Maplecroft (The Borden Dispatches #1)(23)

Obviously I have noticed that he is still a strong, handsome fellow. And he might be old enough to be Liz’s father, but probably not mine.

Now I’m only being silly, and girlish. I’m only tired and alone, except for my sister.

Many days, I’m at peace with the lot we’ve received, or chosen, or the fate which has befallen us. It is a hard burden to carry, all the more so with a back as feeble as mine. But it is ours, and it is noble, what we’re doing. What we’re trying to do. What we will do, eventually—for these people who would not spit on us, were someone to light us on fire.

But Doctor Seabury.

He came, and I waited for him in the parlor. Lizzie helped pin my hair, and she dressed me in something nice. She took me down the stairs and fashioned me like a heavy old doll.

The doctor and I made small talk while my sister made tea. And here was one more piece in the mosaic of our routine . . . I only just noticed it, how he’s become a familiar part of our time, marking its passage from month to month. This is a happy realization, and I wish we could make our appointments less formal. But to do so would incur the wrath of his other patients—who already express whispered concern for his well-being, given his involvement with the pair of us.

As if Maplecroft were some den of roaring lions, seeking whom we may devour.

I think the town still “permits” him to come our way because I’ve never been implicated in any wrongdoing. I am only an invalid, at the mercy of my sister. Her sins apparently do not stain me as thoroughly as they could.

These appointments might best be viewed as some charity, then, on his part. I do not care for that thought, and I hope it’s not the case.





? ? ?


Regardless, he came, and we chatted, and Lizzie left us with the tea.

“Tell me about your lungs. How have they been feeling?” he asked, as he gently manipulated my wrist, all the better to feel the beat of my heart running through it, between the bones and back from the tips of my fingers.

“About the same. No worse, at any rate.”

He finished with my wrists or perhaps he gave up on them, or finding any feeble pulse. Instead he chose the scope from his bag. “Then we’ll count it a blessing, shall we?” He warmed the scope’s amplifier between his hands, and then inserted the other end into his ear. “Could you lean forward for me? That’s far enough, thank you.”

He placed the scope on my back, and I felt its round hardness through the fabric of my dress.

“Now breathe deeply—as deeply as you find comfortable.”

I did my best to comply, but any inhalation harder than a light wheeze was enough to make my throat close and my chest convulse. I strived to hold my body in check, to force my lungs to remain calm, and still, and refrain from seizing, or flinging bloody mucus into the air.

Indeed, my body betrayed me within twenty or thirty seconds—but the doctor’s hand upon my shoulder gave me some steadiness, some of the calmness I could not manufacture on my own accord. I finished coughing and went quiet, except for the rasping tone of air wrestling in and out through my mouth and nose.

He added a gentle pat to the comforting gesture. “Are they always this bad?”

I rallied enough strength to respond, though I did so through my handkerchief. “No. But sometimes . . . it’s worse.”

When I withdrew the handkerchief, it was stained with pink, but not much red. I went to hide it away, to cram it quickly in some pocket or corner where he would not see it—and this was preposterous, I know. I should’ve held it up for display and scrutiny, but I couldn’t bring myself to do so.

He saw it anyway, and waved his hand, urging me to pass it to him for inspection.

“See? Not so bad,” I attempted with a note of cheer, but his expression of solemn contemplation did not bend.

He said, “Not so bad, but not so good.” And then his demeanor became more quiet; he stared at the scrap of fabric as if it held an extra measure of meaning—or that was my first impression. But then I realized that he was looking through it, toward his knees, past the floor. Staring at nothing, and using the dirty cloth as an excuse to think.

“Doctor?”

“Miss Borden,” he said quickly in response, as if catching himself half asleep. Then just as quickly he added, “Might I ask you something of a . . . related nature, perhaps? It might be relevant to your condition, but it’s a delicate subject all the same.”

“Of course.”

He glanced about the room, checking to see that we were alone, which piqued my curiosity. “It’s about Matthew Granger,” he began slowly, organizing his words with caution.

Whatever subject I’d expected, this was not it. “Young Matthew? Down at the shore?”

“Yes, that’s him. His godmother asked me out to see him; she had some concerns about his behavior, and wondered if he might be falling ill.”

“I certainly hope the poor boy’s well,” I said with a frown.

“As do I,” he assured me. “But this is why the matter is delicate, and I do pray you’ll take no offense that I broach it here: Matthew’s behavior, his appearance, his demeanor . . . it . . . what I mean to say is, it reminds me of something. It reminds me of someone—your stepmother, if I’m to be honest. Shortly before she and your father . . . died.”