Page 30

Mother stares blankly at her and even I’m not sure I heard her right.
When no one says anything she raises her brows and looks at us. “What? We ought to thank them for coming to the burial, and for the flowers.”
“A note would suffice, I’m sure,” Mother says coolly.
She brushes off Mother’s suggestion. “Well, I think it’s the correct thing to do. Besides, goodness knows we could use a bit of distraction around here.”
I butter my toast without taking my gaze from Catherine. She’s doing a good job of pretending to be her breezy self, but there are little lines of worry around her mouth, and a tinge of desperation in her eyes.
The last time that I tried to do something nice for Catherine, we had the town meeting and dance. I try not to let myself dwell on the aftermath, but I haven’t forgotten her revelation to me that night. Catherine needs a husband, and soon.
There is nothing more I would like in the world—short of it never having happened in the first place—than for Catherine to clean up her own mess. But that won’t happen.
Even though it makes my stomach curdle, I force myself to give a tight smile. “That’s a good idea, Cath.”
She snaps her gaze to me in surprise, but then her expression softens, and a flicker of gratitude lights her eyes.
Mother’s shoulders slump a little. I’m taking advantage of her weakness, knowing she won’t fight. But I also know that if Catherine isn’t married safely soon that an entirely fresh scandal will be laid at our doorstep, one that Mother does not have the strength to handle.
* * *
Mother sends an invitation to Mr. Barrett requesting his presence and that of Mr. Pierce at dinner the next week. I had thought that my heart was dead, that it would never beat fast and excited again, but to my surprise—and shame—as I dress with Catherine that evening I can’t help the nervous flutter in my chest at the thought of seeing Mr. Barrett.
Catherine is in a rare good mood, rooting through her gowns and pulling out different options, even going so far as to insist that I borrow her best silk shawl, a creamy buttermilk-colored one that I’ve always coveted.
Emeline would have made a game of it. We would have pretended that we were spies, dressing up as genteel ladies to infiltrate some sort of military ball where powerful men would fall over themselves to tell us secrets in the hopes of securing a dance with us. I blink back the hot tears that seem to linger so close to the surface every day now that she’s gone.
If Catherine notices, she doesn’t say anything, instead handing me her lip rouge.
I hesitate. It feels wrong to be dressing up like this when we should still be in mourning. A clean dress and neatly done hair is one thing, but painting my face feels like something else entirely. I give her a weak smile, and dab my finger in the pot.
The hours have flown by, and evening is settling in around the house. “Catherine,” I say. She’s rooting around in her desk for a necklace. I look down at my lap. “Do you...that is, do you ever think about that night?”
Her back is toward me, and her intake of breath is so small I almost miss it, but it’s sharp, quick.
“What night?” She continues opening drawers.
“You know what night. After the dance... Do you ever think about it? Think what would have happened if we hadn’t left Emeline alone?”
Now she does pause, slowly retrieving her necklace and shutting the drawer. “Why should I think about that? What’s done is done.”
Seeing my face, she softens a bit. “Hand me those earrings, would you?”
I hand them to her. Her hand bobbles ever so slightly as she guides the pearl drops in, but her voice is light and even. “You think it’s your fault, don’t you?”
I don’t say anything.
She sighs. “The way I see it, you can always trace it back to something. Did you leave her alone? Yes, but we all thought she had gone to bed like she was supposed to. Should she have had more sense than to run off to the pond by herself? Of course she should have, she knew better than that. Maybe it’s Father’s fault for moving us here. Maybe it’s Mother’s for never taking an interest in us anymore. Maybe it’s mine for causing all the rumors in the first place, driving us from Boston.”
I’m behind her, fastening the clasp of the necklace. It’s the gold one with the littleCcharm. When she says this last part the auburn curl at the nape of her neck quivers. I stay my hand. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this flash of honesty. I’m suddenly awash with loneliness, so close to Catherine yet so far away. I want to put my chin on her shoulder and cry with her. I want to ask her so many questions and try to understand. But she’s already standing up and giving herself a last look over in the mirror.
“Anyway,” she says brightly, “as I said, what’s done is done and it’s no use wallowing in guilt. Now,” she says, straightening and turning to me, “are you ready to go down?”
How I wish I could feel as light and blithe about it as her. But there is one question I must ask her, something that has been clawing away at the back of my mind since her revelation the night of the dance.
“Catherine,” I say evenly, “who’s the baby’s father?”
She goes completely still, and then stands up abruptly, moving to the window.