After Alice Fell: A Novel

by Kim Taylor Blakemore

  Toby sits between her and Lionel. He is taken with the flood of light on the high, arched beams. His mouth hangs open and he points his finger to various streams, following their shape along the white walls and across the dark wood pew boxes. Lionel nods off, the book slid to the side and the spine tucked between his leg and his son’s.

  It is my first sermon in years. Reverend Howkes, aged to near dust, does not project from the pulpit, and fumbles his notes as he speaks of Lazarus of the Four Days. I watch the bob of heads of those seated in front of us, the arcs and flutters of the women’s fans and the men’s handkerchiefs. All of it useless in stirring the thick air. The reverend sweats; it rolls down his long forehead, and he blinks to keep the sweat out of his eyes. Were I more Christian, I would sympathize with his plight in losing his notes, and thus forgetting his long-winded story. But I am not more Christian and so do not.

  I am instead aggrieved by the heat and Cathy winning by a point and the derringer hidden away in a rucksack. Tomorrow—after meeting Kitty Swain—I’ll remove the gun. Put it in the farthest corner of a drawer. I flick my fan, then drop it to my psalm book, setting the whole of it to my lap. There won’t be that to worry on. My shoulders loosen and I settle against the pew.

  The air glistens with motes of golden dust. I tip my own head and follow the ceiling beams to the strong white columns of the meetinghouse, each one cut from a single tree. The windows are bubbled and warped.

  We sing without accompaniment, voices tremulous in the heat, feet shuffling one to the other, turning the pages in our books as one. Somewhere behind us a child bellows and shrieks. Toby cants forward to look at me—for indeed there is not a voice as loud as the Runyons’ Frederick Hiram—and blows out his lips and lets out a braying laugh. It transforms then into a peal of joy, and his head tips all the way back to take in the brilliance of light. He bites at it, as if he can eat it all up: the song and Frederick Hiram’s colicky yells and his father’s complicit grin and Cathy’s earnest off-tune soprano.

  I think, We move on.

  Cathy is right. We must move on, or there is no family at all.

  Perhaps it is best to let it be. To send Kitty a letter and make my pardons. We are moving on, I will write, because—

  I stare at my hands. Turn them over to trace the heel of my palm and the small scar from falling off a low limb of the front tree I’d started to climb to retrieve Alice, who was far too old to do so. She lay on her belly three branches up, arms and legs flailing like a capuchin monkey, hair tangled with grass and bits of leaf.

  “Serves you right,” she said. “For trying to catch me.”

  I sucked at my palm, tongue surprised at the metallic taste of blood, and stared up at her. “I’ll wait.”

  “You can wait all night; I don’t care.”

  “I don’t care, either.”

  “I’ll climb to the top, and then what will you do?”

  “I’ll call Lionel.”

  “He won’t come,” she said. “It would ruin his suit.”

  “Then I’ll wait until you’re bored.”

  “I won’t get bored.” She swung a foot, catching my shoulder. “I don’t get bored.”

  “I’ll wait anyway.”

  “Nothing will happen.”

  “Something might.”

  “Mother’s dying.”

  “Yes.”

  “Papa doesn’t see her anymore.” I heard the rough scrape of her shoe on the bark as she changed positions. “He sleeps downstairs.”

  I closed my eyes and pressed a hand to my mouth. My breath was warm against my palm. Mother was bone and skin; her lips thinned and curled against her teeth, her eyes sank and turned away from the world. Morphine no longer gave comfort. The doctor no longer gave hope.

  I wanted her to die. Every night, my final prayer was for her to stop living. Stop suffering. Stop.

  “Can’t you fix it, Marion?”

  “No.”

  When the air grew chill, she reached down and took my hand. “I was afraid you’d gone.”

  “I won’t ever.”

  But I did.

  With a squeeze of my fist, I follow the reverend as he descends the pulpit steps, one finger digging at his sweat-discolored collar.

  I will meet Kitty Swain.

  The meetinghouse echoes with the doors to the pews opening and latching shut, with murmurs and thuds of books to the backrests, with the rustle of skirts and then the clank of the front doors as they are opened to release us to the common yard.

  Orinda Flowers passes our pew, her jowls bumbling around as she nods to us.

  Cathy steps close to me, her arm pushed to my back. “Mrs. Flowers. How is the fundraising? For the statue?”

  But Orinda has passed by. Cathy lets out a hiss and says, “And your stupid fountain.”

  The churchyard slopes from the meetinghouse to Sumner’s Brook. The grass is sharp and crackles under our feet as we amble to the buggy, one in a line with the others. Lionel has gone ahead. He checks the horses, busies himself with the traces, straightens out the reins, tests the brake.

  Toby holds my hand, and he hums and blows out his lips, then trills and hops. One foot three times, the other one six. Then again in the same pattern.

  “Please stop.” Cathy taps his arm.

  He spins around, letting go my hand, and glowers at her as he walks backward. Toe, heel, toe, heel. He’s egging her on. I see the challenge in his eyes, hard as flint. And it hits me like a flash that he knows she is not his mother. Because just at the edge of that flint is the frayed edge of loss.

  He opens his mouth wide. “Wah wah wah.” Then he lifts his hands as if he holds his bow and mimes shooting her with an arrow.

  She flinches. Her cheeks blush. We are just upon Orinda’s carriage, and she has watched the entire event.

  “Good Sunday,” I say to her but do not slow.

  Cathy drops her gaze, as if she is most interested in the tips of her shoes as they peek from her skirts, though her eyes sneak glances at those we pass. “Good Sunday,” she calls, loud enough to catch the attention of each group, to receive a lift of a hat or a nod from under a parasol before the groups close into themselves. And close us out.

  It is the taint of the Snow family. It is a familiar feeling. Like living inside a bell jar.

  Toby’s been sent to his room. Cathy locks his door, then crosses the upstairs landing to her own room and draws the door shut. I glance at Lionel in the parlor, already napping, his legs hooked over the arm, a newspaper sprawled on his chest, a snore that will grow louder as the afternoon lengthens and warms.

  I continue down the hall, undoing my collar buttons, fanning myself and making my way to the yard to find a breeze. My shoes clatter down the steps to the kitchen, glad for the sound of it. Plates and bowls are stacked on the center table, an empty milk jug, forks and spoons. All in preparation to bring upstairs for the afternoon meal.

  I push open the back door, trail the steps to the kitchen garden, and lift the pump handle. The water splashes on the ground, and over my scooped palms. I dash it to my face. It’s cold and I flinch as the water slips down my chest. I shake my hands. The water beads catch the sunlight and fall in dollops and drips to the dirt. I look beyond the kitchen garden, following the neat rows. Out at the boundary is the proper garden.

  Mother tended both Blush Noisette and tea roses, pearls and pinks. Snipped and arranged throughout the house in summers and pressed between the covers of books to remember in the chill of February.

  Lydia added a wooden bench under the weeping willow. Planted gardenias and camellias, a lilac bower. In winter, the camellias bloomed in wild cherries and pinks, and at Christmas, Alice and Lydia and I littered the house with bowls of blooms. The bench sits there still, but the camellias have been removed, the bower taken down. Dahlias and black hollyhocks. Delphiniums and tree mallow. The willow branches tangle and scrape the ground.

  The pond glistens mahogany and black in the eddies, slurping around the roo
ts and juts of rocks. Out toward the center, it’s coated with water striders, spindled legs splayed and knotted, thousands upon thousands.

  I cross my arms over my stomach, dig my nails to the backs of my elbows and walk past the kitchen garden to the front of the house. My foot catches on a loose stone in the path. I stumble and right myself. Turn to peer behind me at the barn and the closed door. Listen to the muffled sound of Lionel’s chestnut gelding, the constant saw of his teeth to the boards and the rounds of the mare’s quick kicks to her stall.

  My eyes snap up to the low roofline of the kitchen and the windows above and stop at Toby’s window. The one that needs a post to stay open. The window is closed, the glass reflecting the sun.

  I see it: Alice leaning from the upstairs window, her hands tight to Toby’s wrists and his feet looking for any purchase on the roof below. To run away and to take him with her.

  She didn’t want to kill him. She weaved the spells of the Sentinel trees and kept him away from the Bad Ones in the pond. In her twisted mind, she wanted only to save him.

  “Something wrong with the window?” Amos stands just by the side of the barn, white shirt buttoned to the neck, pressed coat and trousers. He turns the brim of his hat in his hand. He’s clean-shaven, sharp of jaw, his smile light and his step lighter as he approaches.

  “Nothing’s wrong.”

  His gaze holds mine, and when I try to look away, he makes a quick chook to catch my eye again. He points a finger. “The boy’s room.”

  I touch my throat. My pulse scatters and jags. “There’s nothing wrong with the window.”

  “All right.” He puts on his hat and nods, as if he’s answered a question that no one asked. “Good Sunday to you.”

  He passes close enough I must pull in my skirts and step back. He twists to face me but doesn’t stop on his way toward the front yard. The smile is still there. He makes another chook and glances at my hands still gripped to my skirt, at my hands curved into my thighs. “I said Good Sunday.”

  “Yes. Good Sunday.”

  He lifts his hat and bows, feet crossed and arms spread. “And tomorrow’s a Monday, and on and on it goes.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “You’re up early.” Saoirse stokes the stove in the kitchen and doesn’t turn to me, just gestures for me to hand her a bundle of kindling.

  I take it from the wicker and give it to her.

  She pokes the new wood until it catches. Then she stands, flicking the towel tied to her belt. She takes in my traveling gear. “Where you off to?”

  “I have a meeting. In Harrowboro.”

  “Mm. Taking the coach.”

  “Yes.”

  “Not waiting for Lionel so’s you can have an easy ride in.”

  “Saoirse.”

  “Going through the kitchen door and not the front.”

  “Cathy knows. I’m not sneaking out.”

  She raises her hands. “All right.” She ambles by me, reaching for two mugs and setting them on the table. The lid to the tea box rattles as she jiggles it open, spooning leaves into the iron teapot, then snapping the tea lid closed. She pushes it back to the shelf and drops into a chair, then taps the cloth for me to sit.

  The steam from our teas twists and circles after she’s poured it. “Amos says you want the upper windows looked at.”

  “I didn’t say that at all. I don’t want him up there.”

  “He said you said specifically—”

  “I said nothing of the sort. Keep him away from the windows.”

  She lifts her mug and frowns at me as she blows on the tea. “I’ll send Elias, then.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with the windows.” I gesture to the kitchen door. “The coach.” Give her a kiss on the cheek. She startles with surprise. “I’ll be back on the three forty-five.”

  The light on the road is hazy this early. The mist lifts from the packed soil, low and thick. It will dissipate by midmorning, burnt off by the sun. But now it whirls around my skirts, coils around the tree trunks, curbs against the embankments. It floats atop the mill pond in Turee and scatters on the bridge to the livery. The coach sits out front, the four horses in their traces and blinders. They paw the ground and shake their heads, pull at the bits, anxious to go.

  The coachman has already taken to his berth, no patience for those who come late. I hurry across the way. A passenger in a tall beaver hat leans from his seat to keep the door held for me, then takes my hand to help me up.

  “Are you to Concord?” he asks.

  “Just Harrowboro.” I perch on the bench, hands under my thighs.

  The coach lurches forward. I have a sharp stab of doubt. Perhaps this Kitty will not appear.

  The man who helped me to my seat now proffers an open candy tin. “Sugared ginger,” he says, and as I take a piece, he smiles as if it’s something we share in a secret. But he smiles just the same as he passes the tin to the other passengers and settles his gaze out the window for the rest of the trip.

  The liveryman hands me down from the coach. “You sure it’s the Tradesman you want?”

  “It is.”

  His expression is leery as he hands me my return ticket, but he doesn’t stop me. If he did, I would ignore him anyway.

  I pull on my gloves and settle my bonnet, for the sun is already sharp. Then I lift my skirts to avoid the worst of the ruts in and out of the livery behind the Phoenix Hotel. The manufacturers that block the river have been awake and belching soot and flame for hours. Two streets over, the church bells ring on White’s block. A passing cart, heavy with grain, slings gravel and dust from its wheels. It is disorienting here. And loud. A different place from the one I left, rougher now.

  The inn occupies a narrow slit of building on Fayette, just off the main road, between a market and tin shop, three doors down from the corner. Kitty Swain waits at the entrance, pacing and twisting her hands over and over. She shifts a knit purse from one hand to another. Her dress is a plain brown, no petticoat to fill it out, turned twice at the hem. Even from across the street, I can see how she tucks her face away from passersby.

  I wait for a long cart of logs to trundle past, then cross the road. Just as I make the opposite side, a man steps from the market. I drop my parasol, watch it flip and land, watch his shoes as he dances around it and collides into me. He reaches out and takes hold of my arms to keep us aright.

  “My absolute apologies—”

  “I wasn’t paying any—”

  “Mrs. Abbott.” He releases my arms, steps back to pick up the parasol, and holds it out. He smiles then, boyish and pleased with himself. “It is you. I noticed you across the way, and I thought, well, there is Mrs. Abbott. And here you are.”

  “Mr. Hargreaves.” I take the fan. Tip my head. It is the new Head of Latin. Benjamin’s brightest student. And his replacement.

  He stares at me, and I think, as I have before, how he wears suits too severe for his features. The simple collar and dark-gray cloth seem meant for another figure, not his with his soft cheeks and lips and ash-blond hair curled at the collar.

  “What a wonder to see you here,” he says.

  “Is it?”

  “Ada and I were just . . . well, how are you? I mean—”

  “I’m sorry to have missed you when you’ve called at the house. It’s so very far away to come call.”

  Mr. Hargreaves fiddles with the chain of his watch, and his cheeks grow red. “Yes, well, Ada’s fam—”

  “How is the cottage?” I ask.

  “Snug. Cozy. I don’t know how you all managed to fit. With all Mr. Abbott’s books and Alice and such.”

  “We managed.”

  “Yes.”

  “And your wife?”

  “She’s at Mrs. Brown’s Academy now. Teaching Roman history. She was always keen on the Romans.” He tilts his head and gives a quick tsk.

  Kitty is no longer by the tavern door. “I must go—”

  “Will you come see us this afternoon? If you are no
t too taken with other calls? Catch up and all that.”

  He is too young to be headmaster. No matter that he mimics Benjamin in dress. Leans forward with that same conciliatory visage that has been honed to perfection over the centuries by headmasters and parsons and meant to con all sorts of confessions from their followers. It looks ridiculous on Mr. Hargreaves. A sear of anger cuts my ribs.

  “Another time, perhaps.” I step back on my heel and move to take my leave.

  He stops me with a hand to my forearm. “Will you give my regards to your sister? She was always kind to me when I stopped to confer with Mr. Abbott.”

  “She is dead, Mr. Hargreaves.”

  His face blanches. “My God.”

  “It was a sudden illness.”

  “Will there be—”

  “We have buried her. She wouldn’t have wanted a fuss.”

  “No. I suppose not.”

  “May I take my leave? I only have a short time here in Harrowboro.”

  “Of course, of course.” His hand slips from my arm to my wrist, then drops to his side. “She was so very young.”

  “Good day, Mr. Hargreaves.”

  “I am so . . .” He shakes his head and tips his hat. “Ada would be ever so grateful to see you.”

  “I will leave a card next time I am in town.” I continue, stopping at the door to an auction house. Mr. Hargreaves strides off; I wait until he has made the corner, has turned with that purposeful lean to his figure, and then I continue to the Tradesman, with hope upon hope Kitty Swain has not fled.

  The tavern door is heavy and scrapes the floor as I push it open. The room is narrow, with a low ceiling and the smell of stale beer and sweat. The windows are shuttered; the light itself comes from the glow of pipes and the sputter of oil lamps hanging from the ceiling. Round tables crowd the room, each holding two to three workmen. Whatever words were uttered now drop from their mouths and fall to the floor.

  I remove my gloves, let my eyes adjust to the dim light. I feel gazes on my back and waist and hips. Feel them touch and move away. I think the tavern goers are inured to the colorful class of girl, and not the staid black of my wear.