actually proud of how evenly my voice emerges. It’s hard to play at having dignity when you have fruit lodged between your breasts.

  “Yes, of course.” He squeezes my hand briefly, then turns his attention back to the other end of the table.

  As I scoot my chair back to stand, the mortified waiter pulls it out so quickly I have to grab the edge of the table to stay standing. The waiter isn’t so lucky, and he drops to one knee to keep both the plate and the chair from hitting the carpet.

  His smile growing, Dane shifts into my father’s line of sight. “Doesn’t Ophelia look lovely tonight, sir? Soon all the boys will be falling at her feet.”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” Father replies absently. Then he sees the waiter, still on the floor with his eyes screwed shut to keep from looking up my skirts. “Are you ill, boy?”

  “N-n-no, s-sir, I j-just—”

  “The chair overbalanced as he was helping me,” I say quickly. “He was just going to show me the way to the restroom.”

  Dane’s eyes dance even as he pulls his smile into a semblance of a pout. This is the Dane who plays and laughs, the Dane I’ve missed even as I marvel at the Dane who needs me. “Do you need a chaperone?”