Page 57

The teacup clatters in its saucer as I slowly bring it to the table. I didn’t think she would make it so easy.
Just as I’m about to place it on the cluttered surface of ladies’ journals and old correspondences, a breeze blows in and with it whispers telling me:This isn’t you. You are a good person, Lydia.The whispering breeze wars with the dark thoughts and thenmy mind unfogs in a brief flash of clarity. What am I doing? How could I take this awful idea so far? The black snake that has been winding tight around my thoughts recoils and slithers away.
Catherine’s back is to me, her head bent over her letters. In one swift movement I knock the cup from the table, spilling the vile tea and sending the gilded porcelain shattering.
Catherine snaps around and looks between the wet pile of shards on the floor and me standing there frozen with my hand still in the air. “For goodness sake, what happened?”
“I... It slipped from my hand. Sorry,” I mumble.
She shakes her head. “Well I hope you’re planning to clean it up! I swear, Lydia, I didn’t even want tea and then you come barging in here and now you’ve made a mess. Mother is going to be cross as two sticks when she finds out you broke one of her rose cups.”
“I’ll get something to wipe it up with,” I say weakly.
“I should hope so,” she says, turning back to her letters.
When I’m out of her room I pause in the hallway and lean against the wall, closing my eyes. My breath comes in shallow spurts. What came over me? How could I even consider such a thing? What is it about this place that drives my thoughts in such appalling directions?
But I know that despite whatever darkness had me in its grip, that it was right.You almost did it because so long as that baby exists you aren’t safe. Mr. Barrett isn’t safe from Catherine’s plotting. Your family isn’t safe.
Monday
Mother comes into the parlor where Catherine and I are sitting on opposite sides of the room, Catherine at the little mahogany table and I in the chair near the fire with Snip dozing in my lap. A heavy, prickly tension has gathered around us since yesterday, like the calm before a storm. Even though Catherine doesn’t know my true purpose in bringing her up that cup of tea—and she never will—she must sense the growing animosity from me. We both know that there’s been a subtle shift between us, an understanding that there will be a winner and a loser. We want the same thing, and only one of us can have it. What Catherine seems to forget though is that it’s not a toy we’re quarreling over, but a grown man. A man with his own thoughts, motivations and desires.
“I’m going out to call on the widow Morton.” Mother looks between Catherine and me, as if able to read the invisible words flying between us. “I thought one of you might like to come.”
Mother always loved making calls on those less fortunate than us, packing up baskets of food and blankets for widows and families fallen on hard times. I think it makes her feel better about our lot, especially since Emeline died. Or maybe it’s her way of feeling like she’s in control of something, that she can make a difference. Dealing with someone else’s problems is always easier than dealing with one’s own, it seems. I know we should go with her, but I also know that Catherine is just waiting for her chance to get rid of me so that she can see Mr. Barrett.
Catherine folds the letter she was writing, and without looking up and says, “Iwouldbut I just have so much to do here. Lydia, maybe you’d like to?”
“No,” I say, matching her tone in sweetness. “I have a bit of a headache. I think I’ll stay here.”
Mother narrows her eyes, but as usual she doesn’t press the matter, and as her slender figure disappears down the hall, I have to swallow back a pang of guilt.
* * *
Not half an hour later Catherine is regretting staying behind.
“If I don’t get out of this house I’m going to die of boredom.” She stands at the window looking out at the drive, as if willing someone to appear and whisk her away. “This house is dull, this town is dull, and if we ever had company they would be dull too.”
“Maybe you should have gone out with Mother then.”
Scowling, the glass fogs and Catherine wipes it with an impatient hand. “And leave you alone? Never.”
I shrug, going back to my book. I have to stop reading every few pages because I can’t stop wondering if Mr. Barrett has startedThe Italianyet, and if he has, what part he’s up to and what he thinks of it.
Catherine doesn’t say anything for a moment, and I assume she’s gone back to her letters. But when I glance up, she’s looking thoughtful. “Maybe I’ll go for a walk.”
“You hate walking.”
But she’s already up, pulling on her gloves and tucking her letters into her reticule. “That’s not true.” She pauses, as if considering something. “I’ve never walked all the way toward Barrett House, maybe I’ll head in that direction.”
I’m up quick as lightning, sending Snip tumbling to the floor. “I’ll come with you.”
* * *
Catherine is bundled up looking more like she’s going on an arctic expedition than a walk down the road, but I only grab a light spencer and forgo a hat completely. I want to feel the cold air prick my skin, I want to invite the dampness to settle in my bones. Something, I just want to feel something more than the endless, stale hours of waiting for Friday to come.
I don’t think we’ll actually go to Barrett House, because what on earth could we say showing up there? Instead we play a game of mutual feigned disinterest, neither of us wanting to admit that we’re here to keep an eye on the other.