by Emma Beaven
Maggie flew back to the bed and dived under the covers, popping her head out only to stare in trepidation at the door. Surely she was being foolish, horrid even. It could happen, obviously. How carefully had they really checked Rose? They hadn’t even summoned a doctor. No, she’d been presumed dead after Maggie’s own cry.
The rustling came again in the hallway, louder that time, and Maggie didn’t dare look to check the curtains. Sometimes it was easier on the mind not to see.
Fifty
Rose climbed into the fresh bed linens, her hair still dripping wet but bound in braids. She smelled the faint scent of lavender and thought of her sister, alone in the other room. The rain-scented breeze blew peacefully in through the open window, softly fluttering the lace curtains on the east side of the house.
Despite her exhaustion, Rose got up and snuck to the window. From here, just beyond the trees, she could make out Mrs. McCann’s home. Somewhere in its dark and silent depths, Henry slept. Rose shivered happily, her fingers gently caressing the sill.
Behind her, the wardrobe pressed awkwardly against the opposite wall, loomed still and silent. Rachel had turned the lock and taken the key, but Rose knew the right door didn’t properly latch and the heavy piece of furniture in front of it was small comfort. The light was already out, so she didn’t dare approach it to force it as flush against its frame as possible.
As fatigue flooded through Rose, she turned her attention back to the soft, inviting covers. She climbed in, pulling her braids out from behind her head to lie upon the pillows, surrendering to the haze of sleep that constantly tugged against her brain. The initial fear faded as sleep settled over her, and she gave in, oblivious to the creak of the wardrobe door.
Fifty-One
By the time Rose awoke the next day, it was already afternoon. Bright sunshine filled the spare room, and the scent of a roasting Cornish game hen permeated the atmosphere. Her stomach rumbled noisily, and she realized she hadn’t eaten in some time.
She sat up and surveyed the room, automatically starting for the wardrobe to look for a dress before she realized none of her clothing was in this room. Dressed in nothing but her shift, Rose tiptoed to the door and peered out. The hallway was empty, a delicious breeze blowing through the front window creating the only sound. She snuck out and made it halfway down the hallway before realizing her bedroom door was closed.
She and Maggie never left the door closed when they weren’t inside. Still, there was no reason at all that Maggie should be in there; it was late, after all. Rose took a few tentative steps toward the door and raised her hand, preparing to knock.
“Miss Rose.”
Rose spun around to face Rachel, who had managed to sneak up behind her in complete silence. “I need—”
“I put them in the wardrobe.”
Rose stared hard at Rachel, her old fear rising up to set her blood on fire. “Why would you do that?’
“I wouldn’t worry about that now, Miss Rose.”
Rose blinked. “What?”
“I’ll lay your clothes out, Miss Rose.”
Rose closed her hand on Rachel’s shoulder. “I asked you what you said.”
Rachel stopped, her back to Rose. “Miss Rose, you need to worry about your health. You still look pale as a ghost.”
Rose loosened her grip, but her eyes remained fixed on Rachel’s back. Warily, she followed her to the spare room to see the contents of the wardrobe. Rachel pulled a key from the pocket of her apron and carefully turned the lock in the fixed door to the left.
Rose poked at the door on the right and watched as it opened half an inch. “This wasn’t locked.”
“It’s very hot out today.” Rachel thrust one of her summer dresses toward her. “Do you want a fichu?”
Rose nodded slowly, her head starting to hurt. “I guess so.”
Rachel laid out a white linen fichu with embroidered pink flowers that twined along the edge. Rose smiled as she plucked at the clean clothing. “Will you get me my rose water?”
“Of course, Miss Rose.”
Rose watched Rachel disappear out the door, then turned back to the bed to retrieve the clothing. She slowly removed the shift in which she had slept and pulled on her fresh clothing, luxuriating in the delicate cotton muslin.
Rachel bustled back in, setting the bottle of rose water down on a small desk near the cold fireplace. “Here, let me help you.”
Rose waited while Rachel came to assist her. “I’m so hungry.”
“Are you?”
Rose began unbraiding her hair. “How many days has it been since I’ve eaten?”
“Too long,” Rachel said softly as she began twirling Rose’s wavy hair on top of her head. “Too long.”
Fifty-Two
Golden light washed through the dining room windows, highlighting the empty chairs and glancing off the unfilled glassware. Rose seated herself anyway, inhaling the rich odor of the dinner she knew couldn’t be far from being ready. She glanced around a few times, shrinking away from the brilliant glare invading the room. She thought briefly about pulling the curtains but decided against it, afraid her family, if they ever came down, would think her even stranger than they already did.
After some time, during which Rose sat shifting and twisting and glancing at the door, Rachel entered with a glass of wine carefully pinned between the index and middle finger of her hand. Rose stared incredulously as Rachel placed it carefully in front of her.
“Where’s Violet?”
“Laundering the linens, miss.”
Rose’s mouth tightened. “And am I eating alone?”
“Your father will join you shortly.”
“What about my sister?”
“She’s not coming, Miss Rose. Please, have something to drink. You’re so pale.”
Rose remained still for a minute, finally lifting a hand only to pluck at the bundle of curls affixed to her head.
After some time, Rachel came clattering back in with a servant Rose didn’t recognize, their hands filled with serving platters. Rose watched them silently, only moving to bring her wineglass to her lips.
Rachel opened one of the silver dishes, revealing smashed red potatoes. She nodded at Rose. “Your favorite, yes?”
“We’re having potatoes with game hen?”
Rachel fiddled with a metal button on her dress. “Let me put on the cream.”
Rachel carefully fixed up her plate, the other servant having already disappeared through the door at the back. “Do you want anything else?”
Rose shook her head, staring down at the plate. “Should I even wait for my father? Or should I assume he’s not coming?”
“I’ll go and check.”
Rose watched Rachel disappear and then glanced back at her plate. She took her fork and scooped up some of the potatoes. Her mouth opened automatically, and she shoved them in. She tried to chew and swallow, but her body began to reject the food, causing her to gag. She’d been starving, hadn’t eaten in days. She was sure she’d been ravenous not long ago, but now she felt fine. Just fine.
Rose peered down at her stomach and pressed her hand against it. The game hen still had a small trail of steam rising from it. Her belly hitched. She prodded at that as well, eventually forcing a bite of the meat down her throat. It seemed weird, almost tasteless.
The doors to the dining room opened, and her father hesitantly came through. He was dressed in yellow britches and a black jacket, a pair of riding boots covering his feet. He gave Rose a tentative smile and approached the dining table.
“Daddy?”
He turned from his path to the chair at the head of the table and stepped over to Rose’s chair. She smiled up at her father, her arms rising to grasp his. “Daddy?”
He hugged his daughter, his lips tight as he gazed over her head. “Are you feeling a bit better?”
Her smile widened. “Yes, Daddy.”
“You’re so pale,” he said. It was almost a whisper, as if a thought had mistakenly blown from his
mouth.
“It’s all right. I feel better, really.” With an effort, Rose lifted her fork and tried another helping of smashed potatoes, this time forcing them down her resisting gullet. “Come and eat with me.”
Her father reluctantly moved to his chair and tried his best to eat.
Fifty-Three
“I’m glad you’re feeling better, Miss Shedd.”
Rose sat on the porch in her thin dress, having removed her shawl as the heat bled through the landscape. Henry McCann stood in front of her, his hat in his hands.
Rose had the urge to giggle. The sunlight was blinding, preventing her from looking directly at Henry. Even when she turned her gaze to the pond, the light flashing off the muddy water hit her retinas, sending blue, green, purple, and yellow lightning bolts across her vision. Her head was pounding.
It had been a week since she’d returned from her ordeal, and though the blood seemed to have returned to her veins, her appetite was weak and her head hurt constantly, the light having become nearly unbearable for her senses. And still she hadn’t seen Maggie. She had stayed in the spare bedroom the entire time, though the wardrobe had somehow disappeared after that first night. Rose hoped someone had burned it to ashes.
“Thank you so much, Mr. McCann,” Rose said, fluttering her eyelids demurely. “For everything.”
“I wonder if you and Mr. and Mrs. Shedd would be so kind as to join myself and my mother for dinner tomorrow.” Henry squinted as he said it, as if the sun had suddenly switched positions in the sky to tear at his vision. “And your sister, of course.”
A tickle of giddiness slid through Rose’s throbbing head. Despite everything, things were going wonderfully. This was the second time Henry had come to visit, and now he had extended an invitation to dinner. Rose was afraid he’d become distant toward her after seeing her in that horrible state, but if anything, he’d been even more friendly, more talkative.
“Of course. I’ll ask my father,” she said, hoping he’d say nothing about the omission of her stepmother.
“Then I’ll await your reply.”
Rose nodded happily despite the rock of pain beneath her skull that rolled with each movement. She popped up and extended her hand. “Thank you.”
Henry took her hand briefly, but despite Rose’s smile and his seeming interest in her, his lips remained neutral, his face slack. She smiled wider, trying not to think about what that could mean. He released her arm, and Rose returned to the house. She scurried to the window to the left of the door and looked out.
Henry stood on the lawn, his eyes on the house. Rose giggled to herself until she noticed he was staring at the windows on the second floor. His mouth remained in that same straight line, but his eyes appeared to have widened, as if he saw something odd or frightening through the glass.
Rose swallowed, wondering if perhaps someone else had finally seen what she’d seen. She raced up the stairs, yanking up her skirt before rounding the corner to face the length of the hallway. The front window was open, the slight breeze barely moving the curtains. Both of the flanking bedroom doors were shut.
Rose made her way down the hallway, her earlier bravado turning dry and desiccated like the corpse of the flies that sometimes gathered on the windowsills. Her eyes drifted from door to door, back down the hallway, and then behind her. Nothing. She sighed and placed her hands on the sill, watching as Henry finally disappeared from the yard.
“Do you think you can just come back?”
Rose whirled around. Mariotta stood in the hallway just outside her bedroom door. Rose hadn’t seen her since that horrible night, and so she’d faded into the back of Rose’s mind. And now, seeing her there, clothed only in a sweat-stained shift with her hair disheveled, Rose felt a sick feeling growing in her stomach.
“Well?”
Rose shook her head, glancing around the hallway in hopes that someone would walk past. “What?”
“You really think God would let you just come back? You don’t deserve to come back.”
Rose backed up a bit. Mariotta was standing with her hands behind her back, slowly shifting her weight from one foot to the other so she appeared to rock from side to side.
“Leave me alone,” Rose whispered, a haze of impending dread falling over her like a veil.
“It’s not fair,” Mariotta said softly as a fat tear rolled out of her left eye. “Not fair.”
“Let me pass, Mariotta.”
Her stepmother shook her head. “I’ll make it right.”
Rose watched, paralyzed, as Mariotta brought her hands out in front of her. She held a silver candlestick holder in one hand, and she quickly brought the other up to grasp the thin cylindrical center. She started forward in a flash, raising her hands over her head as she moved and let out a piercing scream.
Rose turned a second too late, her feet getting caught in the back of her skirt. The fall probably kept her from receiving the full strike as the thin bottom rim of the candleholder connected with her head, and her weakened body slammed against the bare boards of the floor. Rose raised her hands, not yet aware of the pain but waiting for Mariotta to deal the fatal blow. A gray halo shimmered at the edges of her vision as her panic subsided into an unnatural calm.
Rose heard a screech and braced herself, dimly figuring that it was Mariotta’s accompaniment to her long-awaited kill. Someone’s flower-embroidered reticule fell to the floor beside her while more screaming ensued behind her. It all seemed to Rose as if it was happening very far away, the sounds coming from some other dimension beyond the gray haze. She let her arms drop, trying hard to pretend she was somewhere else, somewhere safe like the garden behind the house.
“Rose, you’re bleeding!”
Hands grasped her, and she flinched, terrified.
“Rose, are you all right? Rose, say something!”
Rose recognized her sister’s voice and assumed it must have been a dream since Maggie hadn’t spoken to her in so long. More voices surrounded her, and then someone tried to pull her up. “Please say something!”
“I’m here,” Rose whispered, hoping the voices would stop. An unbearable pain was spreading through the back of her head, weighing her down. “I just want to lie down.”
“Get her to stand up!”
That was her father’s voice, sounding unimaginably strained.
Rose tried to open her eyes, but the light coming in through the front window was incredibly bright. She reached faintly for the back of her head in order to stem the waves of pain that continued to break over her frail body.
The arm that held her own struggled to pull her up, causing the pain to magnify to unimaginable proportions. Rose’s vision went completely black, and as she faded to unconsciousness, she thought she heard a faint tinkle of laughter beside her ear.
Fifty-Four
“I don’t want to take it.”
The doctor frowned at Rose’s father and then back at her. Her father’s expression remained impassive, and Rose took that as a sign that she could refuse to take the tincture.
The doctor sighed. “The wound is open, and if you don’t take care of it, it could become rotten.”
“No.” Rose placed her fingers on the back of her head and delicately examined the wound. “It’s not as bad as my headaches.”
“Mr. Shedd?”
Her father shook his head, his arms hanging rigidly by his sides. “And what of my wife?”
“You can take her to a facility in the city.”
He shook his head again, crossing his arms over his chest. “Will she attack my daughter again?”
“I couldn’t say,” the doctor said, his gaze straying to the door and betraying his impatience. “I heard what she said, but it’s possible she’s saying it so as not to be hanged for it. Even then, if she attacks someone else….”
“But Rose is all right?”
“Ah, Miss Shedd is fine for now, but you must apply the poultice daily, and I highly suggest the tincture.” The doctor coughed lightl
y. “Mr. Shedd, perhaps you should summon the authorities. She tried to kill your daughter.”
“You don’t know that,” her father retorted.
“I know what she told me, Mr. Shedd. I don’t know if I can rest peacefully leaving her here.”
“We’ve had some… difficulties lately. It was probably weighing too heavily on her mind.”
Rose’s eyes had automatically moved to her father as he spoke, but now she shifted them back to the doctor. She had not, in fact, been privy to what Mariotta had said. And she desperately wanted to know.
“Mr. Shedd—”
“This is a private matter, Dr. Skinner.” Her father gestured toward the door. “Thank you for your services, but if you please.”
“What did she say?” Rose asked weakly as the doctor reached for his hat.
He paused for a moment but kept his head down, his gaze fixated on his hat. “I had better go, then.”
Rose watched the doctor as he retreated from the parlor. At the door, he stopped and touched the brim of his hat. “Please send for me if anything… doesn’t seem right.”
“But what did she say?” Rose called again.
The doctor opened the door and scurried out, leaving Rose to stare questioningly at her father. He looked at her quickly and then turned his head away.
“Well?” she asked again.
“It doesn’t matter,” her father said softly, rising from his place at the end of the sofa and taking a hesitant step forward.
“Why is everyone acting like this?” Rose asked, her voice taking on a desperate note.
“Do you want to lie down in bed?”
“No. I want to know what’s going on.” She crossed her arms over her chest. The pain in her head had turned from a wild upheaval in her skull to a pleasantly dull throbbing, much less painful than her usual headaches. She touched her scalp, her fingers searching out the crusted blood adorning the hair surrounding the wound. She had a sudden urge to stick her fingers deep into the cut, to feel the sluice of blood racing beneath her skin.