After Alice Fell(16)

“But you have Alice.” He raised a finger. “And I have agreed to Alice. She will have a home with us.”

So, Alice and I changed houses. The cottage was too small; we were all underfoot of each other. I refused his bed as often as I could. I did not wish for a child. I had been burdened enough ministering my mother and then Alice. I could not fathom the want of a child who would tug my skirts and hold me to its needs. By Christmas the first year, he ignored Alice. By the second, he ignored me. Visits to Turee grew less frequent. Lionel’s wedding. Toby’s christening. Father’s funeral. A summer afternoon.

“You are a selfish woman,” he said. “You shirk your duties to me. Not to her, of course. Never to Alice.”





Chapter Six


Turee, Aug 10

Dr. Mayhew,

I wish a meeting to discuss irregularities in the procedures of Brawders House that led directly to my sister’s death. I also request a full accounting of her treatments and the efficacies of each. This will go far to alleviate my concerns, and to stay me from filing a more formal complaint.

I will call on you directly, this Wednesday, 10 a.m. Should this be an inconvenient time, please respond, otherwise the meeting stands as requested.

Marion Snow Abbott

I set the pen to its holder, and then press and rock the ink blotter to the paper.

Nothing in their explanation fits. It doesn’t fit Alice’s poor, wasted body. Something bites and scratches at my thoughts. I look out the window to the pond, following the course of a dragonfly as it hunts for prey on the gloss of water. The afternoon sun cuts through the western trees; the dragonfly is emerald and black in turns. It lifts and dives, hovers and waits. Patient and careful.

I fold the letter, open the single drawer, remove my wallet. A few bills, still, that are mine alone. Then I put the letter and the bills in my small knit purse and button it to my belt.

Cathy sits at her desk in the parlor now. She’s changed from her archery garb, sits with a curved back over the house ledgers. Toby stares from the settee, one foot kicking the leg.

“I’m going to Turee,” I tell her. “I have a letter to post.”

“Can I come?” Toby asks.

“Why?”

“I’ll buy you an ice.” He pulls his lip down with a finger and taps his nail to his tooth. “I have money. And you’re very sad. Ices help.”

“Well, I . . .”

He gives a solemn nod.

Cathy drums a pencil against her chin, then turns to us. She points the pencil tip to the ledger, then drops it to the pile of receipts. “Come here,” she says to Toby and reaches out, pulling him to her chest and covering his head with light kisses. “You are very sweet to think of your auntie.”

He pushes against her thighs and squirms, then pecks her cheek. “That’s enough.”

She rests her hands on his shoulders. “Are you too big for kisses?”

“I’m buying Auntie an ice.”

“That sounds like a grand idea.” Her gaze catches mine. “We’ll all go. I could use the walk.”

“Are you sure? You look busy and—”

“It’s just the household accounts. They can easily wait.” She plops the ledger on top of the papers and pushes it all to the back. “An ice, and maybe a look at the new bonnets at Mrs. Emmet’s is just the ticket.” With a quick motion, she shuts and locks the desk tight.

Toby runs ahead of us, the flap of his brown poplin coat waving behind him. He has found a long stick and swings it above his head like a broadsword. Our parasols are more decoration than shade. Cathy’s brought a fan and flicks it in a circle around her face. A deep flush darkens her cheeks and neck. She has overdressed for the heat, a plaid of gray and mustard. Our skirts swing and settle, lifting the dry soil in puffs.

“An ice in town. We could have shaved a bowl from the block in the icehouse, you know.” Cathy squints and stares through the maple trees to the fallow fields of the Humphrey farm. The farmhouse windows are black. Widow Humphrey’s two boys lost their lives early on in the struggles. Spotsylvania. The black bow remains on the door. She walks out of the barn toward the hen house and lifts a hand to us. We return the greeting. Cathy goes back to flicking her fan. “She should move to town. She’d have an easier time of it.”

“Do you think she’d leave the land her boys were born on?”

“She has their pensions.”

“It’s not enough to give this all up. There’s barely enough to cover food. You know that. I give you Benjamin’s. You do the books.”

“Don’t be so sharp.”

“Don’t make foolish remarks.” I dig at the collar of my dress. My nail catches, and I hear the small rip to the lace as I pull it free. “I’ll stop in this week to see if she needs a hand.”

Toby stabs the hard earth, poking and crushing the cicada shells that stick to the stone fence and the bark of the trees and litter the road.

Cathy loops her arm through mine and nudges my shoulder. As if we are close, as if she could jostle Lydia’s memory out of the way, kick it into the grass. She looks at me and blinks, and she knows I think her an interloper. Perhaps I should judge less. Give her a nod for stepping in (so easily, so blithely) to rescue Lionel and Toby. I will care for this little family, she’d written not long after Lydia’s funeral. You keep to your cause.