Page 58

The road is deserted save for a crow who eyes us suspiciously as he drags away some rancid piece of meat. The wind and rain of yesterday have left the trees bare, and the skeleton branches feather out across a colorless sky. Sometimes it feels as if my whole world has shrunk down to this place, this little town in the middle of nowhere, walled in by the hills on one side and the river on the other.
We’ve barely walked five minutes when Catherine complains of a stitch. I ignore her, setting a brisk pace, savoring the crisp air and the illusion of freedom.
“Do you have to walk so fast?” She struggles to keep up, her hand on her side.
“I’m not,” I say, even though my breath is starting to come quicker. I’m tired of always accommodating Catherine and her sense of delicacy. “If you can’t keep up I’ll go on ahead and meet you back at the house.”
She falters, her voice uncharacteristically small. “I... There’s something about the woods here. Please, don’t leave me alone.”
I slow my pace a little and I can feel her relief as she falls into step beside me. Behind the trees the weak November sun is dipping lower, and my skin prickles as the temperature drops with it. Even with Catherine beside me I can’t shake the sensation that we’re being watched, that if I turned my head just fast enough I might catch a fleeting glimpse of someone in the brush. Knowing that Catherine feels the same way about the woods here doesn’t help. I had hoped that it was a foolish fancy of mine, but she feels it too. I shiver.
Catherine moans, playing up the stitch in her side for effect.
“Why did you come if all you’re going to do is complain?”
She stops, doubling over. “I have to go back.”
“Well I’m not ready to go back yet,” I say stubbornly. I don’t want to go back home and sit there, listening to the clock tick away and dwelling on Catherine’s schemes to steal Mr. Barrett.
“Please, Lydia,” she says.
The quiet strain of her words stops me. “Catherine?”
Her face blanches white and I follow her horrified gaze down to her feet. I suck in my breath. Blood pools around her shoes, seeping through the front of her dress.
She lets out another moan, pain laced with fear.
“Catherine?” I ask again, panic rising in my throat. “What’s happening?”
When she looks up at me, her eyes are wide and afraid. “The baby,” she whispers.
* * *
I’ll never know how we manage to get back home. The wind picks up out of nowhere, buffeting us against every step as Catherine leans into me, whimpering and gasping. I’ve never been so glad to see the large, gaping windows of Willow Hall as I am when we round the drive.
Catherine stops me, gripping my arm so hard that I’ll probably have bruises come tomorrow. “The back door...we have to go round the back. Mother can’t know.”
I glance at the growing stain on her dress. “It’s too far.” Mother is probably still out anyway. As for Father, it doesn’t matter if he’s home or not. We could fall through the front door with the hounds of hell hot on our heels and he wouldn’t even raise a brow from his papers.
I guide Catherine upstairs by the elbow, one hand at her waist. She’s breathing hard. I don’t look back but she must be leaving a trail of blood behind her and God knows Mother won’t be able to miss it. But there’s nothing for it, so I trundle her into bed and lock the door behind me.
“We have to stop the bleeding.” I push Catherine’s dress up past her knees despite her weak protests and force back the gag rising in my throat. I need something to stanch the blood flow but that Ada won’t see in the laundry. Something that won’t be missed. My gaze lands on the bolt of lavender silk, untouched and meant for her wedding gown.
I move with purpose, as if I’m watching myself from far away. I calmly fetch the silk and return to the bed where Catherine watches me with terrified, feral eyes.
From somewhere in the depths of her panic and half-formed moans, there’s a disconcerting awareness. She knows as well as I do what this could mean for us: no more baby means no fresh rumors, no need for Catherine to dash off to the altar with the first willing man she finds. I’m tearing off a strip of silk and winding it into a thick pad when she grips my wrist with surprising strength.
I lean down so her lips are at my ear. “Please,” she whispers hoarsely, “save my baby.”
25
TIME SLOWS DOWN,and when it’s over, Catherine lies drained and ashen on the bed, her lips parched but silent. The baby—if you can even call it that—lies wrapped in what would have been Catherine’s wedding gown in the corner.
I pat a damp cloth over Catherine’s brow, but her eyes never leave the pile of lavender silk. “What was it?” she whispers.
My hand wavers for a moment, then I start again, small, gentle motions with the cloth. “I don’t know. I don’t think that it was anything yet.” I don’t know exactly how far along Catherine was, and I don’t want to know. But it was far enough to look like a macabre parody of a baby, with its bulbous head and fingers like tiny curls of paper. It will haunt me until the day I die.
“We have to bury it.”