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 dashes 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.
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.
He leans in closer, the tang of sweat and his expensive pomade making my stomach turn. “It wasn’t your family I was thinking of, Lydia,” he says with unmistakable meaning.
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.