Unwept

by Tracy Hickman

  “What color were they?” asked Jenny.

  Ellis stared at her for a moment as though she had asked about the color of creation. She answered, “Green, I guess, or maybe gray. But it wasn’t the color of his eyes so much as what was behind them.”

  “What?” Jenny breathed excitedly.

  “I thought I’d fall into his eyes and tumble into another world. Remember things.”

  “Did you remember something?”

  “I don’t know.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. She really didn’t know what she’d felt or known or truly remembered and wanted time to ponder it alone.

  “And then?”

  “I sent him away,” she said flatly.

  “Why did you do that?” asked Jenny in complaint.

  “How should I know? It was a dream—a nightmare, really.”

  Jenny gazed piercingly at Ellis. She shook her cropped curls from beneath her nightcap. “Was that all of it?”

  “Oh, all right,” said Ellis, “I’ll tell you a little more, but don’t laugh at me.”

  Jenny’s expression brightened. “What?” she said.

  “His face was blue.”

  “Blue?” echoed Jenny, a smile playing about the edges of her mouth.

  “Well, not his whole face,” said Ellis, trying to make it somehow seem reasonable. “It was a paisley mark around one of his eyes—like a bruise.”

  Jenny was smiling broadly at Ellis, who could no longer keep a straight face. They smiled at each other and a short laugh escaped their lips. Relief washed over Ellis.

  Jenny said in a teasing tone that mocked the doctor, “My dear, you sent him away because of a blue paisley? My, you’ve gotten finicky about your suitors!”

  “Oh, stop it!” begged Ellis. “You promised not to laugh.” She tried to feign a pout, but it was no use; her smile ruined it.

  “Feel better?” asked Jenny.

  “Yes, thank you.” Ellis leaned back against the headboard and sighed. The two girls looked at each other and Ellis felt a giggle rising in her throat, which she forcibly swallowed. “We’d better put out the light and stop laughing or I’ll never get any real rest tonight,” she said.

  “You? What about me?” complained Jenny. “I shall be concerned all night that you were haunted by a paisley suitor or was it a paisley suit?” Jenny stifled a giggle.

  Ellis jumped up and tiptoed across the cold floor to the closet. “Perhaps it was a paisley suit after all,” she said facetiously. “In which case, I’ll shut the closet door so I’ll have no more bad dreams tonight. Jen, please turn down the gas and draw the heavy curtains, will you? I don’t want moths gathering at the windows. I’d never sleep.”

  Jenny peered through the doors. “Don’t worry; there are only itty-bitty white ones out there, Ellie. I will protect you, m’lady.” Jenny struck a gallant pose as though wielding a sword and then bowed. Ellis rolled her eyes but secretly appreciated the gesture. She began to feel drowsy. The terror was past.

  Jenny gently turned the gas lamp key and the room was bathed in moonlight again for a moment before she pulled the drapes shut. “You know, Ellie, nightbird is just another name for ‘moth.’ Maybe that’s where your dream came from,” she said thoughtfully before she left the room and shut the door.

  I wish I knew where anything about me came from, thought Ellis ruefully. She hopped nimbly into bed, her feet numb from the coldness of the floor. She did not notice the white flower petals that had fallen by the bed and now clung to her toes.

  She dug deeply into the covers of her bed, relieved she had managed to avoid telling Jenny all the details of what had happened. As she closed her eyes intimate images floated into her inner vision and shocked her once again with their intensity. She forced herself to think of the afternoon she’d spent at the Nightbirds Literary Society. They had flitted about drawn to the next interesting thing like moths to a flame. She thought about dancing with Merrick and how he’d offered to shelter her and Jenny. Drained and exhausted, at last she slept.

  * * *

  In the moonlight silky-winged moths danced and one lone dark figure sat in the shadows of the garden below keeping close watch over Ellis’s little balcony.

  11

  CANVAS AND PAINT

  Despite the frightful storm, Ellis awakened filled with energy and hope. The bright morning streaming in between the heavy drapes stripped away the strangeness she’d felt in the night. She rose from the bed, crossing to the French doors. Unknown possibilities in the day spread their arms wide to her as she pulled back the velvet curtains, opened the doors and gazed onto the pristine morning over the harbor toward the lighthouse. Towering white clouds patched with bright blue were all that remained of the tempest. She leaned against the doorway. The tang of salt mingled with the scent of the roses below as she filled her lungs with morning air.

  She noted the narrow stairs off her balcony leading up to the widow’s walk. Widow’s walk, she thought ruefully. It was the last thing she had heard in her nightmare. She squared her shoulders and shook off thoughts of the strange suitor, his touch and the blue mark on his face.

  “Widow’s walk indeed,” she muttered to herself, then shook her head in chagrin at her own nonsensical dreams.

  The view from her balcony was lovely, but it was eclipsed by the roof of the house and she wondered what it was like up by the cupola. She hesitated at the bottom step for just a moment and then ran to the top as though racing against her own will. She refused to allow one vivid nightmare to haunt her in the daylight.

  At the top of the stairs she found the narrow walkway that surrounded the circular glassed-in cupola. She followed the railing around the widow’s walk toward the water, taking in the view. From this vantage point she could see not only the lighthouse island but the entire sweep of the harbor and across to the town. Boats bobbed in the water and their pilots barked rough greetings to each other. She shaded her eyes and gazed across the bay and saw smoke curl toward the sky from chimneys. The little town of Gamin buzzed with morning activity. She felt the tendrils of the sun’s rays warm her back. She turned around and noted that past the cupola she could see the glimmer of open sea outside the bay on her left. Turning back, she stole a glance at the lighthouse and thought she saw movement, but the figures were indistinct in the distance. She wished she had the spyglass she’d left downstairs on the porch.

  It was a lovely scene, but she didn’t feel a part of it. She felt as though she’d been on vacation for too long and longed to be home. I need something to do, she thought.

  She retraced her steps around the widow’s walk and paused at the top of the stairs when she saw something inside the cupola that caught her eye. She went to the glass door of the cupola and opened it. It was quite dusty inside, much like her room had been when she arrived. Large cushions lay scattered on generously wide counterpanes at the base of the surrounding windows that invited her to be seated. But to sit was not the reason she had entered. In the center of the room there stood what she had glimpsed from the stairs: an artist’s easel.

  At the foot of the easel was a stack of small to large blank sheets of paper. She picked up one of the heavy, ragged-edged papers and ran her fingers over it. It had a rough tooth to it.

  Watercolor paper. The certainty of the thought sent a thrill up her spine. Dancing, yes, because I proved it yesterday, and maybe the piano, too, but beyond a doubt I know I can do this. The ghost of a memory stole over her fingers and she could sense how the weight of a small paintbrush felt in her hand.

  She turned on her heel, her eyes searching the room until she spied what she knew must be there: a wooden case. It peeked from its hiding place beneath a large cushion on the window seat to her right.

  Ignoring the dusty floor, she knelt next to the seat and tugged the case by its leather handles, sliding it from beneath the cushion. She turned the clasp and opening it found a treasure of small tubes that were printed with the words “Moist Colour.” There was an assortment of brushes, a pencil,
a white cotton rag and a small, round tin about the same size as a lady’s powder compact. To Ellis’s delight, the tin contained a dozen small, square cakes of dry paint. She knew this item was meant to be carried in a pocket in case one happened on a scene insisting to be recorded.

  She had found a task she was eager to try. She could see as she inspected the case’s contents that it had been used. She paused and looked about her. These must be Jenny’s things. I’ll ask to use them, she thought. She picked up the little compact and slipped it into her pocket. As she stood up she spied a handle on the floor next to the wall to one side of the door. She bent down and tugged. A small, square trapdoor opened up in the floor. She could see stairs leading down into the darkness. Where the steps descended to she couldn’t imagine. She shut the odd little hatch, making a mental note to ask Jenny about it later. She tidied the room and closed the door behind her.

  She patted the little tin in her pocket and smiled.

  * * *

  “It is absolutely the most dreadful thing ever to happen here in Gamin!”

  Martha’s voice floated up the curving stairs as Ellis descended toward the rotunda and the parlor beyond. Ellis recognized Martha’s voice from the luncheon of the day before but was surprised, since her giggling, excited tones hardly seemed congruous with the statement.

  “Shocking, if you ask me,” Alicia was saying, “which, of course, is why Martha insisted we had to come and tell you all the details at once.”

  “Shocking, Alicia?” Jenny, Alicia and Martha were bent together in quiet conversation that was eclipsed by Ellis’s entrance.

  “Good morning, Ellie,” said Martha. She giggled a bit and Alicia nudged her in the ribs. “Difficult night?”

  Ellis blushed. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “Jenny says you’ve been dreaming.” Alicia gave her a quizzical look as though questioning the possibility of such a thing.

  “About a moth boyfriend.” Despite Alicia’s tug on her arm, Martha’s smile crept into place. “It sounds … wonderful.”

  Ellis stopped short of joining the group and looked at Jenny. How could you? she wondered.

  Jenny looked at the carpet instead of at Ellis. It was a small betrayal, but it was there in the room between them and made Ellis wish she had stayed in the cupola.

  Ellis swallowed the angry words on her tongue and instead managed to casually say, “Well, I guess everyone has crazy dreams.”

  “Of course we all do sometimes,” Jenny agreed, looking up gratefully at Ellis.

  “Jenny says you cried out in your sleep … that you dreamed about moths and a hideous suitor.” Alicia asked sharply, “What was all that about?”

  Ellis didn’t like or understand Alicia’s tone. Ellis’s shoulders tensed. Talking about the dream was bringing back the feeling of terror she’d had in the dark. Ellis shook her head and shrugged her aching shoulders. “It was only a dream. It wasn’t about anything.”

  The group in front of her seemed hungry, but for what she didn’t know and a feeling of guardedness stole over her. She had the uncanny feeling that if she bolted from the room and back up the stairs they would chase her like a pack of hounds. She licked her lips, took a step back and searched for a new subject of conversation.

  “It seems to me you were about to tell us your own shocking news,” Ellis said beneath arched eyebrows.

  “Oh, indeed we are!” Martha spoke in breathy excitement as she bit her lip and smiled. “It’s shocking and terrible!”

  “Martha, please,” Alicia huffed in exasperation. “The word is all over town and we thought it best to bring it to you ourselves. There’s been a death in Gamin. A young woman has been killed.”

  “Oh, not just killed.” Martha nearly bounced with the news. “Torn asunder so badly, by all accounts, that they have not actually recovered the body. Just a foot, I believe … although according to Ely Rossini her blood and gore fairly painted the rocks on Dillingham Point—”

  “Martha, really!” Alicia snapped.

  “Well, that’s what Ely said,” Martha sniffed. “Dr. Carmichael told him he didn’t know what to make of the stench or the discoloration of the woman’s skin. He said that he had never experienced such a thing before. He found it most illuminating.”

  “Putrification on that scale meant that she must have been dead for some time, certainly at least a week,” Ellis said thoughtfully.

  Jenny and Alicia looked aghast at Ellis.

  “Really?” Martha asked in surprise.

  Ellis blinked. “I … I’m sorry; I don’t know why I said that! I just can’t believe it. A woman … murdered here in Gamin?”

  “Yes, that is what we came out to tell you,” Alicia said impatiently, as though Ellis had not been paying attention. “Fortunately, they found her remains before the storm last night or most of the signs might have been washed away. They may never have discovered her death.”

  “Was she … was she anyone we know?” Jenny asked.

  “No, I believe the young woman was an outsider,” Alicia said. “A painter by all accounts. She was working on a painting of Curtis Lighthouse out on the point. The constable has yet to find her art box or paints. He believes that whoever committed the crime must have taken them with them.”

  “A painter?” Ellis asked. “How very odd.…”

  “What is it, Ellis?” Jenny asked.

  “It’s strange, isn’t it?” Ellis mused aloud. “I saw a young woman—with dark hair, as I recall—carrying an easel through the train station just yesterday. So it couldn’t have been the victim. I almost felt like I knew her. But I don’t really know anybody anymore, do I?”

  Her hand found the paint tin in her pocket.

  “What a coincidence!” She held out the little compact and showed it to the group. “I found this and an easel and other art supplies scattered about up in the cupola. I assume they’re yours, Jenny?”

  Jenny took it from Ellis’s hand and turned it over to examine it. “No, I don’t think so. I never did much painting, except a little one in the workroom. I wonder how long it’s been up there?”

  “Don’t, Jenny.” Alicia stepped forward, grabbing the compact and shoving it back into Ellis’s hands. “I suspect the constable needs to hear about this.”

  “Constable?” Jenny swallowed and stood very still. “Does Merrick know?”

  “I don’t know. He should. How could he not know?” Alicia bit the words off roughly.

  Ellis stood there, lips apart, her brow furrowed, trying to comprehend their conversation. Finally becoming impatient, she asked, “Why is it so impossible that terrible things could happen here? There’s a war raging in France … why should Gamin be exempt?”

  “You.” Alicia stepped close and spoke the words inches from Ellis’s face. “It’s you. You’ve brought this here.”

  Martha groaned.

  Coming to Ellis’s defense, Jenny took Alicia’s arm and pulled her a step back. “Alicia! Don’t be ridiculous. Ellis has come here because she’s been ill. Just like I was. We should be kind to her.”

  “Yes, just like you.” Alicia yanked Jenny’s hand off her arm and continued speaking to Ellis. “Where did the art supplies come from? If they aren’t Jenny’s, whose are they? You know more about all this than you’re saying, don’t you?”

  Ellis’s mouth went dry and her cheeks grew warm as the barrage of Alicia’s words hit her. She shoved the little tin of paints deep into her pocket. She can’t think I have something to do with this artist’s murder?

  “I might not remember much,” Ellis’s words tumbled out, “but I know that I have no connection whatsoever to the horrible things you’re talking about. And as far as the paints and canvasses from the cupola go, everything was a dusty mess up there when I discovered them, as though no one had been there for years. And besides, this woman they found has to have been dead for at least a week.”

  “Ellis wasn’t here a week ago,” Martha’s mild voice cut across Ellis’s words.

/>   “That’s right!” Jenny turned to Alicia.

  Alicia’s face fell. She opened her mouth and closed it again. Ellis thought she saw disappointment cross the other girl’s face. An apology from Alicia for her crazy insinuations didn’t seem forthcoming.

  Ellis studied the carpet. Is she hoping that I’m some sort of monster? I don’t understand. Does Alicia know something about me that I don’t? The artist died before I arrived. Arrived from where, though? Why am I here? Why can’t I just go home? Her throat constricted as her thoughts spun in the vacuum of her life and she looked up to find three pairs of eyes all silently watching her.

  Alicia, however, would not be so easily deterred. “When the constable finds out about those paints and canvasses—”

  “I suspect,” came the smooth voice from the rotunda, “he will be as appreciative of Ellis’s talents as I am.”

  The three women were startled.

  “Forgive us for letting ourselves in,” Merrick said with a crooked smile. Two young men stood behind him. “We’ve come to offer you a diversion.”

  12

  PLAY

  Martha gave a nervous giggle. Alicia turned away, a sudden flush coming to her cheeks. Ellis stood aghast that the men had entered Summersend unbidden and unannounced.

  It was Jenny who broke the awkward moment, rushing up to the tall, older man with gushing exuberance. “Oh, Merrick, how very good of you to come! We’re in need of some diversion … our conversations have turned entirely too serious.”

  “Indeed, have they?” Merrick asked, though his eyes were fixed on Ellis. He brushed past Jenny without a glance. He stood too close to Ellis, his sad, haunting eyes looking down on her. “And what topic so fascinates our ladies today?”

  “Oh, well!” Martha purred. “Ellis had a dream!”

  Ellis blushed, trying to catch the other woman’s eye.

  “A dream?” Merrick spoke to Martha, but he still looked on Ellis with a cool, unblinking gaze. “How extraordinary. What kind of dream?”