After Alice Fell(4)

At Manufacturers Row, we slow and plod and lurch forward, accommodating carts piled high with woolens and mules pulling great carts of lumber. The brass dome of Snow & Son gleams. I turn my eyes from the reflection, but Lionel stares at it straight on. The windows are shuttered; a note with a black border is pinned to the door.

The buildings give way to farms set back behind low stone fences and fields and weeping trees. Then, another hour, and there is the house. Plain white wood, black-paned windows, the whole of it rambling every which way over the contours of the land. Lionel has removed the grand elm we used to swing from, leaving the house exposed and sharp edged like a broken tooth.

“Ahey, ahoy!” There’s a flash out my window: Lionel’s son, Toby, runs alongside us, his knees pinked and dimpled, his short breeches tight around his stout legs. Old Saoirse chases after him, white braid against her back, calico skirts flicking up fine dirt, her fingers just missing him as he jumps away.

He’s pale, his eyes the same faded blue as his mother’s, like gingham too much worn. It still hurts to look at him. How much he resembles Lydia, as if she shimmers under his skin instead of under the earth with a simple granite marker. His nose has the same quick upturn, and mouth the same curve to the lips; all of it so pleasing on his mother—Lovely Lydia, we called her—but somehow giving pause when observing the child. As if all of Lydia’s features have been copied by an apprentice.

We come to a stop in front of the house. The windows are festooned in black. A long ribbon hangs from the front door. Cathy has been industrious during our absence.

Toby jumps the two granite steps and peers at the wagon behind us. He opens his mouth to say something, but Saoirse has caught up and stands in his way.

Lionel reaches across me and clamps his hand to the window frame. “Why is the boy outside? Get in the house.”

I lay a hand on Lionel’s forearm. He shakes it off, clambers over me, fumbling with the handle before shoving the door hard enough it clangs against the brougham’s body. He curls his hands to the frame and takes a breath. His cheeks have turned a mottled red.

“Lionel . . .”

“See to our sister.” He jumps out and strides to Toby, lifting him into his arms and over his shoulder. Toby’s hands flap on his father’s back. Saoirse turns to me, lifting her palms in surrender before following them.

The old roan blows out a breath and jangles the traces. I fiddle open the clips to the glass between us. “Do I owe you money?”

“The asylum paid.”

“Will you help with the coffin?”

The driver—Charlie—purses his lips and scratches a dark patch of stubble on his chin. His eyes mark each window of the two-story house and land on the open door. “You’ll need to bury her soon.”

“I’m aware.”

He twists farther to look at me directly. Something shifts in his features. “I’ll do such.”

“Oh, Marion.” Cathy floats down the front steps, crosses to the cab, her dove-gray skirts clutched high to avoid the dirt. The crinoline swings and settles when she lets go to reach up for me. “Oh, Marion. This is too much death.” Her eyes are button black and restive, and her dark brows come together as she looks to the wagon behind us. She puts her hand to her mouth, stumbling back on a foot and catching herself. “We’ll need more towels.”

I step from the cab, my stomach roiling and legs still feeling the sway of the carriage. The two drivers take the coffin between them, each to a handle. The melting ice drips a dark line into the drive, a thin stream of water and mud.

“I have the dining room ready,” Cathy says.

“Thank you.”

She scuttles in front of me. “I’ll have Saoirse bring more towels.”

The chairs have been pushed against the wall, ready for vigil. The summer curtains, pulled closed, leave the room a dingy beige. There is no air; the windows have been closed against the heat. Cathy’s added another leaf to the table, laid the muslin on the waxed wood. I turn to the serving cabinet. My eyes follow the new wallpaper’s tangling green vines and florid palm leaves. Underneath there is still the pale peach that Lydia had sent from Boston. But Cathy is fond of this. The rug has been rolled back. The men’s feet echo, and if the mirror were not layered in black cloth, I would see their reflection as they set Alice’s body to the table.

Cathy’s left a bouquet of summer blooms on the cabinet top. I run my hand across them and then crush bits of lavender sprig she’s laid to the side of a large bowl of water. A basket is set to the floor with colored rags rolled and stacked. I need to thank her, but the thought of another debt sits heavy.

There’s a scrape and bump above my head, from Toby’s room. Lionel is playing with the boy, distracting him; perhaps they’re playing hoops and sticks inside, which Cathy forbids.

Leather is pulled from brass; the ice has been unbuckled, or what’s left of it.

“We’ll crack it outside,” one of the men says. They’ll crack it so we can slip the shards around the body, hide it away under the muslin.

“It’s not necessary,” Cathy says. “There’s no one to call on her.”

“I would like to sit vigil tonight.” The lavender is brittle; I press a thumb to it, raise it to my nose.

Cathy nods. “The ice, then.”