As Bright as Heaven(8)

I take all this in even before I hear Maggie and Evie suck in their breath in surprise. Willa asks me what that other lady is doing in there.

“Mrs. Brewster!” Fred exclaims. “You were to come this afternoon.”

“I didn’t know you were back already,” the woman explains, clearly flustered. “I decided to come now, as I’ve company coming for supper tonight.”

Fred pushes past Mrs. Brewster to close the door behind her, but Thomas stops him with a gentle hand.

“I don’t mind if the girls see,” Thomas says. “Just here from the threshold. Just this once. I want them to know they don’t need to be afraid of what’s in this room.”

“They can’t be allowed in there!”

“Of course. I just want them to see what’s inside.”

Uncle Fred blinks at Thomas, apparently wondering how that is a good idea. Mrs. Brewster has the same dumbfounded look on her face. Thomas uses those seconds of stunned silence to open the door fully.

“You see?” Thomas says to the girls. “Nothing in here to be afraid of. It’s just like I told you.”

We peer into the room as Uncle Fred pulls Mrs. Brewster aside and mutters that he specifically told her not to come until after three and that he’s tired of her deciding at the last minute to come at a time he isn’t expecting her.

My girls saw Henry’s body after he died, but, when everyone came to pay their respects, he’d been wrapped up cozy in the blanket I’d made for him. He’d looked as though he were only sleeping. This woman is utterly different. She lies like a mannequin on a strange kind of table. Around her are metal cabinets and carts bearing odd items. On the walls are fixtures and devices on hooks and poles. None of it is familiar, nor can I imagine what any of it is for. The woman doesn’t look scary, but she doesn’t look right, either. I’m not put off by her. My spectral companion for the last six months hovers near me, quiet and accommodating. I want to go inside that room, and I’m annoyed that Fred doesn’t want the girls or me anywhere near it. And I wished I’d told Thomas, when we were talking about what he’d be doing in this room, that he didn’t have to worry about me being afraid in the least. I wasn’t. I’m not.

My daughters say nothing as we stand there, each silently contemplating in her own way the idea that the woman on the table is no longer living.

Mrs. Brewster did a fair job with the hair and cosmetics, but even from a bit of a distance, I can see that I could have done better on both. As Thomas closes the door with a gentle admonition that the girls obey Uncle Fred’s rule regarding this room, it occurs to me that if I were the one doing the hair and cosmetics on the bodies, Uncle Fred wouldn’t have to pay the errant Mrs. Brewster to do it. That task would get me into that room.

We head back into the main part of the house, to the staircase and our bedrooms. Upstairs, we find new, sturdy four-poster beds and bureaus and wardrobes of polished but plain cherrywood awaiting us. It is obvious that Fred values quality; he’d deemed it necessary that we have new bedroom furniture, and clearly he was willing to spend the money. But the furniture is unadorned, functional rather than decorative. I get the distinct impression that Fred isn’t a miser with his money, but he’s not a spendthrift, either.

If I can do for free what troublesome Mrs. Brewster is doing for a fee, and do it better than her, Uncle Fred will win on both counts. All I need to do is tell Thomas that I want to do the hairstyling and cosmetics. I’d be good at it, I’d like to do it, and it would save him and Fred the expense of hiring someone to perform those tasks. And I’ll do the work when it is supposed to be done rather than when the timing suits me. Fred surely already trusts Thomas’s judgment. It’s the reason we are here. When Thomas makes this recommendation, it will seem like a fine idea from his favorite nephew and newly appointed heir.

Mrs. Landry, the housekeeper, I will suffer to keep a little while longer if I must, but there again I know I have frugality on my side. One way or another, both Mrs. Brewster and Mrs. Landry will be thanked and paid and sent on their way.

This is my home now. And there are things I need to do.





CHAPTER 6



Maggie


I am standing in my new room, looking at the new furniture, when I hear the heavy footfalls of boots on the stairs and the clunky sound of something big being carried up them. We’ve been inside the house since we arrived, and I still feel like I’m dreaming, that this is someone else’s home, and I am watching someone else’s life play out upon a stage. I turn from the unfamiliar bedstead that glistens with fresh varnish to face the open doorway. I see my trunk is being hauled up the narrow stairs. Uncle Fred said the boy from the bookkeeper’s across the street was coming at noon to take up our belongings, but instead of a boy, I see a young man. He is Evie’s age, or perhaps a little older.

“This one yours?” he says, half out of breath. He is blond, gray-eyed, and a bit chubby, and beads of sweat sparkle on his brow. He has a nice smile.

I nod toward the trunk he’s got with him. I had my choice of rooming with Willa or with Evie, but I asked if I could have my own place on the third floor. Uncle Fred apparently had thought that was an odd idea, but Mama had come to my rescue and said if she were me, she’d want to have her own little space, too. She told me I could take an attic room if Fred could be persuaded to agree, which he did. Mine is a wide, long room with a pitched ceiling and two dormer windows. Opposite my room and on either side of the little landing at the top of the attic stairs are two long, skinny spaces with little doors that look like they were built for elves. One of the spaces is filled with box after box of funeral records. The other is crammed with crates and steamer trunks and extra dining room chairs. But the rest of the attic floor is all mine.