Maplecroft (The Borden Dispatches #1)(30)
She’s a cold thing, that Emma. Strange, really. Her sister is so warm.
But warm or otherwise, my beloved is up to something. Strange matters are afoot here at Maplecroft, and I get the distinct impression that the sisters are hiding something from me, if not lying to me outright. I’m not an idiot; I can see that things have been rearranged, and there are nails all over the floor in the doorways, and plants growing in odd pots, in odder places. For some reason, some doors are locked which otherwise used to be open. In corners there linger strange charms, snow-white grains of salt, and the faint odor of burned sage.
I asked Lizbeth about the locked doors, since that seemed like the easiest place to begin an investigation. She laughed, and it was worse acting than I’ve ever seen, which is saying something; but then she compounded the lie by telling me, “The cellar door’s always been locked. It scarcely opens, and so we leave it shut. Anyway, it keeps the damp downstairs, where it belongs.”
“I wasn’t talking about the cellar, though I know you have wine and a laboratory down there—which you steadfastly refuse to show me. But what about that room at the end of the hall? Isn’t it a library, or an office of some sort?”
“Storage, is all. My father’s old things. I keep meaning to go through it, sort out the whole mess, and donate his papers or belongings where appropriate . . . but I’ve been quite tired, and I didn’t care to look at it any longer.”
“So you’re entombing his memories, locking him away in the afterlife. Like . . . like some hapless victim in a Poe story.”
“My father is dead,” she said flatly, no hint of the very false laugh left in her cheeks. “And some days, I can scarcely manage my own affairs—much less tend to the ones he left behind. The bills are paid, at least, and nothing else is pressing. It can stay where it is, for now. Let it gather dust and let the papers molder away. It’ll save me the trouble of sorting them later, if I can just sweep them into the bin.”
But I pushed onward. “What about the other door, on the first floor? The sunroom, wasn’t it? Or something like that?”
Without so much as a pause, she said, “The other night we had a storm, and a pair of the old windows broke—and the frames with them. We’ve sent for a man to repair them, but he can’t arrive until next month. So we’ve covered the holes as best we can, but rodents and birds have a knack for finding their way inside. The door is an extra measure, that’s all.”
I would’ve bet my soul she wasn’t telling the truth. “And the attic stairs?”
“One of the chimneys needs work. We’ve been expressly told to leave it alone, until the mason arrives, along with the window man. Loose bricks. Bats and the like, you know. Squirrels.”
“And that is the most ridiculous answer yet!” I struggled to keep from yelling at her, or crying at her, or generally being the dramatic idiot her sister imagines me. But of all the little oppressions I hate the most, being lied to is right at the top of the list. It’s disrespectful. It suggests I can’t be trusted with the truth, whether to bear it, understand it, or keep it to myself.
Lizbeth stepped close to me then, so very near that I could see her pupils contract when I looked down into her eyes. She’s almost half a head shorter than I am, but slender and tough where I’m made of rounder curves. I put my arms around her and embraced her, pulling her lean shape against my softer one.
She leaned up to speak into my ear, and I felt her lips against my hair. “You know how I adore you, but I don’t think you know the lengths to which . . .” She stopped herself, and placed her head on my shoulder—so that when she spoke again, her mouth brushed the nook where my throat and collarbone meet. “You are mine and I love you. And I’m sorry if you feel I’m being dishonest.”
Her hand slipped to the small of my back, and we stood there together like a man and woman dancing slowly, to thoughtful music.
Somewhat mollified, I put my chin atop her head. “But I feel you’re being . . . not wholly truthful. Something is bothering you, and you’re keeping it from me.”
“Many things are bothering me. It comes with the territory of being . . . me.”
“That isn’t what I mean. And if I thought that’s all it was, I would leap with you into the nearest carriage and we could ride back to Boston or New York—and you could forget about this place, for as long as you wanted.”
“I couldn’t leave Emma,” she mumbled, and I knew that already. Some fierce, bitter, tiny, hell-bound part of my soul wondered how much longer the invalid could possibly survive, with or without her sister’s money and attention. One day Lizbeth would be free of her, surely? God would see to it, if no one else.
But I remained stalwart, and I hope I sounded kind when I said, “That’s why I’d never do such a thing. What would become of her if I spirited you away?”
She lifted her head and now she was smiling. The smile reached her eyes, and it looked perfectly wicked. “You think you could spirit me away? As easy as that?”
“I’m quite confident.” I grinned back, wondering whether this was some kind of dare, and immediately daydreaming about it. “I outweigh you by forty pounds, if by a single stone. And look at me, darling: sturdy Midwestern farmer’s stock.”
“I thought your father was a preacher.”