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Ethel had tried to see Dolly before Ernest’s funeral. Everyday, she had instructed Al to prepare the stagecoach, and on occasion he did, despite it being a fruitless endeavour. Falconwood Asylum was closed off, quarantined until it was determined no cases of Typhus were present. Ethel had stood in front of Falconwood and begged to be let inside, but despite her fervour and mad determination, Al had come to fetch her, and talk sense until she agreed to leave.
“Miss Ethel, you need to stop—”
“I can’t Beulah. Not until I know for sure.” She was madder now than when she was seeing Roland in the hall. When Ernest’s funeral came upon them, Ethel wept until her body bowed and her heart slopped out upon the open gravesite.
Andrew was there to support her, as was Beulah and Al, Fritz, and Adella. Many people of Charlottetown had attended, but of course, as Ethel stood to do the eulogy, the one person she wished to see was of course, not there.
“I feel so bad for poor Ethel. Dolores was having an affair even after she’d arrived at Eden Hall!”
“If you ask me, the harlot should hang alongside that Dowie lad. Imagine hiding your lover in the very house your husband had built for you.”
“Miss Arsenault has lost so much, poor dear.”
“Perhaps she is bad luck.”
Perhaps she was. But despite the rumours and condolences, Ethel stood at the height of the tide of mourners and received their comfort without knowing most. It was impossible to not feel the hole that Dolly’s absence had created, even if everyone seemed willing to fill it with their gossip.
For the first time since Ethel had arrived, Eden Hall was bursting with people. The wake was in the parlour, and the bay windows that opened into the yard were ajar to let in the scent of flowers and the sea. By the time it all had ended, Ethel went up to bed, feeling like she was dragging the body of her brother with her.
“Is there anything else I can do, Miss Ethel?”
“No, thank you, girls.”
Beulah was at the foot of the stairs, her plump cheeks red and chapped from the events of the day. Adella was stacking the chairs. Both women had insisted that Ethel go to bed whilst they cleaned. Bertram had left minutes ago, but Ethel had no energy to even lift her head.
“Miss Ethel?” Beulah called, causing her to pause. Her palm stuck to the bannister despite her body’s inclination to continue on before it could give out. “The constable—Mr. Bertram said... that as soon as you felt up to it, he’d take you to see... well...” Beulah looked aside, predicting her interest as Ethel turned upon the stairs.
“Tell Andrew to come tomorrow.”
Beulah looked taken aback. “Miss Ethel, are you sure?”
I’m not. “No. But why wait? I’ll be ready in the morning.”
Ethel continued up the stairs, ignoring Beulah as she turned to bid Adella to chase after the constable before he could leave in his stagecoach. The upper landing had been cleaned and polished, and in some cases, the paint had been touched up to hide the hint of stains. But as Ethel halfway crawled across the final stair, she saw on the base of the bannister, between the rungs, a dollop of black blood that had formed a crust against the wood.
Is this preferable to blind hope?
Her stomach was hurting, and so Ethel continued, crawling up to the landing until she saw the bedroom doors all ajar.
She crawled into bed until Beulah called her name the next morning.
