Lost Among the Living(52)

They were on an indefinite visit, and they were installed in my corridor, Cora’s bedroom across the hall from mine and her parents’ at the end. Though we passed one another regularly, I spoke to the Staffrons but little. Mr. and Mrs. Staffron were polite and well bred; Cora was noisy and exuberant, her laugh too loud, her jokes just a shade too racy, her clothes too fast, her lipstick not quite the right color. She was friendly enough to me, but treated me like a schoolteacher she had to behave herself in front of. Considering she was only three years younger, it made me feel positively ancient. What Dottie thought of Cora’s dreaded modern bob or her pert ways—or of her social duties entertaining Cora’s parents—she did not say.

I reported to Dottie every morning as usual, but after briskly assigning me a day’s worth of tasks, she would disappear with the Staffrons. I was left alone to type her correspondence and send it, as well as open the incoming mail—she had given me back this responsibility, now that she was no longer conspiring with the Staffrons in secret—and sorting it for her. I dealt with her telephone calls and made copies of her records, all in the library, my typewriter keys clacking into the silence.

I slipped easily into my role as Wych Elm House’s forgotten inhabitant. My nights were as sleepless as ever, and it was a relief to be free of the responsibility to be friendly to Dottie’s art buyers. I was soured on the task since my meeting with Colonel Mabry. I brooded over the lies Alex had told me, the hopelessness of my situation, the memory of Robert’s hand on my face. I had not told anyone of that encounter—what purpose could it serve, except to muddy the family’s courtship of the Staffrons? I had already sunk Martin’s marriage prospects once; I could not do it again by making a complaint about his father while the Staffrons were here.

The weather cooperated with my mood, the days dark and chill, rain coming down in angry fits. Whether I was waking or sleeping, Frances Forsyth was never far from my mind. I remembered the anguish in her expression that last time. I believed she had appeared to me in the woods for a reason, that she had sought me out. I found myself looking for her—in the corridors, the parlors, the kitchen. Everywhere I went, I thought I caught the chill of mist and a sickly sweet scent.

It was not healthy, spending my time alone, searching for a ghost. But I could not stop myself; I had no desire to. Frances felt close to me, as if she were around the next corner. I had no one else.

I looked up from my typing one afternoon to find Dottie standing in the middle of the library staring at me, smoking a cigarette. I’d had no idea she was there.

“Manders,” she said. Her feet in their oxfords were placed apart, her body braced on its short, narrow legs beneath the practical suit she wore. “You sold one of my paintings.”

“Yes,” I said dully. “Two days ago. Mr. Bergeron wished to purchase it, and you were not at home. His men will be here tomorrow to remove it.”

She puffed her cigarette forcefully, pinching the holder and removing it from her lips. “Dutch House, or so I hear,” she said, naming the painting.

“I left you a note,” I said. “It’s on your desk.”

She grunted; we both knew perfectly well she’d read it already. “How much did you get for it?” she asked.

If she didn’t already know the answer to this, I’d eat my hat, but still I answered. “Six hundred.”

“Hm.” She puffed the cigarette again. “Acceptable, I suppose.”

“It was more than you discussed when you met with him.”

“Not much more. I’d have negotiated harder.”

“You would, if you’d been here,” I said. “As it is, I employed as much avarice as I could muster.”

To my surprise, that seemed to amuse her. “You’re not a completely lost cause,” she commented. “I suppose I’ve been busy of late. However, your work is not at an end. Martin and Cora are becoming acquainted, and I will need you on chaperone duty.”

“You can’t be serious,” I said. “They are both over twenty, and her parents are staying here.” The last thing I wanted to do was play chaperone, like a spinster from the last century. I may as well begin planning my own dusty grave.

“I agree that it’s stupid,” Dottie said in her usual blunt way. “Martin is hardly going to debauch the girl. However, her parents want the proprieties observed, and I am determined that the thing should be done right. And you will help me.”

“I suppose I’ll do it if I have to,” I said. “I’m the nearest dried-up old widow in the vicinity.”

Dottie walked to the ashtray on her desk and doused her cigarette. “Manders, you are glum. It does not suit you. Please don’t tell me what’s bothering you, because I have no interest, as you may have guessed. Just accompany the young lovers whenever I tell you to. Is that clear?”

I had to admit that it was.

I awoke that night from another dream, the sheets twisted around me, my face flushed and hot. My heart raced in my chest, thudding in my ears, and my hair was damp with sweat.

When cold air trickled over my face, I forgot to be afraid. I closed my eyes and inhaled it, savoring the harsh surprise of cold on the back of my throat, breathing it deeply into my lungs. My sweat went cold and gooseflesh rose on my arms and down my stomach beneath my nightgown.

“Frances?” I said.