64. Sarah
Sarah
When I grew weary of staring at the reflection of my puffy eyes, I dropped my forehead to rest on my crossed arms. Night had fallen.
Yet I hadn’t bothered to change for bed.
My dear friend was gone, but she’d been ready to go.
No, my sorrow was entirely selfish. I’d hoped to find comfort in her company after Viola moved away.
Clink. Plink, Plink. I rubbed both hands over my face.
Plonk. Another pebble bounced off the glass.
My window was closed to the September night.
I shuffled over to peer out. George. His hair stood out in all directions, and I knew he had been raking his fingers through it in frustration.
When he saw me, he waved toward the back of the house and trotted in that direction.
I pulled a woolen blanket around my shoulders and tiptoed down the back stairs.
George sat on the bench by the laurel. Our bench. He jumped up, put his hands on my shoulders, and held me at arm’s length. He gazed into my face and doubtless noticed my tears. At least I wasn’t blubbering. Is there blubbering in Jane Austen?
Then, slowly, he stepped closer, drew me to him, and wrapped me in his arms.
I stiffened. But this was George. I softened into him.
He held me while I cried. Didn’t say anything. I slowed the rhythm of my breathing to the dependable metronome beat of his chest rising and falling. And it worked. I felt better.
I took a deep breath of sandalwood soap and pushed away. Wiped my cheeks. “Sorry.”
He snugged the blanket about my shoulders, and when we sat down, he drew me close with one arm. I rested my head on his shoulder.
In a low voice, he asked, “Want to talk about it?”
And surprisingly, I did. I wanted to let the mess inside me pour out in the newfound safety of his embrace. I said, “She was grace and love and wisdom and kindness her whole life, all the way through to her last breath.”
George nodded. “She was.”
“She told us to enjoy life without regrets. Love and friendship and music and kissing. That’s what she said.” I took a shaky breath. “And I admired and… and loved her so much… and with her last breath…” I swallowed. “She said she was proud of us, Viola and me.”
George fished in his pocket and produced a handkerchief.
“But why would she be proud?”
“You—”
“You’re right about me,” I said.
“Sarah—”
“I’ve used Jane Austen as an excuse. Held back. Isolated myself. I’m practically friendless.”
“Shh.” George smoothed a hand over my hair.
“I am an ice queen.”
“That’s not?—”
“What could she possibly be proud of? I’m… I’m nothing like her.”
My throat closed up. I couldn’t say more, not without wailing.
George said nothing, but he tightened his arm around my shoulders.
I couldn’t remember anyone holding me when I cried. Only George.
Mother told me to be strong. Hide my weakness. Never let anyone see my tears.
He didn’t seem to mind. I trusted him, and that made it all right. His breath warmed the top of my head when he spoke. “Let’s see. What did she say? Love and friendship and music and kissing?”
My cheek brushed his sturdy shoulder as I nodded.
“You have the music part mastered, no doubt about that. And I can confirm from personal experience that you are an excellent friend. The other two… well, they will come in time. When you’re ready. Please, Sarah, don’t despair.”
He whispered into my hair, “You’re more like her than you realize.”
Warm, gentle pressure on the top of my head.
A sweet, chaste kiss, as I had seen him plant on the top of Viola’s head on countless occasions.
And in that moment, earning his gentle affection felt like something to be proud of.
The tightness in my throat lessened and I softened into him, into how comfortably we fit together. “How is Viola?”
“I hardly know.” He sighed heavily. “Father thinks she’s still in shock, but I’m worried.”
“Why?”
“I think she’s pulling away, sinking deep into herself. She doesn’t know how to grieve. It’s what she did when Mother died. She won’t let anyone in or let the grief out.”
He pulled me a fraction closer. “Thank you for letting me in.”
“I think it should be me thanking you.”
He said, “With Viola, I feel so useless. And I’m supposed to be watching over her.”
I said, “We can help her through this together. We’re a good team, you know. What was it you said? Don’t despair? Please don’t despair, George.”
When he walked me up the steps to the back door, my heart beat with hope and my cheeks were dry. “Good night, George.”
“Night, Sarah.” He pressed another kiss to the top of my head.
Then I slipped inside and tiptoed up the back stairs.
When I glimpsed my reflection again, my eyes were still puffy, but a tiny smile had found my lips.
I’d made a tiny hole in my defenses to let George in.
But it was only a little window—nothing dangerous.
Istood at the front of the church and nodded to Viola. There was no shift in her blank expression, but she lifted her hands and began to play. The first notes of our duet swelled over the gathered mourners at Mrs. Newman’s memorial service.
I found George, seated beside his father, his weary gaze fixed on Viola, taut with worry. Toward the end of our duet, his eyes flicked to mine and softened. A tiny catch snagged my voice as I held the last note.
After the service, I sat with Viola in her room, but nothing I said drew her into conversation. She acknowledged my questions with small nods. But mostly she stared out the window at the lake, not noticing when I slipped away.
George paced downstairs, filling the hall and entryway with his restless footsteps. He paused to raise a questioning brow as I descended the steps. I gave a slight shake of my head.
He laid a hand on my arm. “Walk with me, please. I need… air. And a larger space to roam.”
The overcast day was brisk for September with gusts of wind sweeping off the lake.
We walked for a long while, side by side, crunching across all the gravel of the park without speaking, my arm linked with his.
Eventually, our steps slowed and quieted as he guided us onto the grass, meandering off the path.
“Death…” He exhaled the word.
“The great unknown,” I said.
He angled us toward a bench facing the lake. “There’s this group of young newsmen. The Whitechapel Club.”
“I’ve heard rumors.”
“Plenty of those. No surprise given their fascination with death.”
There was an unusual sharpness in his voice. “You object?” I asked.
He glanced at me. “If they knew the tragedy of death, they wouldn’t… wouldn’t…”
“But it wasn’t tragic for Mrs. Newman,” I said softly. “She found peace.”
George raked a hand through his hair. “But those Whitechapel boys are trying to be shocking…”
I tilted my head. “Young men are known to do that.”
We walked a few steps to the edge of the low bluff. The lake stretched gray and choppy under the circling gulls. He shot another glance at me. The tightness that had been around his eyes spread across his face. I squeezed the tense muscles of his arm.
“They wouldn’t be flippant… if they ever took a life…”
A cold thread, like a drop of the lake’s icy water, slid down my spine. I stepped forward and turned to face him, the lake at my back. But he turned away and strode to the bench. I sighed and followed.
He sank onto the bench, staring at his hands. “Death is a heavy burden.”
The chilly wind ruffled his hair, tugged at him, and lifted my wrap, but I barely felt its cool touch. I pulled my wrap tighter and settled beside him. “George?”
A tiny choked breath escaped him.
“What is it?” I twisted my fingers in the weave of my wrap. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Misery flickered across his face.
He swallowed and spoke in a soft, raw voice. “I watch over Viola because Mother asked me to… the last time… the last time I spoke with her before she died.”
I slid closer and rested my hand on his arm.
“And because… it’s all my fault.”
“What?”
“I’m poison.”
I gripped his arm with both hands to steady myself.
“Father thinks I don’t remember, but I do.”
I slid my hands down his arm and clasped his cool hand between both of mine.
“I know I’m to blame. I caused it. I… caused her death.” He dropped his chin to his chest.
I laced my fingers with his, but it wasn’t enough.
His voice fell to a whisper. “I got sick. She sat with me. Nursed me. And then… then she got sick. She got it from me.”
A single shudder ran through him. “And it killed her.”
He sat up suddenly, grip tightening around my hand.
His words came out in a rush. “I took her away from Viola and Father, and I can never make it up to them. But I try. I watch over them the best I can. It’s my penance.
My duty and responsibility. It eases my guilt. ” He laid his other hand over mine.
Saints above, this was the burden George had carried since childhood. Something in my chest twisted as every memory of him watching over Viola and me as children blurred through my mind. His gentle assistance with skinned knees. His protection.
His gaze hesitantly met mine. “Now you know my guilt.”
I squeezed his hand until my fingers went numb.
“I am poison to those I care about. You’d best be careful.”
I didn’t know if it was grief or anger that burned away my hesitation and fueled my voice. “You were a child. Can’t you see? You were not at fault.”
George flung his gaze out over the cold water. “And now, I don’t know how to help Viola. If she had a mother. If I hadn’t taken that away from her… Mother would be able to help her now.”
“George. Stop.”
But I felt him pulling away, sinking into his brooding and his pain. Hiding from me. Like Viola.
Oh, please, no. I shifted toward him on the bench.
“George.” My voice caught. “Stay with me.”
But he stared at the bleak expanse of water.
I freed my hands from his and cupped his face between my palms. His cheeks were cold from the wind.
He didn’t resist when I turned his face from the lake—toward me.
Finally, his gaze lifted to mine, and he leaned into my hand. A faint tremor hid beneath the stubble covering his jaw.
“Listen to my words, George.” My voice wavered, but I forced the words out. “It is not your fault. It was never your fault. You didn’t earn this guilt.”
“You don’t understand.”
I wanted to shake him. “What would your mother tell you? You were eight when she died. You remember her, not just her picture. You remember who she was. What would she say about this?”
I traced my thumb across his cheek. “What would she tell you if she were sitting here now?”
“It’s my fault she’s not sitting here.”
I tightened my hands on his face. “George!”
He puffed out his cheeks and exhaled, again and again.
He closed his eyes, lifted his hands to cover mine on either side of his face, and pulled them down to clasp over his heart.
I felt the rise and fall of his chest. Felt the pounding of his heart.
Felt his hot breath on my cheek. And I waited.
Long minutes passed as he struggled with my question.
When his lids lifted, his eyes blazed with something raw. “She would probably tell me you’re right.”
I gave him a shaky smile as a hot tear ran down my cheek.
The corner of his lip tugged slightly upward, and he released one of my hands. With his free hand, he swiped the tears first from my cheeks and then from his.
We leaned back on the bench. He kept my hand wrapped warmly in his as we watched clouds skim across the pale September sky and cast dark shadows on the deep waters of the lake.