by Hester Fox
Her brushed hair makes me think of something, and once it’s in my mind I can’t shake the idea. I force my throat to clear. “Is the coffin already sealed up?”
Ada stops fiddling with my hem. “I don’t know. I would think so.”
“Quick, can you go downstairs?” I retrieve a little pair of sewing scissors from the basket on my table. “Take these, and if you can...” I can’t finish my question, but Ada takes the scissors and nods her understanding.
When she leaves, I stand very still and listen to the sounds of the house. It holds its breath, trying to outlast me. No creak of a little foot playing hide-and-seek, no Snip giving chase to his young master. Outside Joe is hitching up the carriage, the horses jingling their bridles as he leads them out. I think of Emeline’s little body being borne away, the horses trotting briskly along as if it was any other day.
Ada comes back a few moments later with a thick lock of auburn hair. I reach out my hand and take it from her, gripping it like a lifeline.
“It wasn’t...that is, they’re almost ready and it wasn’t closed yet.” She bites her lip, unable to meet my eye. “Would you like to go down, to see her before they do?”
I should, but my feet stay planted where they are, Emeline’s hair twisted around my white knuckles. The last image I have of her is on the settee, wet and muddy and surrounded by chaos. Ada puts a tentative hand on my arm. “Go on,” she says quietly.
I tiptoe downstairs, slow because I’m still weak, but also because I’m desperate to put off what will be the last time I ever see her little face again.
Joe is just lifting the coffin lid when I hesitantly come into the parlor. When he sees me he puts it back. “Just come out and get me, miss, when you’re ready.”
He leaves me alone, but it’s a long time before I can bring myself to approach her.
Snip lies under the table, barely lifting his head to acknowledge me, his eyes accusing. I vaguely wonder if he’s been here the whole time. It’s been hot these past days, and there’s a sickeningly sweet, pungent aroma hanging heavy around the coffin. I put my handkerchief to my mouth, not sure what to expect when I peek over the edge.
She looks at peace, at least. Not in the way that a sleeping person looks peaceful, but in the way that someone does who has been relieved of all their worldly burdens, including their spirit. There’s no sign of the pond on her, no weeds or mud, and I think it a cruel trick that such violence could come and pass, taking with it her life and not leaving so much as a mark.
Her pale little hands are spread out across her stomach; someone has placed a silver cross on a chain in one of them. Something seizes me, and I run to Mother’s sewing basket and paw through it until I find her scissors. I tilt my head and take a few ragged cuts until a lock falls loose from the rest of my hair. I have something of her, and now she will have something of me. Carefully, I wind the hair around my finger, tying it with a bit of red ribbon from the sewing basket, and then take it back to the coffin. It’s a small gesture, but it feels like a tangible link that will connect us long past this moment. “Now you will be with me, and I shall be with you, forever,” I whisper.
As I place the curl beside the cross, my hand brushes her. I recoil. Her skin’s not cold like I thought it would be, but it’s not warm either. It’s nothing. My stomach churns and I wish I hadn’t come after all. The lifeless form in the coffin isn’t my sister, because all the spirit and laughs and songs and smiles that made up my sister are gone, like dust scattered to the wind, never to return.
I run from the room without a backward glance.
* * *
I didn’t think it could sink any lower, but my heart plummets as we pull up to the burial ground. Crumbling, lichen-specked stones dot the scorched grass. Trees edge the balding hill, but cast no shadow, provide no dappled shade. And this is where my Emeline will lie. In Boston she would have been buried in one of the lush burying grounds among the old churches and blooming gardens.
The minister’s scripted words flow over me. I block him out. I don’t know any of the people here except for Mr. Barrett and Mr. Pierce, who is apparently back from Boston. I wish they hadn’t come. What must Mr. Barrett think of me, of what happened at the pond? I had no right to lash out at him the way I did. When I remember the way the water roiled and the clouds that gathered, I grow cold all over again. Surely it was just coincidence, Mother Nature’s morbid sense of humor, the weather blowing up a gale to mirror the despair that I felt in that moment. Surely Mr. Barrett didn’t notice, or if he did, he thinks it a coincidence as well. The more that I dwell on it, the more uncomfortable it makes me, and so I push the thoughts away. I choose a patch of wilted asters to focus on so that my eye won’t accidentally meet his.
Most of the other people probably work at the mill, or are the women on whom Mother makes calls. A few I recognize from the meeting and dance. I suppose it was kind of them to come, but I wish we were alone. I feel numb and inside out, and I can’t stand their eyes on me, privy to every tear, every choked-back cry.
Dirt cascades down on the coffin and something primal reaches into my insides, making me want to throw myself down into the hole, to feel the cool, grainy earth cover me completely with her. But I just stand there, numb and unmoving, watching as the little wood coffin gradually disappears. People are starting to come up to us, offering us condolences, shaking Father’s hand and kissing Mother’s wet cheek.
“Lydia, I came as soon as I heard.”
I freeze, my stomach sliding at the familiar voice.
“Cyrus,” I manage around a thick tongue.
I just gape at him and I think I’m laughing. People are staring at me. But I don’t care, I don’t know what else to do. Of course he would come. Of course on this day of all days, the person I want to see least in the world would make it his business to come. The ex-fiancé who won’t leave me alone. It could almost be a scene out of one of my books, except that this is real life and there’s nothing romantic about it at all.
Catherine swoops in, taking me by the arm. “You have some nerve, Cyrus,” she hisses.
Unperturbed, he gives her the smallest bow of his head. “Miss Montrose.”
I don’t know what’s more absurd, the fact that Catherine is playing my protector, or that Cyrus has come thinking I would want to see him on this day. “It’s all right,” I tell her. “Go be with Mother.”
She passes a look between us, tight-lipped like she wants to say something else. But I give her a nudge and she turns away with one last withering look at Cyrus.
In his deep blue frock coat, an emerald cravat pin glinting on the breast, Cyrus looks terribly out of place on the scorched hill amid the dowdy townspeople. He always was something of a dandy. Save for our family and Mr. Barrett and Mr. Pierce, most of the mourners wear clothes at least five years out of fashion, the men in patched trousers and faded waistcoats, some of the older ones even still in breeches. Casting his gaze over them, Cyrus’s distaste is written plainly on his face. But then he turns back toward me, and his dark eyes soften and fill with concern.
“Are you all right? Lydia,” he says taking my hand and leaning in like he’s never cared about anything so much in his life, “I know we didn’t leave on good terms, but I had to see you again. I stayed in New Oldbury, hoping that you would send for me. I even came to Willow Hall for the town meeting, but you weren’t there. As soon as I heard about Emeline though, I knew I had to see you.”
The sun beats down through my bonnet and I don’t want to be here anymore. Whatever illness I fell into over the last few days still has me tight in its clasp, making my legs shake, my head dizzy.
“Thank you, Cyrus. It was very kind of you to think of my family.” The words are cold and meaningless, said only so that he’ll go away. He’s stealing my last moments with Emeline, depriving me of standing near her while the earth hasn’t completely covered her yet.
I take a shaky step back. Is he really trying to declare his love to me, here among the graves where Emeline has only just been lowered into the ground? Didn’t I make myself more than clear the last time? “You broke our engagement off.” I pull my hand back from his grasp and look for somewhere safe to direct my gaze. “Then you came crawling back, and when I refused you, you leveled insults at me and my family.”
“I never wanted to, Lydia, you know that. It was...the unpleasantness with your family. My father made me call it off.” He rubs at the back of his neck before regaining his composure. “And I feel terrible about the other week. I didn’t mean what I said, I only...well, I was so sure you would say yes. You hurt me, Lyd.”
“Cyrus, not now. Please.” The ground is swirling under my feet and I’m not sure how much longer I can stand upright. Through the small crowd I catch a glimpse of Mr. Barrett’s back as he speaks with Father. “Please, go.”
I turn, but Cyrus catches my hand again. “I have to return to Boston, but one word from you will bring me back. Please, tell me that I can see you again.” There’s a desperation in his eyes that I’ve never seen before.
“Fine.” Anything to get him away from me. “Please, just go.”
He bows, and looks at me from under dark lashes as he presses a kiss onto my hand. My breath escapes in a hiss of relief as he stands to leave. Just as he does, Mr. Barrett turns from Father, and before I can yank myself away, I lock eyes with Mr. Barrett, my hand still hanging in the air from the kiss. For a moment everything stops, and I’m back by the pond, light and giddy from being the object of Mr. Barrett’s attention. But this time it’s a deep sense of shame, as if a part of me, a rotten, bad part, has been peeled back and exposed.
Hesitating, Mr. Barrett gives me a short nod and says something in Mr. Pierce’s ear, and then they’re turning to leave. Although he already left a heaping bouquet of white lilies near the grave, Mr. Barrett’s carrying a handful of flowers. When they reach the gate, he pauses, looks around and then tosses them on the ground.
I’m hot. I’m dizzy. And I’m tired in a way I’ve never known before. I don’t care what Mr. Barrett thinks or what those stupid flowers were for. I just want to be home, even if that home is an empty, haunted place.
I jump at the touch of a hand on my arm. “What did that bastard want?”
“I don’t know,” I tell Catherine, and it’s the truth. I don’t believe for a minute that Cyrus came only out of some delayed sense of chivalry.
She bristles. “Well, he has some nerve showing his face here, and today of all days. I hope you told him to clear off and not come back.”
A lump is rising in my throat, so I give her a wordless nod. I don’t have the heart to tell her what a coward I am.
Mother can barely stand. She looks as if all the life has been drained out of her, and she stares around the burying ground with glassy eyes.
“We should get her back home,” Catherine murmurs to me.
As we’re passing under the iron arches of the gate, something colorful against the dead grass catches my eye. It’s the flowers Mr. Barrett tossed aside as he was leaving. Crouching, I pick up the mangled bouquet.
Poppies and foxgloves.
14
TIME SLOWS DOWN to a nearly stagnant trickle of minutes and hours, and yet one morning I awaken and realize it’s been almost a week since that awful day. I want to throw my body against the uncaring hands of the clock. I’m afraid that with every stroke of the hour that my memories of her will fade, and that I will acclimate to the numbness, as if it was always such and she was nothing more than golden-tinged dream.
I wander the house, uneasy and restless. We’ve barely lived here two months but every room holds some memory of Emeline. There was never any need for her to have a room of her own; we always shared a bed in Boston. But Father built Willow Hall with five bedchambers—including a nursery on the third floor—anticipating that we would each have our own bed with room to spare for overnight guests. Many nights Emeline would come tiptoeing down and slip into my bed, where I would tell her stories until she fell asleep, curled around my arm.
Snip pads behind me as I stumble into the nursery. I never spent much time in here, and I assumed Emeline didn’t either. We were always so busy exploring or sprawled out in the library surrounded by stacks of books. She was such an old soul, I forget sometimes that she was just a child of eight. But as I stand enveloped by the heavy silence of the nursery, it dawns on me that she did still spend time here, that she did leave her mark.
Bottle flies hurl themselves at the windows. Joe has been setting out jars of vinegar to trap them, but they don’t seem to be helping much, and I have to bat a few of the more aggressive flies away. I move slowly, running my hands over all the things that used to be hers. A dollhouse complete with a miniature family has been emptied out, the rooms filled with twig dolls and carpets of moss. I crouch down to open her little leather trunk and Snip throws himself down beside me in a sunbeam, watching me with subdued interest through the lazy dust motes.
I run my finger over the lid, Emeline’s initials spelled out in smooth, silver studs. How many times she must have opened this trunk, putting in some new treasure, taking out the others, all of them special because she chose them, imbued them with her own meanings. I close my eyes and inhale, desperate for some lingering scent of her. What did she smell like? Pressing my eyes until they water, I reach for some sliver of memory, but come up empty.
There’s the gold necklace that Mother gave her on her fifth birthday, but Emeline had taken off the pearl pendant and replaced it with an acorn. Mother used to call Emeline her “little pearl,” a rare surprise, found later in life when Mother had thought herself past the age for such miracles. There are some scraps of paper with her childish scrawl from when I was teaching her how to write her name. An embroidery sampler with a crooked alphabet and numbers up to ten. A little farther down I find the pearl strung on a cotton thread and wrapped around a smooth stone. We used to collect stones like that in the harbor. Running my finger over it brings back the sharp, salty air filled with woodsmoke, the gulls wheeling overhead as we ran down the beach with wet hems and sandy shoes. Emeline was always faster, even though she was so much smaller. Sometimes I would whisper a secret word into the wind, and she would try to catch it down the beach. It was almost as if we could read each other’s thoughts, because she always knew the word, even if she was much too far to hear it. I wince with guilt that I didn’t know she was in trouble the evening of the dance when so many other times I could sense what she was thinking, doing.
I’m just about to close the lid when something stops me. A glimmer in the depth of the trunk catches my eye, peeking out from beneath the embroidery. My breath catches in my throat. It can’t be... With shaking fingers, I reach down and pluck it out.
It’s hair. Soft, mousy brown hair, tied in a red ribbon.
I drop it like a hot coal.
How did my hair get into Emeline’s trunk? I don’t remember ever giving her a lock of my hair. That is, not until I placed one in her coffin.
My head goes light and my mouth dry. Well, I must have given her one. Or perhaps she took it upon herself to cut one while I was sleeping. It would have been daring for her, even if she had been in a naughty mood, but I suppose it’s possible. It has to be possible.
I haven’t heard voices or seen cryptic messages in weeks, but now that Emeline has died, all the stress has come back tenfold and my mind is playing tricks on me. I put the hair back, tucking it under the embroidery and covering both with the beach stone. I can’t let my desperate imagination get the better of me.
Closing the lid, I rock back on my heels. There will never be any more runs by the
oceans. There will never be any more stones or acorns or little treasures added to this trunk. I will never be an older sister again. All that I have are my memories, and I won’t let them wither and fade with time.
I sit paralyzed like that until my ears buzz with silence and my legs fill with pins and needles. I’ll never be an older sister again, but I am still a sister.
* * *
Mother settles gingerly into her seat at breakfast the next day. She looks thin and brittle, dark smudges in the hollows under her eyes. She helps herself to an egg with shaking fingers, and when she almost knocks over the teapot reaching for it, I swoop in to pour it for her. Since Emeline’s death she’s receded into herself more and more, until it feels like she’s nothing but a ghost, a living shadow. Most days she claims it’s headaches, though anyone can see it’s her spirits, dampened to the point of being extinguished.
“We ought to invite Mr. Barrett and Mr. Pierce for dinner again sometime,” Catherine says lightly.
Mother stares blankly at her and even I’m not sure I heard her right.
When no one says anything she raises her brows and looks at us. “What? We ought to thank them for coming to the burial, and for the flowers.”
“A note would suffice, I’m sure,” Mother says coolly.
She brushes off Mother’s suggestion. “Well, I think it’s the correct thing to do. Besides, goodness knows we could use a bit of distraction around here.”
I butter my toast without taking my gaze from Catherine. She’s doing a good job of pretending to be her breezy self, but there are little lines of worry around her mouth, and a tinge of desperation in her eyes.
The last time that I tried to do something nice for Catherine, we had the town meeting and dance. I try not to let myself dwell on the aftermath, but I haven’t forgotten her revelation to me that night. Catherine needs a husband, and soon.