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I tiptoe downstairs, slow because I’m still weak, but also because I’m desperate to put off what will be the last time I ever see her little face again.
Joe is just lifting the coffin lid when I hesitantly come into the parlor. When he sees me he puts it back. “Just come out and get me, miss, when you’re ready.”
He leaves me alone, but it’s a long time before I can bring myself to approach her.
Snip lies under the table, barely lifting his head to acknowledge me, his eyes accusing. I vaguely wonder if he’s been here the whole time. It’s been hot these past days, and there’s a sickeningly sweet, pungent aroma hanging heavy around the coffin. I put my handkerchief to my mouth, not sure what to expect when I peek over the edge.
She looks at peace, at least. Not in the way that a sleeping person looks peaceful, but in the way that someone does who has been relieved of all their worldly burdens, including their spirit. There’s no sign of the pond on her, no weeds or mud, and I think it a cruel trick that such violence could come and pass, taking with it her life and not leaving so much as a mark.
Her pale little hands are spread out across her stomach; someone has placed a silver cross on a chain in one of them. Something seizes me, and I run to Mother’s sewing basket and paw through it until I find her scissors. I tilt my head and take a few ragged cuts until a lock falls loose from the rest of my hair. I have something of her, and now she will have something of me. Carefully, I wind the hair around my finger, tying it with a bit of red ribbon from the sewing basket, and then take it back to the coffin. It’s a small gesture, but it feels like a tangible link that will connect us long past this moment. “Now you will be with me, and I shall be with you, forever,” I whisper.
As I place the curl beside the cross, my hand brushes her. I recoil. Her skin’s not cold like I thought it would be, but it’s not warm either. It’s nothing. My stomach churns and I wish I hadn’t come after all. The lifeless form in the coffin isn’t my sister, because all the spirit and laughs and songs and smiles that made up my sister are gone, like dust scattered to the wind, never to return.
I run from the room without a backward glance.
* * *
I didn’t think it could sink any lower, but my heart plummets as we pull up to the burial ground. Crumbling, lichen-specked stones dot the scorched grass. Trees edge the balding hill, but cast no shadow, provide no dappled shade. And this is where my Emeline will lie. In Boston she would have been buried in one of the lush burying grounds among the old churches and blooming gardens.
The minister’s scripted words flow over me. I block him out. I don’t know any of the people here except for Mr. Barrett and Mr. Pierce, who is apparently back from Boston. I wish they hadn’t come. What must Mr. Barrett think of me, of what happened at the pond? I had no right to lash out at him the way I did. When I remember the way the water roiled and the clouds that gathered, I grow cold all over again. Surely it was just coincidence, Mother Nature’s morbid sense of humor, the weather blowing up a gale to mirror the despair that I felt in that moment. Surely Mr. Barrett didn’t notice, or if he did, he thinks it a coincidence as well. The more that I dwell on it, the more uncomfortable it makes me, and so I push the thoughts away. I choose a patch of wilted asters to focus on so that my eye won’t accidentally meet his.
Most of the other people probably work at the mill, or are the women on whom Mother makes calls. A few I recognize from the meeting and dance. I suppose it was kind of them to come, but I wish we were alone. I feel numb and inside out, and I can’t stand their eyes on me, privy to every tear, every choked-back cry.
Dirt cascades down on the coffin and something primal reaches into my insides, making me want to throw myself down into the hole, to feel the cool, grainy earth cover me completely with her. But I just stand there, numb and unmoving, watching as the little wood coffin gradually disappears. People are starting to come up to us, offering us condolences, shaking Father’s hand and kissing Mother’s wet cheek.
“Lydia, I came as soon as I heard.”
I freeze, my stomach sliding at the familiar voice.
“Cyrus,” I manage around a thick tongue.
I just gape at him and I think I’m laughing. People are staring at me. But I don’t care, I don’t know what else to do. Of course he would come. Of course on this day of all days, the person I want to see least in the world would make it his business to come. The ex-fiancé who won’t leave me alone. It could almost be a scene out of one of my books, except that this is real life and there’s nothing romantic about it at all.
Catherine swoops in, taking me by the arm. “You have some nerve, Cyrus,” she hisses.
Unperturbed, he gives her the smallest bow of his head. “Miss Montrose.”
I don’t know what’s more absurd, the fact that Catherine is playing my protector, or that Cyrus has come thinking I would want to see him on this day. “It’s all right,” I tell her. “Go be with Mother.”
She passes a look between us, tight-lipped like she wants to say something else. But I give her a nudge and she turns away with one last withering look at Cyrus.
In his deep blue frock coat, an emerald cravat pin glinting on the breast, Cyrus looks terribly out of place on the scorched hill amid the dowdy townspeople. He always was something of a dandy. Save for our family and Mr. Barrett and Mr. Pierce, most of the mourners wear clothes at least five years out of fashion, the men in patched trousers and faded waistcoats, some of the older ones even still in breeches. Casting his gaze over them, Cyrus’s distaste is written plainly on his face. But then he turns back toward me, and his dark eyes soften and fill with concern.
“Are you all right? Lydia,” he says taking my hand and leaning in like he’s never cared about anything so much in his life, “I know we didn’t leave on good terms, but I had to see you again. I stayed in New Oldbury, hoping that you would send for me. I even came to Willow Hall for the town meeting, but you weren’t there. As soon as I heard about Emeline though, I knew I had to see you.”
The sun beats down through my bonnet and I don’t want to be here anymore. Whatever illness I fell into over the last few days still has me tight in its clasp, making my legs shake, my head dizzy.
“Thank you, Cyrus. It was very kind of you to think of my family.” The words are cold and meaningless, said only so that he’ll go away. He’s stealing my last moments with Emeline, depriving me of standing near her while the earth hasn’t completely covered her yet.
He leans in closer, the tang of sweat and his expensive pomade making my stomach turn. “It wasn’t your family I was thinking of, Lydia,” he says with unmistakable meaning.
I take a shaky step back. Is he really trying to declare his love to me, here among the graves where Emeline has only just been lowered into the ground? Didn’t I make myself more than clear the last time? “You broke our engagement off.” I pull my hand back from his grasp and look for somewhere safe to direct my gaze. “Then you came crawling back, and when I refused you, you leveled insults at me and my family.”
“I never wanted to, Lydia, you know that. It was...the unpleasantness with your family. My father made me call it off.” He rubs at the back of his neck before regaining his composure. “And I feel terrible about the other week. I didn’t mean what I said, I only...well, I was so sure you would say yes. You hurt me, Lyd.”
“Cyrus, not now. Please.” The ground is swirling under my feet and I’m not sure how much longer I can stand upright. Through the small crowd I catch a glimpse of Mr. Barrett’s back as he speaks with Father. “Please, go.”
I turn, but Cyrus catches my hand again. “I have to return to Boston, but one word from you will bring me back. Please, tell me that I can see you again.” There’s a desperation in his eyes that I’ve never seen before.