After Alice Fell(24)

There’s a rap on the door. The knob turns. Cathy’s in her nightdress and shawl, her hair braided to her scalp. “Don’t you hear it?”

Lionel shakes his head and puts on his glasses.

“There’s someone at the door.”

“Now?”

“You’ll need to answer, Lionel.”

He crosses to her, then slips past, down the hall.

Cathy steps into the room, her back to the wall and shoulder pressed to the wardrobe. She looks at me. “Are you all right? From today, I mean.”

“Are you?”

“I don’t know.”

Two voices in the vestibule. Too low to make out what is said, but it’s short. When Lionel returns, his eyes flick to Cathy, then to me. “They’ve brought her trunk.”

I swallow, but it is like sand.

He slits open a thin envelope with his thumbnail, removing both the letter and the key to the trunk. He chews at his bottom lip as he scans the paper.

“Read it out loud, Lionel.” Cathy moves to me, her hand to my shoulder, as if she is guarding me from some horrible news.

“Dear Mr. Snow.”

Lionel scans the page, then continues.

“Please again accept my deepest condolences for the passing of your sister. Our investigation has found all procedures were followed by ward attendants. We believe Alice Snow was—as she had proven in past situations—unnaturally adept at easing and opening locks, and was indeed successful that evening in her unfortunate goal. Thus, the inquiry is satisfactorily concluded.

“We will, in condolence, waive the last three months balance from your account, and I personally would like to contribute to the headstone. Pls send said bill directly to me.

“I do hope you will think of your sister’s time here and know she was well looked after and is missed by the attendants and staff.

“Respectfully yours—

“Lemuel Mayhew.”

He looks to me, eyes bruised with remorse. “I taught her how to do it. I didn’t . . .” He stares down at the key in his hand, then tosses it to the bed, as if it will singe his skin.

“Well, there is our answer,” Cathy says. “It’s a generous offering.”

“An apology would have helped more. All I wanted was for him to tell the truth. That they made a mistake. I wanted him to say, ‘Someone didn’t do their job, Mrs. Abbott, and I am sorry.’ That is worth something. I just want him to say he’s sorry.”

Dr. Lemuel Mayhew wants rid of me: he thinks the bribes for silence and the trunk’s return will be enough. It sits now at an angle to my wardrobe. The key with its four-clover bow and braid of lavender ribbon rests in my palm. I squeeze until I feel the edges bite my skin.

The candlelight skates and tumbles across the leather straps and brads, falls into the scrapes and tears. Toby’s snuck down from his room and now kneels in front of the case, drumming his fingers on his knees and pulling the hem of his knit drawers. Then he scratches under the collar of his undershirt. “Is it really hers?”

He stands, runs his hands over the buckles. Bends down to investigate the rivets and pokes his finger in the lock. He steps away, crossing his hand behind his back, splaying his feet in a wide stance, cocking his head just like Lionel. He closes one eye to peer up at me, just like Lydia did when she wasn’t certain of something—an algebra equation, a hat, if Lionel meant it when he asked her to wed or if it was a horrible joke.

I reach for him, a quick caress of his neck, then brush my knuckles to his shoulder. I bite my lip and stop myself from saying, “You look so much like her.” Because Cathy is right. She’s the only mother he’s known. And that is enough now. No need to muddle that up with his loss of Alice, who loved him as fierce as he loved her.

“Do you know Alice wrote me of you?” I give a quick nod. “She said you were very, very clever.”

His face flushes, and his mouth opens in a small, pink O, for this pleases him.

“What else?” he asks.

“Hm. You are good at your times tables.” I cross my hands and roll the key between my fingers.

“They’re easy.”

“Or you’re smart.”

“You were repairing the soldiers,” he says. “Alice said you used a lot of green string and sugar glue.”

My eyes prick. I can see her bent to a notebook, one she carried everywhere, making a quick sketch to give to the little boy, and her fingers trailing the arrows and figures and explanations. Where are all those notebooks she so assiduously wrote in? Her only method to tell us what she wanted, save the grimaces and stomps of her foot, and the way her eyes would narrow and go sly when she teased. Broad gestures that embarrassed Father, that confounded Lionel, that Benjamin ignored.

“We would have been happy for that string and glue,” I say. “Did she give you it? The picture?”

Toby frowns and shakes his head. “She liked to draw.” He curls his fingers over my fist, prying at the skin in search of the key.

I pull my hand away. Tighten my grip. My stomach sours. I don’t know why. It’s only clothing in the trunk, perhaps a bauble or two; what did she really own? Maybe all the notebooks are stacked within. Maybe her child’s primers. Or the astronomy book she used to confirm her plottings of the sky.

“I don’t think I can open it yet.”