After Alice Fell(56)

The Hargreaveses’ Morgan horse is jittery, not sure of me, second-guessing his own steps down the road. Even with the two lamps Stoakes has lit and hooked to the buggy, I can’t see farther than the gelding’s ears.

Fireflies peek and skim amongst the trees. Silent and bright, then snuffed out in darkness. The horse blows a breath, shakes his head. His skin quivers from withers to flank. The crickets and cicadas make him leery, make him fold his ears to his head and push through the night.

Lionel took the notebooks. He lied. How many times had he told me Alice refused to see him? A lie. Are they locked in his cabinet drawers with the one he missed? Now he has the set.

He has her complaints, kindly returned by the constable who has ignored mine.

He didn’t want her released. She knew something. And she knew I’d believe her.

It’s there, the answer; I can feel it tapping at the back of my head.

The buggy lifts and drops hard in a rut. I loosen the reins, let the horse take his head. He stumbles, then catches himself up on his haunches, pulling the buggy forward in a rush. I plant my feet to the boards.

“Shh. There’s nothing there.”

But he tears a rein from my hand, the leather slicing through my thin glove. He’s got the bit now and yanks the other rein free. I lean forward to grapple for them before they get tangled in the traces and around his legs.

Something spooks him; he jumps, and the force of movement throws me back to the seat. A lamp swings out and cracks against the beam. The candlelight snuffs out. It’s all I can do to hold on, my grip to the reins no good against the wild sway, the wheels in the air, then slamming to the roadway. A spit of foam from the horse’s mouth splatters on my cheek. Tree limbs brush the buggy top, scratch across the soft roof.

There’s a keening crack of wood. Something slamming my back. I’m like a doll, tossed to the road, my skirts caught in the churn of the wheel, and I can’t pull free. Dirt and stone fly and cut and I twist around, legs splayed behind and shoulder digging a trough in the earth.

I hear myself shout; hear the screech of the carriage as it drags. Hear the hard beat of the gelding’s hooves. Then a burst of silver light and pain in my skull. And nothing.

Heavy breath. Warm and hay sweet. A tickle on my cheek. I turn my head. Wince at the movement, at the dizziness and the whirl of the moon and the trees and the horse. His chest heaves. He paws by my ribcage. Presses his muzzle to my arm and I gasp and almost pass out at the pain. I clamp my teeth against it, suck in air and force it out. I try to move my fingers. It’s enough. I roll my head to look at the abnormal bend to my forearm, the broken bones pushing and stretching the skin and bulging from the ripped fabric of the sleeve.

My breathing shallows. I stare at the horse, match my heaves with his.

Think.

The fireflies are impossibly bright. Thousands of them. I squeeze my eyes against their glare.

Another touch to my shoulder, gentle.

“I’ve crashed the buggy,” I say, then look up at green eyes and red hair always in need of a cut. Alice nods and touches my cheek.

“I’ve broken my arm.” I twist then and vomit. Spit and vomit again. I roll back slowly, cradling my forearm with my good hand. “You wouldn’t have any chloroform, would you?”

She kneels down and runs her hands along my limbs. Every place she touches warms and then ices. I want to ask her . . . something. Tell her to check the horse. Ask her . . . something.

Wood-planked room, like a stall. Straw pallet. Up above, thick oak beams. Spider webs swing in lazy circles. Another pair of hands, these heavy on my shoulders, a calloused stroke on my neck.

“Mr. Stoakes.”

“Mrs. Abbott.”

There’s another man to my left in a loose linen coat. His hair is very black and his mustache is too short on the left side. He scratches his arm and then bends down to me. His fingernails are cut to the quick, and the skin red, raw moons. “I’m going to set your arm.”

“No. No.”

Mr. Stoakes looks at him and nods once. He rummages on the floor, then brings a rag to my nose and mouth. “Breathe in.”

It’s all gray now, no edges. Someone’s voice is insistent, a bark and babble. A woman in calico behind the man in linen. The words are blue and slide past me. Fall like glass to the floor. Scatter like beads and beetles.

Then a horrible grating pain.

Mr. Stoakes sets a brandy on a table beside my bed. A bed now, not a cot. A white plastered room and not a stall. It’s my second drink, and the voices coming from the other room are rounded and soft like butter. Stoakes tamps his pipe and lights it. He sits forward and helps me take a sip of the drink.

I shouldn’t be here, wherever here is. It’s not proper to sit alone in a bedroom with a man I don’t know. To drink a second brandy and let him wipe the dribble from my chin. I’ve been undressed, down to my chemise, some other woman’s robe slung over my shoulders for modesty. My skirt is still intact, though ripped to shreds where it caught in the wheel.

My arm is in a sling, tied with wood splints; my fingers are purple and remind me of early spring eggplants. The whole of it throbs and aches.

“The bandages need loosening. If they’re too tight, then gangrene will set in.” I blink and wait for him to answer, but perhaps the words never left my lips, because he’s puffing his pipe and glancing at the outer door.