EMELINE. EMELINE IS DEAD, but she is not gone. It was her, I know in my heart of hearts that it was. The pale lady, the writing in the mirror, the voices on the wind...if they are all real, then why not the vision of my dear sister? My mind swirls with questions, my heart swells with hope. Will I see her again? Why has she come back?
The pile of books I keep by my bed has nearly doubled over the past few days. I can’t seem to read anything cover to cover, growing distracted with thoughts of Emeline and abandoning the stories I used to love after only a few pages. I run my fingers across the softened paper, the black letters jumbled and meaningless, but the musty book smell is comforting. When I think that I might never have held a book again...
I chuck aside the German ballad Lenore with a sigh. The first time I read it, the heroine’s midnight horseback ride with her lover sent delicious chills down my spine. But now I know that the man she thinks is her William returned from war is nothing more than Death in disguise, and he’s bearing her away not to their wedding bed, but to her grave.
Something wet presses against my arm and I jump. Snip stares back up at me with imploring eyes, giving me another nudge with his nose and then looking under the bed. His little wood ball is stuck. With a sigh, I heave myself out of bed and get it for him, watching him scamper over the clutter, upending my sewing basket and a pile of books as he goes.
It’s been three days since Mr. Barrett carried me back in silence from the pond, and I haven’t left my room since. Ada helped me into bed that night. Mr. Barrett explained to Mother that he’d been cutting through the woods back to his house when he found me walking. He said that I must not have seen the water in the dark and accidentally stumbled in. Mother didn’t say anything, but I caught the long, meaningful look that passed between them.
The next morning, Mother had come by to ask me how I was feeling, her tone cold, skirting what she knew to be the truth. I waited for her to come sit on the bed with me, brush the hair from my forehead as she used to do when I was little. But she just stood in the doorway, hands clasped in front of her tiny waist, staring in at me as if I were a stranger in her daughter’s room. “What were you thinking, Lydia? How could you?”
It had all seemed so clear at the time, like it was the only natural thing to do. I haven’t let myself think too much about my rescue, but now as I remember the way that Mr. Barrett looked at me in the moonlight, the way I fought him in the water, I let out a little whimper that becomes a groan. How many times will he have to bear the marks of my anger? How can I ever repay him? How can I erase the terrible way I acted? And that’s to say nothing of what I saw—who—I saw standing beside the water as Mr. Barrett carried me away.
A knock at the door pulls me out of my thoughts. I want to tell them to go away, but before I can say anything, the door opens and in glides Catherine.
She stops short at the foot of the bed, a look of surprise when she sees me. “Oh,” she says. “You’re awake.” Snip stops chewing his ball to cast a reproachful eye at her. “I... I thought you would be sleeping. I just came to bring you these.” She holds out a little bouquet of parched flowers.
I give her a short nod of thanks, feeling as on guard as Snip.
“You look awful,” she says casually, the way one might comment on the weather, but she catches my expression and tries again. “Are you feeling better?”
“Yes, a little.” I could say she doesn’t look so wonderful herself, but it wouldn’t be true. She’s fresh and radiant this morning, dewy skinned and bright eyed. The clean, sweet smell of lavender in the bouquet makes her seem even more out of place in my messy, stale room. When I don’t say anything, she sighs and sits down, arranging herself amid the folds of her crisp, white morning dress.
A smile tugs at the corner of my sister’s lips as she stares out the window, her eyes unseeing as a light rain begins to fall. Here I thought I was going to get a lecture or a few cold words, not silence. We haven’t spoken since the other night, and it’s been a welcome stay of execution. What could we possibly say to each other after her revelation, and her behavior toward Mr. Barrett?
“Yes?”
Catherine comes to her senses with a little jolt, as if forgetting she was the one who came to me, and the bouquet slips from her hand. She bends down to retrieve the flowers and puts them in a vase by the window. “I cut these from your garden. It’s been cold the last few nights and I wasn’t sure how much longer they would last out there.” She slants me a curious look. “It seems a little late for plants to be growing, but what do I know.”
My poor garden. I’ve neglected it for weeks, long before I took refuge in my room, and the lavender and coneflowers stare back at me accusingly from the window. Weeding and cutting things back for the coming frosts should be a good reason to start getting out of the house—out of bed, for that matter—yet every day when it comes down to it I just can’t find the will.
When the flowers are arranged to her satisfaction she sits back down, hands fidgeting in her lap now that she doesn’t have anything to hold. “I... How are you feeling, really?”
“What do you care?” I say coldly.
The smile vanishes and Catherine’s face darkens. She seems to struggle with what she’s about to say, opening and closing her mouth several times and staring into her lap. “I was wrong. I’m sorry, Lyd. Really. I shouldn’t have said those things the other night. I...” She looks up, and must see my skepticism because her bottom lip comes out in a pout, reminiscent of Emeline. She doesn’t mention her behavior toward Mr. Barrett, how she all but threw herself at him. “Look, you’re not making this easy for me.”
Of course I’m not going to make this easy for her. I’ve been living with a deviant this whole time. The Catherine I thought I knew was bad enough, but that was nothing compared to what I know her to be now. Catherine’s condition and what it means might make me sick, but finding a solution to it is the only way to save our family further humiliation. I will never, ever be able to truly forgive her, but I will act the part for the sake of what’s left of our family. I take a deep breath.
“You’re right. I’m sorry.” I force myself to say the words.
Catherine looks up sharply, mouth parted, as if she was already prepared to argue. But then she nods and goes on, her voice dropping as she wrings her hands in her lap. I try not to stare at her stomach. “When I saw Mr. Barrett coming back with you the other night and you were... You looked like Emeline that day, all wet and limp. And you didn’t even care. You looked like you wish he hadn’t found you, and I couldn’t bear it. I couldn’t bear it if you died, Lyd. Maybe we’ll never be friends, but that doesn’t mean I want you dead.”
“We may never be friends, but you don’t want me dead,” I echo, amused.
She pouts. “Look, I—”
I wave off her objections with a tired hand. “I know. Thank you.” I have a hard time believing this revelation of hers will last long, but I’m too weary to spar with her. “Is that what you’re smiling about?”
“Was I?” She looks down and compulsively smooths a hand over her stomach. “I had a note from Mr. Pierce come by messenger.” She looks up conspiratorially, her green eyes dancing with excitement. “He not only sent his regrets about having to leave early and missing the dance, but also some very pretty lines about...well...” She trails off with a dreamy look.
“I’m glad, Catherine.”
“Really?”
“Really.” It will give Mother a reason to be happy, or at least, to save her from further heartache. It’s at least one fewer thing to worry about, and perhaps now Catherine can leave Mr. Barrett alone.
Catherine takes out a piece of paper worn with folding and unfolding. “He says he has to go to Boston but he’ll be back in one or two weeks’ time. Apparently, his mother has rallied and is expected to live after all.” She puts down the letter and frowns. “The woman sounds awful. I hope she doesn’t try to talk him out of a proposal. But if all goes well I think we could be married within the month. Just think, a wedding to plan!”
I’ll never understand her. How can she claim to feel such a passionate love for one man and still sound so honestly excited about a marriage proposal from another? But I suppose the pressure of her situation is stronger than anything else at the moment, and if I know one thing about Catherine, it’s that her vanity runs deep. Flattering, pretty words, no matter whom they’re from, are as necessary to her as water and sunlight are to a growing plant.
She rises to leave, smoothing her skirts, the corners of her mouth lifting as she continues scanning the letter, and I watch her float out of the room in a cloud of dreams and grand plans for the future.
* * *
It’s cooled considerably in the past few days, summer gracefully bowing out as autumn claims her throne. After Catherine leaves I feel a bit lighter, like I’ve made a first step in the right direction. Getting some fresh air in the room would be another good step, so I force myself out of bed and throw my shoulder against the protesting window.
No sooner does the window gasp open than the sound of footsteps and voices float up from the drive. I can’t see him from this angle, but I instantly know who’s speaking. A moment later Ada is knocking at my door, peeping her head inside.
“It’s Mr. Barrett, miss. Your mother is trying to send him away, but he’s insistent, saying he must see you.” She casts a glance at the messy room, my disheveled hair, and looks at me expectantly. “I thought you might want to know.”
I’m up in a flash, wrapping a clean shawl over the dress I’ve been wearing for three days straight, and sweeping my greasy hair up into a loose bun. “Thank you, Ada.”
She’s already gone, and then the sound of brisk footsteps clipping down the hall grows closer, accompanied by frantic murmurs. A moment later Mr. Barrett is striding through the door, Mother hot on his heels. Snip gives a joyful yelp and forgets his ball when he sees his favorite person.
“Mr. Barrett, please. She hasn’t been well. I—”
Mr. Barrett stops abruptly, nearly tripping as Snip weaves between his legs. I stiffen when I see the dried cut on his lip and the bluish red bruise on his cheekbone, realizing that both were my doing. He’s vibrating with silent energy like a violin string long after the note has died, and I can hardly blame him. Now that I’m out of immediate danger he must be furious with me.
I swallow hard. “It’s fine, Mother.”
She casts an apprehensive glance between us. “I’ll have Ada make up the parlor and bring some tea.”
It’s taken me three days just to work up the nerve to open the window, and seeing Mr. Barrett so suddenly has thrown my new little world into chaos. I’m not sure I have the energy to make my way downstairs. Anyway, he’s already seen me in all my desolation. “I’d just as soon stay here.”
For the first time since barging into my room, Mr. Barrett looks a little less self-assured, finally noticing the precarious stacks of books on every surface, the dirty linens piled in the corner, the plate of untouched ham and toast that Ada left this morning. “This is a bad time...” he says, dipping his head and rubbing the back of his neck.
“No,” I say quickly. Seeing Catherine has given me some courage, and I must face Mr. Barrett sometime. It might as well be now. “No, it’s not a bad time.”
Mother tightens her lips and I know that I’m toeing the line of decency. But she doesn’t press the matter, just crosses the room to draw the curtains closed around the bed as if to eliminate any possible temptations. If circumstances were different I might laugh that she’s even concerned of the possibility of seduction. Then she takes a blanket out of the trunk and leaves it on the settee Joe optimistically brought in so that I could entertain visitors in my room while I recovered. Mr. Barrett and I both follow her with our eyes until she’s made up a proper seating arrangement. Normally I might be embarrassed by all of this, but I suppose it’s a promising sign that she’s taking an interest in me at all.
“I’ll be right down the hall if you need anything,” she says with a lingering look of doubt.
Mr. Barrett nods, a little flustered at finding himself granted an audience after all, and in my bedchamber no less. I should be too, but I’m too on edge, wary of what he might be here to say. Mother leaves the door conspicuously open when she leaves.
He takes a tentative step farther into the room. “I... Would you have a seat?” His body is so still, only a slight tremor in his voice belying that he isn’t in full possession of himself either.
It’s ridiculous, him in my bedroom inviting me to have a seat, but I don’t know what else to do except nod and tuck myself up under the quilt. At least this way he won’t see how crumpled and dingy my dress is. Self-consciously I run a hand over my hair, wishing that I’d done just a little bit more to try to look presentable.
Mr. Barrett scrapes up a chair beside me and sits with folded hands. Snip has all but forgotten about me, curling up by Mr. Barrett’s feet, promptly falling asleep and snoring softly. Besides that and the faint patter of rain outside, the room is as silent as a tomb. The familiar muscle in Mr. Barrett’s jaw is twitching, something that I would usually take to mean that he wishes he were elsewhere, but that I now get the impression might be a levee holding back a flood of words.
I try to look anywhere but the injuries on his face, studying instead the slightly scuffed toe of his left boot, the light feathering of golden hairs on his wrist. His clothes always look as if they were made for his body, elegant without being fussy, stylish without looking belabored. Not at all like Cyrus. Mr. Barrett leans forward slightly and I close my eyes, steeling myself against the things he has every right to say.
But he doesn’t say anything, he simply reaches past me for Lenore, picking up the tented book and flipping through the pages. The slim volume looks small and fragile in his hands, his reverent fingers tracing over the gilded title. “Is this one as good The Monk?”
It takes me a moment to find my tongue. “You...you remember that?”
The little lines around the corners of his eyes crinkle ever so slightly. “It’s not every day that I get such an animated book recommendation. Or any, for that matter.”
I hold out my hand for the book, his fingers brushing mine as he hands it back. “No, it’s not as good,” I say. “I like happy endings and this one doesn’t have one. The heroine dies.”
The lines around his eyes smooth out and there’s an almost imperceptible shift of the light in them. I can’t help but feel I’ve said the wrong thing, and we fall into an immediate, strained silence.
We begin to speak at the same time.
“Lydia, I need to—”
“Mr. Barrett, I feel that I’ve acted—”
I give a strained half laugh, and Mr. Barrett relaxes a little in the chair, disrupting Snip as he leans back and crosses his boots. “Please,” he says, lacing his hands casually across his stomach. “We’re friends, aren’t we? Call me John.”
I hesitate, wishing that I’d let him go first. “Yes,” I say faintly. “Of course. Friends.”
He gives me an encouraging nod. His posture may be relaxed, but his gaze is as intense as ever and I have to look away lest I lose my nerve.
“John,” I say slowly, unused to speaking out loud what has come to feel like my secret, special word. “I’m so sorry.”
He looks surprised, his brows rising slightly. “Good God, for what?”
I gesture to my face, touching my lip where his is split, my cheek where his is bruised. Saying sorry doesn’t even come close to expressing how terrible I feel. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
A tiny smile quirks at the edge of his lips. “I would hate to see what you were capable of if you were trying, then.”
I blanch, and his smile evaporates. He awkwardly clears his throat. “You needn’t apologize for that,” he says quickly. “Only hurts a bit to shave.”
This doesn’t make me feel any better, and now I’m also picturing him at home with his shirt open and beautiful, high cheekbones lathered in soap. I take a deep breath. “Still, I’m sorry.”
“I’m the one who should be apologizing,” he says. “That’s why I came. And to see how you were doing,” he adds.
Blood creeps up my neck and I bite the inside of my cheek. I thought he would ask me what I was doing at the pond, or admonish me for being careless with my life. An apology is the last thing I was expecting.
He looks down at Snip, rubbing under the dog’s ears and eliciting a sleepy whimper of contentment. “There are things I should have told you before now, and maybe if I hadn’t been so cold and shut you out, maybe you wouldn’t have tried to... I can’t help but feel responsible.”
“Mr. Barrett, I mean John, you—”
He stops me with a shake of his head. “No, I haven’t acted well. I told you that this wasn’t a good place for a family, and I only meant... There have been tragedies here in the past and...” He trails off, struggling to finish his thoughts. “Well, it doesn’t matter now.” I don’t dare ask him what sort of tragedies; if he wanted to tell me, he would. “I expect you’re angry at me,” he says quietly, “and you have every right to be. I acted badly at the dance, and again at Emeline’s burial.” His voice drops so low that it’s little more than a murmur. “And... I think about that night a hundred times a day, wishing I could have saved her.”
My heart stops in my chest. I have to look away, inspecting where the wallpaper seams meet, the gaudy chrysanthemums overlapping in the wrong places. How desperate I was to hear those words before, and now that I have heard them, I realize how little they actually change anything. I hastily wipe a stray tear away before turning my attention back to him.
He stares at his hands as he knits them together, watching each knuckle whiten and relax in turn. “There’s something else.” He takes a breath. “I know about Boston,” he says, his tone soft and apologetic.
“Oh,” I say, as if he was telling me that he knew my hair is brown, or that the sun rises in the east. I should be ashamed, wary, defensive, something, but instead I just feel vaguely relieved. He’s known this whole time and he’s still Father’s business partner, he still visits our house. He’s still here. “Why are you telling me this now?” I ask in a whisper.
“Because I want to be honest with you. I don’t want you taking unfounded notions into your head and making rash decisions based on them.”
What would he think of us if he knew that they weren’t rumors? But I nod. I can’t tell him that, and I can’t tell him that Catherine’s attention to him and his friend are because of the testament of the truth she carries in her belly.
“Are you angry? For not telling you that I knew, for what happened at the pond?” His voice is soft, barely a whisper, but there’s a hard, urgent edge and when I look up to meet his gaze, his eyes are searching.
I let out a breath. “Of course not.”
Mr. Barrett slumps back in his chair, his eyes closing for a moment. When he opens them again his face is washed in relief, his blue-green eyes clearer than I’ve ever seen them. “Good,” he finally says. “I’m glad.”
Outside dark clouds are rolling in and the breeze picks up. The lace curtains swell and billow into the room, knocking over the vase of flowers. The rain comes down harder, but Mr. Barrett is lost in some private thought and makes no movement to close the window. Silence fills the room.
“May I ask you something?”
“Of course,” he says, coming back to himself. “Anything.”
“The other night... What were you doing there?”
The chair creaks as Mr. Barrett shifts his weight, measuring his words before he answers. A daring bird trills and calls despite the steady rain. “I was walking.”
“Were you following me?”
It’s a moment before he responds, his answer dropping heavy and defiant into the stillness of the room. “Yes, I was.”
“Why?”
A hint of exasperation creeps into his voice. “Why do you think?”
I shake my head, unable to explain the quick, almost painful racing of my heartbeat. My body flushes with heat.
Mr. Barrett holds my gaze a little longer, as if there are two paths in front of him, and my face alone can tell him which to go down. He nods, more to himself than me, having apparently decided.
“I felt bad for how Catherine was acting. I wanted to make sure you hadn’t taken it to heart. I couldn’t find you, but when I went outside, I found these instead.” He produces my gloves from his waistcoat. They’re neatly folded and he handles them as if they were made out of spun-gold silk.
I hold out a shaking hand, jealous of the soiled and crumpled gloves. I wish he would keep them forever. As soon as he gives them back a little link that I didn’t even know existed between us will be broken.
There’s so much I want to say to him. It’s like he’s pushed a door open a crack, and now I want to throw it the rest of the way open, spilling out everything that’s inside of me. Thank you for caring enough to come looking for me. Thank you for following me and being a good, decent person. Thank you for ignoring what I thought I knew was best for me.
But I don’t. It’s the same as with Catherine; just because he wants me safe doesn’t mean that he wants anything beyond that. I carefully close the door again, tired of being the only one who seems to want so much more from the other. “Thank you,” I say, accepting the gloves.
Thunder rolls in the distance and the rain pelts into the room at a slant. My books will get wet if the windows aren’t closed. I’m about to push off the quilt and shut the window, but when I see Mr. Barrett, I freeze. He’s cradling his forehead in his hands, elbows on his knees. For a moment I think he might be crying, but his back is still. Taking a slow, ragged breath, he draws his hand down his face and sits back up. It’s a weary gesture, as if he has lost a fight and is gathering the energy to go on. When he sees me, he follows my gaze to the books, and slowly crosses the room to shut the window. The rain throws itself angrily against the glass.
Mr. Barrett stands immobile, hands jammed into his coat pockets, gaze focused on the runny landscape. His voice is hoarse and low when he speaks.
“I won’t ask you why, because I know all too well what drew you there. But I will ask, no, I will demand that you not do it again. I can’t...” He trails off, choking on his words. “Do not do it again.”
My own voice is small and tight. “I... I won’t,” I say, and I mean it with every fiber of my being.
He nods absently, not looking at me. The moment stretches out between us. Then he takes a deep breath that shudders through his shoulders to his chest. I’m still frozen, afraid that he has more to say, that he’s come to his senses and decided to have it out at me after all. But he only takes out his pocket watch, and says lightly, with apology, “I’m afraid I must be off.”
“Yes, of course,” I say a little too eagerly, loath to let him know how desperately I wish he could stay.
He turns to leave, then hesitates with his hand on the door frame. “By the by, I spoke to your sister on the way in.”
Good lord, Catherine is fast. “Oh?”
“She says that you haven’t left your room in three days.”
I don’t say anything.
He nods, taking my silence as affirmation, and frowning into the messy room. “Well,” he says, “I’d like to visit you again. That is, if it would be all right with you.”
Even though I’m sitting down my legs go wobbly, and I have to bite my cheek from smiling too much. “I’d like that.”
Mr. Barrett doesn’t have any such inhibitions, and his smile is slow and dazzling. “Good.” His eyes hold mine. “Good,” he says again, this time briskly, returning to his old, businesslike self. “I expect that the next time I see you it will be in the library, or the parlor, or the garden—anywhere else but your room—and that you will have a new book recommendation for me. Hopefully something with a happy ending this time.”