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“I want you to leave, right now.”
But Cyrus doesn’t make any move, doesn’t even give any indication of having heard me. He slants me a sidelong glance. “Say, did you know that I saw Tom Bishop recently? He still walks with a limp.”
If I didn’t know any better, I would say there was a hint of admiration in his tone. He drains another glass of port. “Do you remember that day? Tom does. In fact, lots of people do. It’s funny the way people remember things like that, things that happened long ago but leave a stamp on the mind. Tell me, Lydia, should I be afraid of you too?”
My throat is so dry that I can hardly speak, and my words come out hoarse and choked. “What do you want?”
Coming around the chair, he crouches down in front of me, cupping my face with those fingers I once thought so elegant. I shrink back but he just presses his fingertips firmer against my cheeks. “Why, what I’ve always wanted, Lyd. Money. Fine things. You. That’s all.”
“And if I can’t...?”
“A clever girl like you? I find it hard to believe you couldn’t somehow get dear old Father to open his coffers for his favorite daughter, especially on the occasion of her wedding. But if you can’t, then of course every newspaper in Boston, in New England, will have the story. Your sister will be ruined, and your poor mother will die of the shame. Is that really what you want?”
His finger is soft and gentle on my cheek, but it might as well be a reptilian claw. Why won’t he just leave me—my family—alone? What do I have to do to make Catherine’s mess disappear? It’s not fair that Mother suffer because of Catherine’s reckless behavior, and because Cyrus has a black, greedy heart. I squeeze my eyes shut. I just want it to end.
My body vibrates with fury, and pressure builds within me, as if a swarm of angry bees has been roused, and are looking for an escape.
“Lydia?” Cyrus’s voice is far away.
My heart tears at its strings, rebelling against the confines of my ribs. Sweat slicks my palms and my ears burn.It’s not fair. It isn’t right. Just leave! Go away and leave me alone!
Cyrus must see something in my face because his hand falters, and he rocks back uncertainly on his heels.
I jerk away from his touch, and he pulls his hand back the rest of the way. He stares at me with a mixture of concern and bewilderment. “Lydia, what’s happening? Are you all right?” I hardly know what I’m doing as my palm rises automatically out in front of me.
The pressure inside of me reaches its peak and I feel as if I’m being ripped opened and emptied out. The wind goes out of me, and with it, a bolt of something like invisible lightning. Cyrus gives a strangled yelp, and suddenly he’s flying backward, slamming into the door with a great crack, as if a giant had lifted him up and carelessly tossed him.
I slump back into my chair, breathless and as fatigued as if I had just climbed a mountain. I close my eyes and when I open them again, he’s still sitting dazed on the floor, his waistcoat flown open and hair disarranged. He blinks.
I’m trembling all over, from my hands to my knees, the pressure that felt like it was going to completely consume me, slowly evaporating.
Cyrus and I lock eyes, and I don’t know who is more terrified of what just occurred. He braces his hand on the door behind him and slowly clambers to his feet. I can see his legs shaking from across the room.
“Lydia.” His voice comes out in a crack, and he opens and closes his mouth several times. “You—”
But he doesn’t have a chance to finish. He’s just moved away from the door, a hand outstretched toward me as if looking for support, when suddenly the door swings open and Aunt Phillips comes in with Blake behind her, carrying a tray of tea.
She stops short, quickly taking in Cyrus’s disheveled appearance and my white face. She raises a brow at me, her eyes warm with an amused question. If I weren’t so terrified of what just happened, I would feel sick at her assumption.
“I’m sure I didn’t mean to interrupt anything!” she says with twinkling eyes. “I’ll come back later.”
Cyrus, who has buttoned up his waistcoat and is making a valiant effort of composure, forces a shaky smile at Aunt Phillips. His urbane charm naturally takes over, and I can’t but help being a little in awe, even grateful, that he’s able to act as if nothing just happened.
“You’ll do no such thing, Mrs. Phillips,” Cyrus says, forcing a light smile as he reaches for his coat. “I was just leaving.” Only I notice the slight tremor in his voice.
I sit heavily back in the chair, pressing my fingers against my eyelids until I see stars. My head is light and fuzzy, the alcohol dulling the edges of my senses. Maybe this is all just a bad dream. Maybe Cyrus didn’t just go flying like a rag doll through the air. I’ve never been drunk before, is this what happens? But it’s not a dream, and when I open my eyes again he’s still standing there.
“Oh, and Lydia?” He turns from the doorway. I hold my breath, afraid that he’ll divulge to Aunt Phillips what just happened. He pauses, as if weighing his words, trying to decide how much to say. But when he continues, his voice is light, as if nothing unusual had occurred. “I won’t rush you into making a decision. Take a few days to think it over. This doesn’t change anything, and I’m not going anywhere.”
29
AUNT PHILLIPS HOBBLESin to breakfast the next morning, and before she’s even in her seat she says, “Now I know better than to pry into the affairs of young folks, but if you want some advice, I’ll tell you one thing—you’d do well to accept that young man.”
“Yes, Aunt,” I say mechanically, standing to help her push in her chair.
I can barely keep my eyes open. After the incident with Cyrus it was all I could do to lie in bed and try to calm my racing heart. When I did finally drift off to sleep, I dreamed that wolves were chasing me, wolves with neat white teeth that gleamed when they smiled, and dark eyes that saw right down into the deepest recesses of my soul. They pursued me through the narrow streets of Boston, never running, always just a slow, deliberate stalking until I was cornered and impotent to repel them.
I try to tell myself that I don’t care, that Cyrus can’t hurt me. I won’t be cowed into doing what he wants. And as for his accusations, in the light of day I see how ludicrous they are. He knows my weaknesses, he knows just the right things to say to make me question myself. It was just another way for him to try to unnerve me. Of course it’s not true, it can’t be. But the little voice in my head says,There’s something different about you. You know what happened the other day wasn’t normal. Didn’t Mother tell you as much when you were younger?I think of the book that I bought from Mr. Brown, tucked under the dresses in my trunk that I haven’t dared to look at yet. Does it hold the answer to my questions? I would almost rather not know.