Maplecroft (The Borden Dispatches #1)(24)

That last word hung in the air, lingering between us like the miasma from a cigarette.

I was stunned, but not quite to silence. And not for the reasons he must’ve assumed.

I stammered, “Doctor Seabury, that’s . . . that isn’t . . . I’m not quite certain what you mean.” Which was not quite true. I could make an excellent estimation, but I didn’t want to contaminate his story. That’s how Lizzie would put it. And she was in another room, perhaps even down in that laboratory, doing her scientific work with her scientific processes. I would conduct those same processes upstairs, then, and report in such a fashion as to please her.

“I’m very sorry, I didn’t intend any offense or concern, it’s only that in those last days, before their deaths, I had seen little of Abigail and less of your father—but . . . but when I crossed their paths, I . . . I could only fear for their constitutions. They seemed terribly sick, if you don’t mind my suggesting it.” He was speaking too fast again, my stammers feeding his stammers, spiraling us into social worry and sensitive concerns.

“No, please. No offense taken. It’s only that you’ve caught me by surprise. You’d think such a common subject of gossip would rear its head more often in this parlor, but”—and I paused to cough, not quite so hard, with not quite so much mucus—“our visitors are few and far between. Please, could you explain what you mean? We were all feeling . . . strange. Back in those dark days,” I added. I might have concluded, “Before they became darker still,” but that crept too close to the secret Lizzie and I hold close, so I did not utter it.

“You must understand, I cannot divulge too much of another patient’s condition,” he said by way of retreat.

“Naturally.” I nodded, allowing him to withdraw as far as he felt he needed. “But share what you can, and I’ll see if I can help.”

He fidgeted with my handkerchief, and then it occurred to him to return it. As he did so, he said, “There’s a faraway look to him, as if he’s not quite present. A vacant appearance, combined with a certain . . . slowness of his motion. As if his motor skills are deteriorating, but he hasn’t noticed, or doesn’t care. I watched him . . . ,” he said, his own gaze becoming far away, but he was looking for some way to explain himself. Hunting for the right words. “I watched him, and he moved clumsily, and at such a tedious pace. All the while, his head was cocked toward the ocean, like a child holding a shell to his ear. But there were no shells,” he said, coming back to the moment. To me. “Nothing beyond him but the water.”

I considered this, and recalled with some displeasure the weeks leading up to my father’s and stepmother’s deaths. What the doctor described was not dissimilar from the changes that had overtaken them. “My father and Mrs. Borden had fallen ill, that’s true,” I said carefully. “We wondered about it ourselves, my sister and I—we worried that we might come down with the same affliction. It was a source of tension between us, toward the end.”

Eagerly, if unhappily, he leaned forward. “So you know the changes I’m referring to? The blank eyes, the paleness, the doughy flesh?”

“Indeed, though at the time we would not have put it that way. It came upon us gradually, you know; and by the time we noticed something was amiss, it was all that we could see. And all we could do was wonder how we’d successfully ignored it up to that point.” The words were tumbling out. I wanted to rein them in, but I nattered onward, haltingly, stopping myself when I feared I might go too far.

“Truly, and often—I have thought the same thing.”

“At first we thought it might be a problem with the family diet. But the family was also . . . in distress over other matters. There were arguments, as I’m sure you know. The whole neighborhood must’ve heard them. So after a while, Lizzie and I took up residence in a separate part of the house. We had our own apartment, with its own washing room and kitchen, so we saw our parents less and less. Virtually never, for four people who lived in the same home. From then on, my condition—and Lizzie’s—improved . . . even as our parents’ worsened.”

“You separated yourselves. Separate meals, separate living quarters, and that’s when you recovered?”

“Insofar as I ever recovered, I’m afraid.” I sighed. “Maybe I consumed too much of the tainted food, if tainted food was ever at fault. Maybe my constitution was weaker all along, and less able to resist.”

Even as I spoke the words, I was growing tired. This was more than I typically spoke in a week, and the toll felt heavy in my chest.

Doctor Seabury noticed. “I apologize,” he said, and wound his stethoscope around his hand, twisting it into a coil. “I’ve asked too much of you, for the afternoon.”

“No,” I objected.

“Yes, and we both know it. My apologies again; it was a tender subject, one that is no business of mine.”

“Your business is the health of Fall River. I’d say the subject is well within your business. It’s true,” I said. I put my hand on his medical bag, so that he might not close it shut and usher himself out the door with quite so much nervous alacrity. “A lengthy discussion of the matter is hard for me. Which is why I think . . . that you should speak to Lizzie.”

He flushed and shook his head. “No, Miss Borden—I couldn’t. It would be unseemly, or impolite, or . . . I wouldn’t want her to think I meant any accusation.”