Page 34

The pile of books I keep by my bed has nearly doubled over the past few days. I can’t seem to read anything cover to cover, growing distracted with thoughts of Emeline and abandoning the stories I used to love after only a few pages. I run my fingers across the softened paper, the black letters jumbled and meaningless, but the musty book smell is comforting. When I think that I might never have held a book again...
I chuck aside the German balladLenorewith a sigh. The first time I read it, the heroine’s midnight horseback ride with her lover sent delicious chills down my spine. But now I know that the man she thinks is her William returned from war is nothing more than Death in disguise, and he’s bearing her away not to their wedding bed, but to her grave.
Something wet presses against my arm and I jump. Snip stares back up at me with imploring eyes, giving me another nudge with his nose and then looking under the bed. His little wood ball is stuck. With a sigh, I heave myself out of bed and get it for him, watching him scamper over the clutter, upending my sewing basket and a pile of books as he goes.
It’s been three days since Mr. Barrett carried me back in silence from the pond, and I haven’t left my room since. Ada helped me into bed that night. Mr. Barrett explained to Mother that he’d been cutting through the woods back to his house when he found me walking. He said that I must not have seen the water in the dark and accidentally stumbled in. Mother didn’t say anything, but I caught the long, meaningful look that passed between them.
The next morning, Mother had come by to ask me how I was feeling, her tone cold, skirting what she knew to be the truth. I waited for her to come sit on the bed with me, brush the hair from my forehead as she used to do when I was little. But she just stood in the doorway, hands clasped in front of her tiny waist, staring in at me as if I were a stranger in her daughter’s room. “What were you thinking, Lydia? How could you?”
It had all seemed so clear at the time, like it was the only natural thing to do. I haven’t let myself think too much about my rescue, but now as I remember the way that Mr. Barrett looked at me in the moonlight, the way I fought him in the water, I let out a little whimper that becomes a groan. How many times will he have to bear the marks of my anger? How can I ever repay him? How can I erase the terrible way I acted? And that’s to say nothing of what I saw—who—I saw standing beside the water as Mr. Barrett carried me away.
A knock at the door pulls me out of my thoughts. I want to tell them to go away, but before I can say anything, the door opens and in glides Catherine.
She stops short at the foot of the bed, a look of surprise when she sees me. “Oh,” she says. “You’re awake.” Snip stops chewing his ball to cast a reproachful eye at her. “I... I thought you would be sleeping. I just came to bring you these.” She holds out a little bouquet of parched flowers.
I give her a short nod of thanks, feeling as on guard as Snip.
“You look awful,” she says casually, the way one might comment on the weather, but she catches my expression and tries again. “Are you feeling better?”
“Yes, a little.” I could say she doesn’t look so wonderful herself, but it wouldn’t be true. She’s fresh and radiant this morning, dewy skinned and bright eyed. The clean, sweet smell of lavender in the bouquet makes her seem even more out of place in my messy, stale room. When I don’t say anything, she sighs and sits down, arranging herself amid the folds of her crisp, white morning dress.
A smile tugs at the corner of my sister’s lips as she stares out the window, her eyes unseeing as a light rain begins to fall. Here I thought I was going to get a lecture or a few cold words, not silence. We haven’t spoken since the other night, and it’s been a welcome stay of execution. What could we possibly say to each other after her revelation, and her behavior toward Mr. Barrett?
“Yes?”
Catherine comes to her senses with a little jolt, as if forgetting she was the one who came to me, and the bouquet slips from her hand. She bends down to retrieve the flowers and puts them in a vase by the window. “I cut these from your garden. It’s been cold the last few nights and I wasn’t sure how much longer they would last out there.” She slants me a curious look. “It seems a little late for plants to be growing, but what do I know.”
My poor garden. I’ve neglected it for weeks, long before I took refuge in my room, and the lavender and coneflowers stare back at me accusingly from the window. Weeding and cutting things back for the coming frosts should be a good reason to start getting out of the house—out of bed, for that matter—yet every day when it comes down to it I just can’t find the will.
When the flowers are arranged to her satisfaction she sits back down, hands fidgeting in her lap now that she doesn’t have anything to hold. “I... How are you feeling, really?”
“What do you care?” I say coldly.
The smile vanishes and Catherine’s face darkens. She seems to struggle with what she’s about to say, opening and closing her mouth several times and staring into her lap. “I was wrong. I’m sorry, Lyd. Really. I shouldn’t have said those things the other night. I...” She looks up, and must see my skepticism because her bottom lip comes out in a pout, reminiscent of Emeline. She doesn’t mention her behavior toward Mr. Barrett, how she all but threw herself at him. “Look, you’re not making this easy for me.”
Of course I’m not going to make this easy for her. I’ve been living with a deviant this whole time. The Catherine I thought I knew was bad enough, but that was nothing compared to what I know her to be now. Catherine’s condition and what it means might make me sick, but finding a solution to it is the only way to save our family further humiliation. I will never, ever be able to truly forgive her, but I will act the part for the sake of what’s left of our family. I take a deep breath.
“You’re right. I’m sorry.” I force myself to say the words.
Catherine looks up sharply, mouth parted, as if she was already prepared to argue. But then she nods and goes on, her voice dropping as she wrings her hands in her lap. I try not to stare at her stomach. “When I saw Mr. Barrett coming back with you the other night and you were... You looked like Emeline that day, all wet and limp. And you didn’t even care. You looked like you wish he hadn’t found you, and I couldn’t bear it. I couldn’t bear it if you died, Lyd. Maybe we’ll never be friends, but that doesn’t mean I want you dead.”
“We may never be friends, but you don’t want me dead,” I echo, amused.
She pouts. “Look, I—”
I wave off her objections with a tired hand. “I know. Thank you.” I have a hard time believing this revelation of hers will last long, but I’m too weary to spar with her. “Is that what you’re smiling about?”
“Was I?” She looks down and compulsively smooths a hand over her stomach. “I had a note from Mr. Pierce come by messenger.” She looks up conspiratorially, her green eyes dancing with excitement. “He not only sent his regrets about having to leave earlyandmissing the dance, but also some very pretty lines about...well...” She trails off with a dreamy look.
“I’m glad, Catherine.”
“Really?”
“Really.” It will give Mother a reason to be happy, or at least, to save her from further heartache. It’s at least one fewer thing to worry about, and perhaps now Catherine can leave Mr. Barrett alone.
Catherine takes out a piece of paper worn with folding and unfolding. “He says he has to go to Boston but he’ll be back in one or two weeks’ time. Apparently, his mother has rallied and is expected to live after all.” She puts down the letter and frowns. “The woman sounds awful. I hope she doesn’t try to talk him out of a proposal. But if all goes well I think we could be married within the month. Just think, a wedding to plan!”
I’ll never understand her. How can she claim to feel such a passionate love for one man and still sound so honestly excited about a marriage proposal from another? But I suppose the pressure of her situation is stronger than anything else at the moment, and if I know one thing about Catherine, it’s that her vanity runs deep. Flattering, pretty words, no matter whom they’re from, are as necessary to her as water and sunlight are to a growing plant.