A Northern Light(33)

I wait for lights to come on and the sound of feet and angry voices, quickly rehearsing a story in my head, but no one comes. Cook is all the way upstairs and Mrs. Morrisons room is on the other side of the hotel and Mr. Morrison and Henry and Mr. Sperry must still be out searching in the woods and I am very lucky.

I crawl out from under the table and see that it is the rotten ice-cream churn that tripped me. I run the rest of the way to the cellar door, twist the knob, and ... its locked.

Now what? Grace Brown is gone and her letters should be, too. They're her love letters, they must be. They're private and no one should ever see them. I think about lighting the big gas range and holding them over a burner. I know if Cook caught me doing it, she would fire me on the spot, for the range is temperamental and the Glenmore is built of wood. There's always the lake, and for a moment I consider sneaking out to it and pitching the letters off the dock as I'd planned to do earlier, but it's not decent to run around outside in your nightclothes, and the search parry could come back at any time. I'll have to wait until tomorrow when it will be busy and Cook will be distracted.

I leave the kitchen and head back to the attic. I tell my feet to keep going, to take me directly upstairs, but they have their own ideas. They take me into the parlor instead, and then to the little bedroom off of it. The bruises on Grace Brown's lips look darker in the lamplight, and the cut on her forehead looks meaner.

She probably hit her head on the gunwale as the boat tipped, I tell myself. Or maybe she came up under the boat after she fell into the water and banged her head against it. Yes, that would explain it. That explain it. I do not want to ponder this question any longer, for it brings too many others with it. I neaten Grace's skirt instead.

Her clothes are still damp. Her hair is, too. She had left a small valise in the foyer. Someone has placed it on the floor next to the bed. Along with a black silk jacket that Mr. Morrison found floating near the overturned boat. Carl Grahm's things are not here. He took them with him. I'd wondered, as I saw him and Grace walk across the lawn to the boathouse, What kind of fool takes a suitcase and a tennis racket rowing?

I am very sorry for Grace Brown, here amongst strangers. She should be in her mother's house, with her own things around and her family to sit up through the night with her. I decide it's only proper that I keep her company for a spell. I sit down in a wicker chair, wincing as it creaks, and stare at the picture on the wall and try to think of good things about the deceased, like you do at a wake. Grace Brown had a sweet face, that's a start. Sweet and gentle. She was a brunette. Small boned, with a pretty figure. I remember her eyes. They were gentle, too. And kind ... and ... and it's no good. All I can think about, though I am trying so hard not to, is that cut, livid and ugly, on her forehead.

I look at it—I can't help myself—and the questions I've kept penned up all day rush at me thumping and squealing like my pa's pigs at feeding time.

Why did Grace Brown give me her letters to burn? Why had she looked so sad? And Carl Grahm—was he Carl or was he Chester? Why did he write "Carl Grahm, Albany" in the register if Grace called him Chester and addressed her letters to "Chester Gillette, 17? Main Street, Cortland, New York"?

I pull the letters from my pocket. I shouldn't do this; I know it's wrong, but so is that wound on Grace Brown's forehead. I slide the top letter out from under the ribbon, open it, and start to read. My eyes winnow out lines about friends and neighbors, travel plans and dresses, searching for my answers.





South Otselic, N.Y.

June 19, 1906

My Dear—



I have often heard the saying, 'it never rains but it pours,' but I never knew what it meant until today ... When I got in Cincinnatus and just as we are starting for home I heard my sister was very ill. When I reached her home I sent my trunks and the carriage home and here I am. The house was full of friends and relatives crying and talking in little groups. I have a new niece, but the doctor has given up all hopes of my sister being up and strong for a year at least...





I lean back in the chair and feel relief flooding through me. Grace Brown was sad because her sister was ill. And she and Chester had had a spat about the chapel and maybe she was still miffed at him and she wanted to burn the letters out of spite. And I don't know why he put a fake name in the register, but I don't care because none of this is any of my business. And then a line a bit lower down catches my eye and I'm reading again, when all I meant to do was fold the letter up and be done with it.





...Chester, I have done nothing but cry since I got here. If you were only here I would not feel so badly ... I can't help thinking you will never come for me ... Everything worries me and I am so frightened, dear ... I will have my dresses made if I can and I will try and be very brave, dear ... Chester, do you miss me and have you thought about everything to-day?...I get so lonesome, dear. You won't miss me as much on account of your work, but, oh dear—please write and tell me you will come for me ... Please write often, dear, and tell me you will come for me before papa makes me tell the whole affair, or they will find it out for themselves. I can't just rest one single minute until I hear from you





I look out the open window. I can smell the pines and the roses and the lake on the night air, but even these sweet, familiar smells can't comfort me. Why did Grace want him to come for her? And why was she so frightened that he wouldn't? He had, hadn't he? He'd brought her to the Glenmore. And why do I care? Why?