After Alice Fell(39)

I pull on my gloves and settle my bonnet, for the sun is already sharp. Then I lift my skirts to avoid the worst of the ruts in and out of the livery behind the Phoenix Hotel. The manufacturers that block the river have been awake and belching soot and flame for hours. Two streets over, the church bells ring on White’s block. A passing cart, heavy with grain, slings gravel and dust from its wheels. It is disorienting here. And loud. A different place from the one I left, rougher now.

The inn occupies a narrow slit of building on Fayette, just off the main road, between a market and tin shop, three doors down from the corner. Kitty Swain waits at the entrance, pacing and twisting her hands over and over. She shifts a knit purse from one hand to another. Her dress is a plain brown, no petticoat to fill it out, turned twice at the hem. Even from across the street, I can see how she tucks her face away from passersby.

I wait for a long cart of logs to trundle past, then cross the road. Just as I make the opposite side, a man steps from the market. I drop my parasol, watch it flip and land, watch his shoes as he dances around it and collides into me. He reaches out and takes hold of my arms to keep us aright.

“My absolute apologies—”

“I wasn’t paying any—”

“Mrs. Abbott.” He releases my arms, steps back to pick up the parasol, and holds it out. He smiles then, boyish and pleased with himself. “It is you. I noticed you across the way, and I thought, well, there is Mrs. Abbott. And here you are.”

“Mr. Hargreaves.” I take the fan. Tip my head. It is the new Head of Latin. Benjamin’s brightest student. And his replacement.

He stares at me, and I think, as I have before, how he wears suits too severe for his features. The simple collar and dark-gray cloth seem meant for another figure, not his with his soft cheeks and lips and ash-blond hair curled at the collar.

“What a wonder to see you here,” he says.

“Is it?”

“Ada and I were just . . . well, how are you? I mean—”

“I’m sorry to have missed you when you’ve called at the house. It’s so very far away to come call.”

Mr. Hargreaves fiddles with the chain of his watch, and his cheeks grow red. “Yes, well, Ada’s fam—”

“How is the cottage?” I ask.

“Snug. Cozy. I don’t know how you all managed to fit. With all Mr. Abbott’s books and Alice and such.”

“We managed.”

“Yes.”

“And your wife?”

“She’s at Mrs. Brown’s Academy now. Teaching Roman history. She was always keen on the Romans.” He tilts his head and gives a quick tsk.

Kitty is no longer by the tavern door. “I must go—”

“Will you come see us this afternoon? If you are not too taken with other calls? Catch up and all that.”

He is too young to be headmaster. No matter that he mimics Benjamin in dress. Leans forward with that same conciliatory visage that has been honed to perfection over the centuries by headmasters and parsons and meant to con all sorts of confessions from their followers. It looks ridiculous on Mr. Hargreaves. A sear of anger cuts my ribs.

“Another time, perhaps.” I step back on my heel and move to take my leave.

He stops me with a hand to my forearm. “Will you give my regards to your sister? She was always kind to me when I stopped to confer with Mr. Abbott.”

“She is dead, Mr. Hargreaves.”

His face blanches. “My God.”

“It was a sudden illness.”

“Will there be—”

“We have buried her. She wouldn’t have wanted a fuss.”

“No. I suppose not.”

“May I take my leave? I only have a short time here in Harrowboro.”

“Of course, of course.” His hand slips from my arm to my wrist, then drops to his side. “She was so very young.”

“Good day, Mr. Hargreaves.”

“I am so . . .” He shakes his head and tips his hat. “Ada would be ever so grateful to see you.”

“I will leave a card next time I am in town.” I continue, stopping at the door to an auction house. Mr. Hargreaves strides off; I wait until he has made the corner, has turned with that purposeful lean to his figure, and then I continue to the Tradesman, with hope upon hope Kitty Swain has not fled.

The tavern door is heavy and scrapes the floor as I push it open. The room is narrow, with a low ceiling and the smell of stale beer and sweat. The windows are shuttered; the light itself comes from the glow of pipes and the sputter of oil lamps hanging from the ceiling. Round tables crowd the room, each holding two to three workmen. Whatever words were uttered now drop from their mouths and fall to the floor.

I remove my gloves, let my eyes adjust to the dim light. I feel gazes on my back and waist and hips. Feel them touch and move away. I think the tavern goers are inured to the colorful class of girl, and not the staid black of my wear.

Kitty stands near a table by the back stairs and waves me over. When I approach, she squints up at me and her face brightens. “You’re here.”

I roll my gloves, click open my purse, and drop them in. “Yes.”

“Yes. Yes, you are.” She holds her hand out to me, and her grip is tight when I take it. “I’m Kitty Swain.”

Her skin is dry, calloused along the pad. I want to hold it longer, for it feels so much like Alice’s, rough, overtended with soap, nails red at the bed from biting.