by Hester Fox
“He’s not mine, you know that.” I burn just saying the words. “What’s this all about? I was willing to put Charles, Boston, all of it behind us and start fresh with you. I thought earlier this evening that we might be friends...why can’t we be friends?”
“Friends?” She laughs, a joyless sound. “We can never be friends.”
Something isn’t right. Her hand is clutching her stomach, and her face is pulled tight with pain.
I move toward her but she shrinks against the wall like a cornered animal. “Catherine? What’s wrong?”
“Do you really want to know what’s wrong? You say that you want to be friends, but if I told you what’s wrong you would be sick, like you and Mother and Father and the whole world is already sick at me. How come I never hear a word about Charles? Why is no one as sick with him as they seem to be with me?”
“The rumors? Catherine, we all know that they weren’t true. No one is sick at you.”
She’s raving, not even looking at me as she paces, talking to the walls, the ceiling. The little gold C necklace around her neck glints in the lamplight. She compulsively twists the chain round her finger. “Well it doesn’t matter, does it? Soon everyone will know and if you thought we were pariahs now, just wait until I hold the squalling truth in my arms in five months.”
My blood goes cold. “Catherine,” I whisper, afraid that I already know the answer. “What are you talking about?”
She finally stops and levels her gaze at me, as if seeing me for the first time since I came in. “I wonder how you can be so blind, Lydia.” She smooths down the front of her dress, framing the small round of her stomach with her hands. “I’m with child.”
12
I SIT DOWN on the bed, hard. Catherine is laughing or sobbing—I can’t tell which—and my head has gone light and fuzzy.
“Now do you see? Now do you see why Mr. Pierce must come?”
Oh God, I do. The baby needs a father and she needs a husband.
She’s still going on between sobbing gasps, the awful truth cold and obvious in light of her revelation. I’ve been living under a veil, seeing only shapes and movement. Now the veil has fallen away and everything comes into focus. Her moods, her changed figure, her desperate attention to Mr. Pierce, to Mr. Barrett, to anyone.
I try to reassure her, calm her ruffled feathers. “He’s only gone to Boston, he’ll be back. Catherine—”
Her look is so caustic that I let the rest of my words die in my throat. “Please, just stop. I’m not a fool. I know the kind of man August Pierce is, and it’ll take a miracle to get him to the altar. I don’t have long before it’s harder to hide, and then there won’t be any chance for me, for us.”
I don’t know what to say to her. The ceiling creaks under dozens of dancing feet above us. We stand there in charged silence until Catherine snaps, “Leave me, Lydia. I can’t stand the sight of you slender and unspoiled in your ball gown, with your choice of dance partners upstairs. Just go!”
* * *
I can’t go back upstairs to the dancing.
Emeline should be in bed by now, but all I want to do is hold my little sister, the last vestige of purity and innocence in this family.
Still shaking as I close Catherine’s door behind me, I make my way to the spare chamber. It’s dark and still as I slip inside. As quietly as I can, I take off my shoes and slide into the bed.
But when I reach out to lace my arms around Emeline, all I encounter are empty sheets.
“Emeline?” I whisper into the darkness. “Are you there?”
No answer. I reach for the lamp and light it, casting the room into jagged shadows. It’s empty.
Swallowing down my alarm, I slide back out of bed and put my shoes on. The last time she disappeared she was fine; she’d just gotten bored and gone back to the house without me. There’s no reason to think tonight is any different. She probably snuck back up to the third floor to watch the dancing from some secret spot. But the sense of unease I had when I left the ballroom intensifies and my stomach begins to churn.
Back upstairs the dancing is in full tilt. I try not to notice that Mr. Barrett is engaged in conversation with Mrs. Tidewell’s pretty daughter, and to my relief, it appears that Cyrus has gone.
I catch Joe bringing up a fresh batch of punch. “Have you seen Emeline?”
He furrows his brow in thought. “Not since dinner. She’s not in bed?”
I shake my head, already turning back into the ballroom. I don’t want to make Mother needlessly anxious, but I have to ask her. “Mother,” I say, making my voice light, “have you seen Emeline?”
She frowns, darting a glance around the ballroom. “No. Isn’t she in bed?”
“I... I don’t know. Probably.” I can’t tell her my suspicions, not yet. I force a smile. “She must have snuck back into the nursery. Don’t worry.” But the lines around Mother’s mouth are already tightening, her eyes dilating in alarm.
Mr. Barrett catches my eye as I turn from Mother, but I duck into the nursery. It’s empty, just as I knew it would be.
Ignoring the curious glances from our guests, I run down the stairs, my pulse racing. “Emeline? Emeline, where are you?” My voice hitches higher as I move room to room on the second floor, calling her name.
“What are you doing?”
I spin around to find Catherine, watching me from her doorway. “I can’t find Emeline.”
“She’s not in the spare room?”
“I wouldn’t be searching high and low for her if she was,” I snap.
I think Catherine is going to give me a sharp retort, but she falls into step behind me as I run to the first floor, uselessly calling Emeline’s name.
A cluster of people have gathered behind us, and I’m vaguely aware of their whispers and craning necks. But it’s Mr. Barrett who breaks from the crowd and takes me by the elbow, asking what’s wrong.
“Emeline, Emeline is missing,” I say, trying to keep the trembling panic from my voice.
I expect him to smile off my concern—after all, I had been equally alarmed that day she disappeared from the pond, and it turned out she had been fine then—but Mr. Barrett’s brow darkens, and he looks down at me, his clear eyes boring into mine. “Are you sure?” he asks, his voice full of urgency.
My throat tight, I nod.
Glancing away, he mutters a light curse under his breath, and then asks, “Do you have any idea of where she might have gone?”
I start to shake my head, but then it comes to in a flash. I know where she is.
* * *
Mr. Barrett has long legs and he moves sure-footed and fast through the woods. Even Joe struggles to keep up. Father, red faced and panting, quickly falls behind. My heart is pounding in my ears as I run, my lungs threatening to burst. Be there, Emeline. Be there safe and laughing under the willow. Wait for me.
How did no one notice her slipping out of the house? I imagine her teetering on the edge of one of the mossy rocks and falling in, no one to hear her shouts for help. No, I push the thought away. She’ll be there, under the tree, looking up in surprise as she sees us burst out of the woods. I’ll swing her up in my arms and bury my face in her hair and she’ll laugh at me for being so worried. Whatever she wants for supper tomorrow I’ll make sure she has, even if it’s strawberry ice or roasted peacock. Whatever she wants.
We plunge farther into the gathering twilight. Snip’s shrill barks ring out as we near the pond. Mr. Barrett stops first, eyes rapidly scanning the water. “Emeline?” he bellows. “Emeline?”
I pick up the call. “Emeline! This is no time for games. If you can hear me come out at once!”
Catherine is panting, having just caught up. She doesn’t say anything, but I can feel her nervous energy pulsing from behind me. Joe adds a few shouts but it’s useless.
Mr. Barrett swings
around to face me, hands on my shoulders. “Could she have gone somewhere else?”
“I don’t know, I don’t think so...not without Snip!”
We lock eyes and in one horrible moment the truth dawns on both of us.
It all happens so fast. Joe is running to the water, peeling off his shirt and kicking his boots aside. Mr. Barrett just stands there, his eyes still held fast on to mine. He hesitates. It might not even be a second, but he hesitates all the same, something like fear flickering across his face. Then, as if a spell has been broken, he’s running after Joe.
Hold on, Emeline. Hold on. They crash into the water, disrupting lily pads and causing birds to take wing. Snip stops barking, wagging his tail ferociously now that help is on the way.
Please, I beg some unknown force, please, I’ll do anything. Please let her be all right.
There is nothing else in the world, no summer dusk settling around us, no crickets, no Catherine beside me clutching my arm, no silent willow. There is only the pounding of my heart and a desperate, violent hope that refuses to be squelched.
Joe surfaces, spluttering and empty-handed. A rippling ring is the only indication of where Mr. Barrett went under. Just as Joe prepares to plunge back under there is a terrible gasp and Mr. Barrett comes up.
I wrench myself free of Catherine and run. Everything is far away and bright. My chest collapses in on itself when I see her, hanging limp as a rag doll from his arms. Her auburn hair, long and wet, tangled through his fingers.
Mr. Barrett sloshes through the scum and lily pads and I meet them at the edge. Please be all right. The smell of mud, of algae, of tepid sun-warmed water radiates from him as he lays her down on the grass. She’s so cold, too cold.
We take her clothes off, her pretty muslin dress and the too-long sash. “Emmy,” I pant as I frantically try to pat her face awake. “Emmy!”
Someone says that she needs to be warmed, but both Mr. Barrett’s and Joe’s clothes are dripping wet, so it’s Catherine who surrenders her shawl.
“Emeline! Wake up!” She’ll be all right, she has to be. People go under water all the time and wake up minutes later—maybe longer—gasping and spitting. She’ll wake up.
Mr. Barrett is pressing on her chest while Joe tilts her head up. But no water comes out and she doesn’t open her eyes. Her head lolls to the side.
Joe puts his ear to her mouth and shakes his head.
“Emmy!” I try again. Her skin is clammy cold. It’s so hot out, why can’t she get warm?
If only I could breathe my life into her, my breath coursing through her body, making her heart quicken and beat again. I open my mouth as if there are words that could call such a thing forth, but nothing comes out. What would I say? What would I do? Yet something inside me sings for the chance, taunting me and my impotence.
Someone is pulling me from behind and all the sounds that I blocked out come roaring back. Catherine is crying. Father. Father has caught up and is cursing and yelling. The cicadas grind louder as dusk falls. Snip has nosed his way under Emeline’s limp hand and is whimpering.
“Christ,” Joe says softly.
Mr. Barrett grips me by my arms, my back against his chest. He doesn’t say anything.
That’s when the truth sinks down into my bones. It rides through my blood and takes root in the pit of my chest, a terrible bleak thing that grips its cold fingers around my heart. “No.” At first it’s a whisper, a plea, but then it grows. “No! NO!”
The tips of my fingers burn, my eyes blur. It’s as if a dark fire has been lit in my heart, and its scorching tendrils are winding to every corner of my body. The flame begs for release, and I know that if I surrender to it I could hurt Mr. Barrett the way I hurt Tommy Bishop.
I spin around, pounding my fists against Mr. Barrett’s chest, and he just stands there, letting me. I want to scream. It builds up inside of me, a lifetime’s worth of pain that has changed the course of my world in only a matter of moments.
I open my mouth, but the noise that comes out of me is not my own voice. It’s otherworldly, a terrible thing, that reverberates off the trees, the rocks and the pond. It echoes back a mockery of my pain and anger, and churns the water as if a tempest brewed above it. Clouds gather and the temperature drops. Still my screams ring out.
Do the others see it too? Catherine clamps her hands over her ears, and Joe and Father take a few hasty steps back, but no one seems to see the swelling of the water or notice the descending clouds. Mr. Barrett alone stands his ground, holding me tightly by the shoulders as if my scream threatened to tear me away like a leaf in the wind.
From somewhere deep within me comes the realization that I could go on screaming and the water would work itself into a frenzy and the storm would grow. It could crash into waves, pulling us all under.
But what’s the point? Hurting Mr. Barrett won’t change anything. Screaming until I’m mute won’t change anything. I stop pounding at his chest, my fists aching. The darkness recedes. The scream that is not my own dies in my throat, the churning water of the pond calming once more. Emmy is dead. I repeat the words to myself, but they aren’t real. “Emmy is dead.” My voice comes out in a broken sob. “My little sister is dead.”
13
I CAN’T BREATHE. Thorny roses, twisting and winding, giant white lilies smothering me with their heady scent, pulling me deep within a blanket of rotting petals. I claw at the tightening vines, fighting for air as the thorns draw blood. Somewhere far away just beyond my senses, a child laughs.
“Emeline!”
I awaken with a gasp. It’s just the floral canopy over my bed, fluttering in the afternoon breeze coming through the open window. Exhaling, I lie back down. A dark haze clouds my mind, and I know that as soon as it clears I’m going to remember that something has happened. Something awful. I close my eyes and will myself to fall back asleep. But it’s too late, and in patches and fits it all comes back. The pond, the scream, the darkness roiling inside of me. All because Emeline is dead. Emeline is dead and it’s my fault. We argued about her curfew, and my last words to her were harsh. How can I ever forgive myself?
My chest aches and my limbs are heavy, too heavy to get up. When I test my voice it’s hoarse and barely comes out in a squeak. Ada moves around the room on tiptoe, clearing away dishes and gathering up crumpled linens. She jumps when I speak again, louder this time.
“What time is it?”
Darting a glance at the window, she shifts her weight uncomfortably and hesitates before answering. “It’s ten in the morning, miss.”
I slept all night and right through the morning. I vaguely remember bringing Emeline home, Mr. Barrett laying her on the yellow-and-pink settee, her countenance pale and ghastly by comparison. Mother hovering in the doorway, her face a white smudge like an apparition, her eyes and mouth three black holes. The shocked murmurs and greedy eyes of the guests craning their heads to get a better look from the hall. Mr. Barrett’s hand heavy on my shoulder until I violently shook it off. Curling myself around Emeline, cold and damp, tracing the soft contours of her face with my finger. After that, there’s only darkness and nightmares.
“What? What is it, Ada?”
She won’t meet my eye. “It’s ten in the morning on Saturday, miss. You’ve been abed for nearly three days.”
This jolts me out of my stupor. “Why didn’t anyone wake me!” My stomach clenches in dread. “The burial...when are they burying her?”
Ada wrings her hands and looks like she wishes she could dissolve into thin air. “They’re dressing now... No, miss, please! You mustn’t try to get up, you’ve had a terrible fever and—”
Her warning comes too late. I’m pushing the blankets off and swinging my legs out of bed. All the blood rushes from my head and I see spots behind my eyes. When my feet touch the ground I pitch forward.
Ada drops her pile of linens and das
hes over, catching me under the arms. “You’ve had a fever,” she says again. “Dr. Jameson said to call for him when you woke up.”
“I’m fine, Ada. I’m fine.” I attempt a smile, but she blanches, recoiling. I must look like walking death after not eating or bathing for days. It’s probably not so different than if I were awake anyway; I can’t fathom finding the will to wash and eat and do all the little actions that fill a meaningless life. I want to be with Emeline. Wherever she is, I want to be with her.
Despite her protests, Ada helps me dress. I should be in full mourning—we all should be—but the last time there was a death in the family and we buried my grandmother, I was only twelve, and that dress won’t fit me anymore. I go through the motions of dressing, raising my arms above my head so Ada can relieve me of my old shift, and step into the darkest dress I own, a deep dove gray.
“Miss Catherine is already dressed,” Ada says. “I made sure to tie some black crepe about her bonnet, and a little more around her sleeve.”
I squeeze Ada’s hand in thanks, knowing that Catherine wouldn’t think of these things on her own.
“And...and Emeline?” My eyes water up and I catch myself, taking a deep breath before I completely let the tears take over. “How is Emeline dressed?” I force myself to ask.
She’ll still be lying in her coffin downstairs in the parlor. I should have sat with her these past days. She’s always been afraid of the dark. I can only hope that Mother or Father thought of this, and left a lamp lit for her. What a sorry excuse for an older sister I am, all this time in my bed while I could have done this one last little thing for her.
Ada sniffs back her own tears. “Like a little doll. Her blue silk dress. I brushed out her hair myself ’til it shone.”
Pale, delicate silk. Her favorite dress. She looked like a child of the moon in that dress, a little water sprite. Oh God. I grit my teeth. Knowing that I won’t be able to thank her in words, I give Ada a nod and another squeeze.