A-Splendid-Ruin(15)

I went quiet in surprise. Whatever I’d expected, this was not it. This was also not my mother’s story. Then again, had she told me how she and my father had met, or how long they’d been together? No, never. He could have been a passing fancy, but I had assumed he’d been her great love. She’d never married. She’d never even talked about another man. This confused everything. I scrambled to think; before I could say anything, Aunt Florence said, “People used to mistake us for twins now and again. Charlotte and I were so close.”

Another distraction. So close. Yet not close enough that either had mentioned the other to her family—even to the point that my mother had not included her sister in her story of the Exposition. My mind could not keep straight. I thought it best to follow my aunt’s. Softly I said, “What happened between the two of you, Aunt Florence?”

Her gaze lit on me with startling intensity. “I have missed my sister. It is good to have her child by my side. Now that you are here we must have tea together often. At least once a week. We simply must.”

It was, of course, what I wanted. A chance to set things straight, to discover the truth. But I was frustrated, too, at the many turns of the conversation. “I’d be happy to do that, Aunt.”

“You can trust me, I promise.”

“Yes of course.”

“I won’t disappoint my sister.”

Such fraught words. I didn’t understand them at all. But again, I thought there would be time to work it all out. I thought there would be other teas, and so when came the perfunctory knock on the door, I bit back impatience and frustration and let my questions fall away as the maid entered. Shin, once more. At the time, I didn’t know enough of maids to find it odd that she served all three of us: Goldie, me, and my aunt. “You rang for me, ma’am?”

Aunt Florence frowned. “Did I? I don’t remember that.”

“It’s time for your medicine, ma’am.” Shin took a bottle from her pocket. “In your tea will be best.”

Aunt Florence drew her teacup close, folding her other hand over it. “No. I don’t want it. Not yet. I must speak to May.”

“Now, ma’am, you know you must. The doctor says.”

“The doctor.” Aunt Florence sounded uncertain. Her trembling increased.

I turned to Shin. “Perhaps you could leave it with me, and I’ll make certain she takes it.”

“It’s time now,” she insisted.

“Oh, but . . .”

“Come, ma’am.” Shin held out her hand. Again, my gaze was drawn to that awful missing finger. “Mr. Sullivan will know if you don’t.”

Aunt Florence’s whole manner changed. “Of course. Thank you.” She was like a child as she handed over her cup and saucer. The maid measured out the medicine—laudanum, I assumed. I remembered Goldie had said Aunt Florence was taking it.

She handed the cup back to my aunt and said kindly, “It will help you to feel better.”

Obediently, Aunt Florence drank. She closed her eyes briefly. I waited impatiently for Shin to go. Instead, she stepped back to wait by the mantel, a silent but obvious presence. The hairs on the back of my neck stirred. “She never really looks at you, or she looks too intently.”

My aunt took another sip of tea. “Will you have a sandwich—or a cake, my dear? I can’t think why Cook made so much for just the two of us.”

But had it been just for the two of us? She could not have known that Goldie would not be joining us, could she? Had she planned it that way? I took a sandwich to please her and had a bite. A very good egg salad.

Aunt Florence drank more tea. Her hands steadied. A slow, dreamy smile curved her lips. “Nick will take you around San Francisco this afternoon, so you can see the city.”

I glanced at the clock. The afternoon was gone; it was after six.

“That’s very kind, but already . . . I mean to say . . . Goldie took me about today. We went shopping.”

“Shopping?” A shadow crossed Aunt Florence’s eyes. “But I thought . . . Jonny said . . . Did Charlotte approve?”

Perhaps it was the laudanum. Or perhaps the confusion Goldie had mentioned. I set the sandwich aside in concern and sympathy, and yes, disappointment too. Gently, I said, “She’s gone, Aunt.”

“She’s left for Newport already?”

As far as I knew, my mother had never set foot in Newport, where the rich of New York City took the summer. “No, Aunt Florence. Mama died two months ago, do you remember? I’ve come to stay with you now.”

A confused frown. Then she licked her lips. “Oh. Yes. Yes, I remember. How was her . . . her . . . end? It was peaceful, I hope.”

I had no idea of my mother’s last moments. Her heart had failed as she’d returned home after picking up piecework. She’d collapsed on the street and been attended to by passersby. The doctor had not been able to give me any answers. “I can only guess, Miss Kimble. Tell yourself it was quick, if it comforts you. It may have been. I cannot say it wasn’t.”

“Yes,” I said. “It was peaceful. Goldie says Mama wrote you a letter before—”

“I do worry so for Charlotte. She has never been strong.”

One more thing to disconcert, a version of my mother opposite to my experience. Mama had been immoveable, determined, unwavering in her convictions, the strongest of which was her belief in the virtue of others. I’d never thought myself inclined to such a belief, but then, we so seldom see ourselves clearly.