After Alice Fell(47)

“‘Eh?’”

“‘A swarm of grasshoppers!’”

“That’s Dr. Ferguson.” Toby yawns and pushes his knees against me. He pokes at different flowers on my borrowed skirt.

“‘That?’” I continue. “‘Grasshoppers!’”

“‘Myriads of grasshoppers, that are going to sweep over this country like a water-spout; and woe to it! for, should these insects alight, it will be laid waste.’”

“You don’t read as well as Papa.”

“I haven’t had much practice. Reading to children.”

“That’s all right.”

“Should I go on?” I shift my hip to alleviate a twinge and drop a hand to his head, combing my fingers through the fine hair.

“‘That would be a sight worth beholding!’”

“‘Wait a little, Joe. In ten minutes that cloud will have arrived—’”

“Did someone hurt Alice?”

I bite my lip. Keep my hand to his hair. I shake my head and stare at the stags and deer leaping across the wallpaper. “I . . .”

He turns away, curling tight, knees to his chest and fists to his eyes.

“Toby, I—”

He swings an arm out and knocks the book shut, then squeezes himself into a tighter ball. His shoulders quiver and the edges of his shoulder blades poke his nightshirt as he breathes and desperately tries not to cry.

I rub my palm to the book’s cover and curl my fingers to the edge. Then I set it to the bedsheet and rest my hand on his arm. “Would you like your papa to say goodnight?”

He stills, then nods his head.

The bed creaks as I rise. I lean over him and kiss his cheek.

“We were going to run away,” he whispers.

His skin is hot as I press my nose to it. “I’ll send your father in.”

“Not Mama.” He twists of a sudden to look at me, and when I try to stand, he tugs my sleeve once. “She doesn’t believe you.”

“No.”

“I do.”

Alice took an oil lamp to the glass house. All night this image has played in my head, and I’m afraid to return to the nightmare that made me wake sweating and trembling.

Alice carrying an oil lamp. Setting it to the narrow space between garden tools and clay pots. It’s spring. There are footprints in the soil. From the house to the barn and into the little house. The steam on the glass is perfect for tracing hearts and boats with sails and daffodils.

She unscrews the lamp. Drizzles the oil along the walls, then in a circle around her skirts.

She douses the packed dirt, and it’s just May; there are seedlings in the pots. She’s brought a box of matches. Now she opens the box, makes a choice. Closes the lid and puts the box to a shelf. Looks up at the house—at who?—takes a breath and strikes the match on the closest pot. The phosphorous flares bright blue and white, makes her blink, and she has one moment of doubt.

She blows the match out then. Is careful to wait until she can pinch it without burning her fingers. Her eyes lift and stare through the glass, directly at me. “There you are,” she says, and her voice is as light as it was when she was a child. “I’ve changed my mind.”

But the door is locked when she reaches for it and she doesn’t remember doing that. There’s a brass bolt blocking the keyhole and a thin hiss of flame whispers as it slips closer. She spins around, looks for the start of the flame. It licks her skirt. A red tongue. Then it bites.

Turee, Aug 17, 1865

My Dear Ada—

It was so very kind of you to lend me togs so I might make my way home without discomfort. I am very glad to have made your acquaintance, and hope we may become new friends.

I was hoping you may do me a tremendous large favor. Could you please—when you make your next visit to Brawders House to give comfort to the patients—find for me a young employee there named Kitty Swain and present her this note, I would be in your debt. She is quite remarkable with a patterned birthmark cross her cheek; she may be serving the cake. I put my faith in you to hand this to her directly. Her grief over my sister is delicate, and I would beg no fuss or attention be made.

Could you please bring her response to Turee? We—Lionel and Cathy and I—invite you to spend the afternoon with us. We would be delighted for you and Mr. Hargreaves to call on us. Cathy is insistent on enjoying your company. And I can return the dress and luggage you provided me when I was in need of it.

Yours in Friendship,

Marion

Turee, Aug 17

Kitty Swain—Brawders House

Miss Swain—

I expected a swift note of return on arrangements to visit the person we discussed at our last meeting. This is an imperative.

Please respond directly to Mrs. Hargreaves with date & time. She will find you.

Marion Abbott





Chapter Nineteen


It’s too hot inside the house. The curtains hang listless. The windows are thrown up, but there’s no air to catch. Saoirse has made a tray of cold meats and fruit, but there’s too much fat in the ham and the fig is overripe. None of it appeals, and I push it around the edge of the plate.

“A bullseye. You are improving, Toby.” Cathy twists a spoon to her fig and scoops out a bite. She runs her tongue over her teeth, dislodging seeds, then sets the fig and spoon to her plate. “I hope you didn’t kill any sheep.” She cuts a corner of cheese and takes a bite. “Lionel?”