PRAISE FOR AFTER ALICE FELL
“Kim Taylor Blakemore hits her stride in this well-plotted page-turner of a novel. The prose shines with her unique lyrical voice. Cannot recommend highly enough!”
—Terry Lynn Thomas, USA Today bestselling author of The Silent Woman, The Family Secret, and House of Lies
“After Alice Fell is an enthralling, haunting, and harrowing gothic mystery that sweeps the reader into a post–Civil War New England that consists of broken families and even more broken minds. Easily one of my favorite books of the year, this story stayed with me long after I’d read the last page. I absolutely loved it!”
—Emily Carpenter, bestselling author of Burying the Honeysuckle Girls and Reviving the Hawthorn Sisters
“Blakemore pulls you deep into the mind of a woman haunted by a harrowing past and the fallen ghost of her sister. Family secrets, terrible regrets, and hints of murder lurk around every dark corner of this well-drawn, Civil War–torn world. As the mystery of Alice’s death slowly unravels, you simply cannot look away!”
—D. M. Pulley, author of The Dead Key and No One’s Home
“Superbly crafted, Kim Taylor Blakemore’s After Alice Fell is an enthralling story of absolving guilt and seeking the truth. It’s a captivating historical thriller that kept me turning the pages way into the night.”
—Alan Hlad, internationally bestselling author of The Long Flight Home
“Taut, tense, and terrifying, After Alice Fell is a harrowing novel that will make skin crawl and hearts break. Blakemore’s latest is a sophisticated, meticulously woven historical suspense of loyalty, loss, and deception. With a nod to Shirley Jackson’s claustrophobic settings and intricately drawn characters, Blakemore has created a haunting thriller that will pierce the security of her readers.”
—Amber Cowie, author of Loss Lake
PRAISE FOR THE COMPANION
“A captivating tale of psychological suspense.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A slow psychological burn.”
—Criminal Element
“Blakemore’s descriptions are rich and vivid . . . Secrets, eavesdropping, sinister happenings, and a forbidden relationship all make for a riveting historical thriller reminiscent of Sarah Waters, Burial Rites by Hannah Kent, or The Confessions of Frannie Langton by Sara Collins.”
—Historical Novel Society
“A vivid and sensuous domestic drama, The Companion is also an atmospheric crime story.”
—Emma Donoghue, bestselling author of Room
“Sarah Waters fans, welcome to your next obsession. The Companion is an elegantly written tale of beautiful lies and ugly secrets, a reminder that love’s transforming power makes not just angels, but monsters. Telling one from the other will keep you guessing until the end.”
—Greer Macallister, bestselling author of The Magician’s Lie and Woman 99
“The Companion is a brilliant study of all that makes us human—our terrors, regrets, and passions, and the lies that shape our worlds. Kim Taylor Blakemore’s novel is both astonishing and captivating, and it will leave readers spellbound.”
—Lydia Kang, bestselling author of A Beautiful Poison and The Impossible Girl
“As her date with the gallows approaches, Lucy Blunt is struggling to understand why she is at odds with society. In a literary tradition stretching from Jane Eyre to Alias Grace, her intoxicating account took me to another time and place. A confession with the illicit excitement of a thriller, The Companion offers everything I like about modern historical fiction: a resonant voice that brings women’s lives out of the shadows.”
—Jo Furniss, bestselling author of All the Little Children and The Trailing Spouse
“A vividly rendered and chilling tale of murder, desire, and obsession.”
—Sophia Tobin, bestselling author of The Vanishing
“With exquisitely vivid and lyrical writing and a subtly layered narrative, The Companion is a fascinating and beautiful novel. If you enjoy Sarah Waters, you’ll love Kim Taylor Blakemore’s latest.”
—Lily Hammond, author of The Way Home, Alice & Jean, and Violet
“The Companion is a totally absorbing read—beautifully written, atmospheric, and intriguing. Kim Taylor Blakemore’s characterization is both convincing and compelling as she evokes the gritty reality of nineteenth-century life to great effect. I loved this book.”
—Lindsay Jayne Ashford, bestselling author of The Woman on the Orient Express
“The narrator is riveting. The prose, gorgeous.”
—Ron Hansen, National Book Award–nominated author of Atticus, The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford, and Mariette in Ecstasy
“Reading The Companion, I felt myself pulled authentically into a distant time and tale reminiscent of Charlotte Brontë and Henry James. Blakemore’s mastery of language and character lends credence to her absorbing narrative of guilt or innocence as a young woman of mysterious identity awaits hanging. There is a body count right from the opening of the novel. From there, the reader follows Blakemore through almost effortless shifts of time and circumstance, rendered in magnificent language, to an unexpected finale. This is a haunting tale that will remain in the reader’s consciousness for a long time.”
—Diane C. McPhail, author of The Abolitionist’s Daughter
“Kim Taylor Blakemore’s novel The Companion is the absorbing tale of Lucy Blunt, a young woman condemned to death and deeply haunted by her past. Blakemore skillfully immerses the reader in the tactile world of antebellum New Hampshire with her exquisite choice of details and gorgeous writing style. The novel has everything—complexity, mystery, murder, betrayal, forbidden love—even a ghostly presence. Treat yourself to a few evenings with this captivating story as you explore the mind and experience of a tortured young woman from another time. You’ll be glad you did.”
—Amy Belding Brown, author of Flight of the Sparrow
“Lucy Blunt’s account of her journey to the gallows is a study in female wildness, perhaps constrained but definitely untamed, in this compelling novel. The writing is honed, fresh, and intensely physical, pulling the reader headlong into the heroine’s tough, sharp-eyed world. Lucy’s wit, courage, and resourcefulness render her sympathetic; at the same time, her watchfulness, her almost obsessive reading of others in order to gain advantage, is masterfully conveyed. Blakemore’s understated psychology—in particular her grasp of the petty yet crucial maneuverings that take place between rivals—held me entranced until the end.”
—Maria McCann, author of Ace, King, Knave; The Wilding; and As Meat Loves Salt
“Moody and atmospheric, The Companion is a compulsively readable treat. Blakemore’s meticulously researched world captured me from the very first page, and her intriguing, unpredictable characters kept me guessing until the end. An utter delight for lovers of classic gothic literature!”
—Elizabeth Blackwell, bestselling author of In the Shadow of Lakecrest and On a Cold Dark Sea
OTHER BOOKS BY KIM TAYLOR BLAKEMORE
The Companion
Bowery Girl
Cissy Funk
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2021 by Kim Taylor Blakemore
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
> Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781542022705
ISBN-10: 1542022703
Cover design by Faceout Studio, Jeff Miller
For Alida Thacher and Thea Constantine
&
Dana, always
CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
BOOK CLUB QUESTIONS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Chapter One
Brawders House
Harrowboro, New Hampshire
August 1865
“Is it her?” The ward attendant holds up the oiled tarp. He chews on his dark mustache. Blinks and clears his throat. “I am sorry, Mrs. Abbott. I must ask.”
I clasp and unclasp my reticule, the metal warm between my thumb and forefinger, the click comforting, steadying in this room with white tile walls and black grout. There’s a single circular grate in the corner; yellowed paint chips from the ceiling clog its pipe. The cold pushes through the floor, needles of ice that poke my thin-soled boots. Ill chosen, meant for summer, not this chill room. But I hadn’t thought; I put on the first pair I found and last night’s stockings, too, hung from the bedpost because I was too weary to put them away.
A note delivered, too blunt:
Alice Snow deceased. Please collect.
The driver who delivered the note had waited, slumped against his hansom and fanning his face with a folded-up newspaper. His horse, roan and swaybacked, drooled and ground his teeth. The air shimmered and blurred the edges of the fence and abandoned barn across the road. It was too early and already too hot.
I had missed an eyelet when buttoning my boots earlier, and now the leather cuts into my ankle. I rub the heel of my other shoe against it until the chafed skin burns. Paint chips drift into a crevice of the tarp’s fabric, stick like snow to the crown of this dead woman’s head. Neat, straight part and white-gray skin. Strands of ginger hair blood stippled, a tangle loose and dangling. A mottled stretch of bruising across her forehead. I lower my gaze to the floor. There are divots there, hollows and gouges. Her body is cooled by a leather-strapped block of ice. The body who is Alice. Alice so still, Alice under the tarp.
Alice, my sister.
She is not meant to be here, her mouth agape as if she were about to share a thought, like she used to when she was very young, her finger to her lip, a shake of that ginger-red hair, then “Marion, I wonder . . .” Or “Marion, it’s an odd thing . . .” Her voice trailing away as she swallowed the words or clamped her jaw because I interrupted, finishing out whatever it was she wondered about or found odd. “Everything in and of itself, Alice, is so very odd that one must just consider it normal. Otherwise, you’ll drive yourself mad.”
The attendant stares at me.
“It’s her.”
He lowers the tarp, pulling it up to her forehead. It is too short. Her left foot pops free: a dark welt across the bridge, crisscrosses of cuts, thin long toes. Maybe she’ll wriggle them now, as she used to. “Look, Marion. I’m royalty. Look at my middle toe, look at its length.”
“You’ll need to sign the certificate.”
There, on the small desk by the square window that looks out on nothing, on a wall of brick and pipe, is the document. Smaller than I would expect. Simple and harsh.
Record No.: 4573
Name: Alice Snow
Sex: F
Date of Birth: February 3, eighteen hundred and forty-one
Age: 24
Date of Death: August 3, eighteen hundred and sixty-five
Cause of Death: Accident. Acute mania.
Signed: Lemuel Mayhew MD
I’ve seen too many of these, pinned too many to uniform lapels. I’ve seen so many dead: Antietam, Poplar Springs, Spotsylvania. Men stacked on carts, tarps too short to hide the high arches and missing limbs and nails roughly cut. I’ve signed so many letters, whispers from the soon dead to their loves. Forgive me. Help me. I am almost at heaven, Mother.
One signature and Alice will be released. One signature to absolve this place of any responsibility for her slipping from the roof, absolve the staff from finding her body splayed on the pebbled drive, half tangled in the sharp thorns of pink hedging roses. I dip the pen and hold it above the signature line. Ink beads at the nib and splatters.
“What time was she found?” I keep my eyes on the ink, watch it soak and spread along the short edge.
His foot scrapes the stone floor. “You’d need to ask Dr. Mayhew.”
“But Dr. Mayhew isn’t here. He’s upstairs with my brother. You are here. Mr. . . . ?”
“Stoakes. Russell Stoakes.”
“Mr. Stoakes.”
The ink is a river now, rippling around the paper, a black frame around my sister’s name, her death, the date. When I hand it over, he’ll place it in the brown folder with her name printed neatly on the edge.
He waits for me to sign. He is as cold as I am, has his arms crossed over his barrel chest and fists curled round his elbows. His eyes are a muddy hazel and flick with resentment. It’s not his fault he’s been assigned this duty. He taps his finger on the corner of the iced table. “She didn’t suffer.”
“Yes, she did.”
I turn from the desk, holding out the official certificate officially identifying the now official death of my sister, Alice Louise Snow, and watch as the attendant shoots a glance at it before setting it atop the folder.
“She’s afraid of the dark.” I take my gloves from my pocket and fumble them on. “I must find my brother.”
The door sticks as I open it and step into the hall. Low voices slip and mumble from both directions, from under other doors and away down the tunneled walk. Away from the white-tile room with black grout and my Alice too silent under the tarp.
Metal wheels squeal and chitter behind me, loud and then silent. I stumble forward, my chest tight, hand grasping for the solid wall. The brick is chipped and scratched from too much use.
Mr. Stoakes’s footsteps are heavy on the stone behind me, following with enough distance to keep out of my thoughts. The light is dull, just a slit of sun through high casement windows, heating the narrow glass and sheeting the interior with layers of dust.
“Don’t follow me.” I grab at my skirts and gather them.
He reaches for my elbow. “Best I help.”
I twist and claw away from his grip. “Don’t follow me.”
My sister lies on a bed of ice. Our brother, Lionel, waits in the garden. He’s met with Dr. Mayhew but refuses this task. They’ve left me to attend Alice, and now I am lost in a jigsaw of halls and occasional gaslit lamps bolted to the wall. Steam pipes run the length, banging and knocking.
“Mrs. Abbott?” The attendant’s voice slips around corners and then is gone.
I follow the pipes through a door to a tunnel of red brick
and a low, heavy arch, lamps spaced twenty paces apart, and then another door to a hall with squared walls and rippled paint and metal-latticed windows. A dance of signs, black iron, white letters, arrows every which way. Utility. Store C. Store D. Room A13. Utility B. Morgue.
I turn my back to that one, though I know if I follow that arrow, I’ll be on familiar ground. I’ll be back with Alice and can start again, trace my steps to the stairwell and up to the side door in the cheerful visitors’ lobby. It’s just a matter of steps, then, to the double doors and wide porch. Certainly, Lionel will be waiting. He’ll hand me up to the hansom cab; I’ll take out my handkerchief and wipe my forehead. “It’s so very hot,” I’ll say and watch the jonquils lining the long drive doze and dance in the sun.
But I don’t want to go back to Alice. I can’t. I can’t see her body on ice.
Utility. Store C. Store D.
My chest tightens. I press against the wall, hand to stomach, breath pulled through the nose. I scrape my fingers to the brick. I am lost here with Alice.
She is meant to be alive. How can I tell her now how sorry I am?
My knees give way. A door bangs, and there’s Mr. Stoakes, lumbering over. He passes the doors. Store C. Store D. Room A13.
With a squat and hmph, he’s on his haunches. He blinks, rapid fire, and tightens his lips into a smile. “We can’t have this, Mrs. Abbott.”
“Yes, I’m sorry.” I flatten my free hand to the wall. Let out a bark of a laugh. My heart slows. “I’m not like this, really. It’s the shock. It shouldn’t bother me; I was a nurse—”
“I’ll help you up now.” As he stands, he keeps a hold on my elbow, light like a comfort. “There we are. Let’s find your brother.”
“There you are.” Lionel looks up from his watch, thumbing the case shut and sliding it into his vest pocket. He leans against the white railing in the one streak of sunlight, his hair bright copper, much like mine, darker than Alice’s. The sun reflects in his glasses as he turns to me. His coat is as blue as the sky behind him, as if he had been set by a painter upon this porch, the coat and bright-sheened vest provided from a costume closet. A Languorous Day, the painting might be called. No one the wiser for the setting. No matter the confection of porticos and porches, vine-weaved lattice and wide sunny lawns, nothing masks the purpose. It is an asylum, and until last night, my sister was an inmate within its walls.
After Alice Fell: A Novel Page 1