After Alice Fell(44)
“I’m so tired of wearing black.”
Ada picks lint from her skirt, keeps her gaze on her hands. “I am a member of the Ladies Aid Society. We visit the women at the asylum. Every third Thursday.”
I turn to her. “So you know.”
“Your sister was well cared for, I think. Content. She liked to tat; the lace she made was marvelous. I never mentioned to the others. That I knew her.” She pulls in a breath, gives a half smile. “I hope it will console.”
“They say she jumped off the roof.”
“Oh.” She searches the room, struggling for words.
“It’s not true. I’ve made a formal complaint.”
“Cathy must be beside herself.”
“Cathy?”
“She visited. Quite often. To read to Alice.” Ada touches her chin and frowns. “I’ll need to write her.”
“I’ll deliver it,” I say. “No need for the post.”
Downstairs again, Ada signs her name to a black-framed condolence card. Thomas takes the pen, bends to the paper, and adds a postscript.
The birds, both fat, peck at their feathers. The smaller one has plucked the feathers from around its neck, leaving the skin bare and wrinkled. I toss in seed, but they stare at me and continue their preening.
“Did you know Beatrice Beecham?”
“Who?”
“She died just before Alice.”
“We only visit once a month. Perhaps—”
“Never mind.” I take the card and slip it to my bag. “I will be sure to deliver it.”
“Are you sure you won’t stay the night?” Thomas asks. “The weather is still on the move.”
“No, thank you, that’s kind. I can make the last coach out.” I glance at the grandfather clock near the stairs. Too late to look again for Lionel. My purse is on the table in the front hall. On the floor sits the carpetbag Ada has folded my widow’s weeds to.
“Still slightly damp,” she says.
“I appreciate—When was the last time Cathy visited my sister?”
Ada blinks. Her gaze slips to Thomas, who is smiling, all big teeth and vanity. “I don’t remember. Last month, I think.”
“July?”
“I think.” She presses her palms together, fingers pointed to the floor. “Or perhaps the month before.”
Chapter Eighteen
The coach is overfull. My legs are pinched between a knobby knee and a wood crate marked Wilkins. The tobacco smoke is thick enough that the open windows do no good to shift it from the tight space, so it curls itself around our necks and shoulders. The woman next to me—a tiny thing with braided rounds of white hair looking close to toppling from her head—wrinkles her nose and then sneezes.
Outside, the road glimmers with pools of leftover rain. The moonlight spatters its reflection in through the wet leaves of the trees. The air is gummy, and the mix of it with the smoke makes my stomach shudder.
I tighten my grip on my reticule. A corner of Alice’s book pokes the soft of my inner arm.
I want to go home.
“Where is home?” I whisper.
The coach hits a rut. “Wouldn’t find a road like this in Concord, no, you wouldn’t,” says the woman next to me.
The other voices ripple, and discussion begins on the various grades and soils of New Hampshire roadways. They don’t stop yapping as we make Turee. The stable boy pulls the step and doesn’t help with the carpetbag. It’s passed hand over hand in the cabin and dropped to the dirt.
I hop to the ground. My legs and back still feel the sway of the ride; I press my hands to the small of my back to stretch and gain land legs.
The carpetbag is swiped from in front of me. “Come on.”
“Lionel.”
He tramps to the road, not slowing his long strides. His beaver hat catches the lamplight on the mill pond bridge. It bobs in time with his steps.
I shrug my purse across a shoulder and jog to catch up. “They’ve lied, Lionel.”
“No.” The muscles in his jaw tense.
I grab at his linen coat, bunching the fabric and twisting it to get him to slow. To stop and listen.
“I said no.” He yanks his elbow up to free it from me, then shakes out his arm.
I run sidewise, move in front of him, and push my hand to his chest. “Where were you today?”
His green eyes flick to me, then up again to the road. He twists his torso to elude me.
“Where were you?”
His boot hits a puddle, splashing mud along the hem of his trousers. “God damn it.”
“I needed you, I needed to see you. Where were you?”
He stops. Grips his fingers to my arm and pulls me so I’m on the tips of my toes. His teeth are bared, lips taut, the whole of his face quivering. Then he shakes his head and keeps walking. His fingers dig as he half pulls me down the street.
“Let go of me. People will look.” But there weren’t people, only the fields and the white-headed sheep.
He leans forward, doubling his pace. His Adam’s apple slides up and down, stretching the skin of his throat.
“They killed Alice.” My arm’s going numb under his grip. “Did you hear me?”
His step stutters. He drops his hand from my arm, wiping it on the side of his thigh, and makes a noise in his throat.