Chapter 13
Thirteen
After readying my bath, Kate leads me to the main house, to a wing of Angel’s Rest where I’ve not yet been.
Portraits line the walls of the long hallway, papered in flocked velvet.
These somber-faced strangers stare at me as we pass, the flickering light from Kate’s candelabra glancing off their varnished images.
I follow her to a set of open double doors.
Inside, a fire crackles in a marble hearth.
The copper bathtub she hauled up to my room last week stands there, steaming.
Above the mantel, a large portrait of a beautiful woman holds court, her dark eyes boring into mine.
“I haven’t the strength to carry you up the stairs tonight,” Kate says. “You can sleep here instead.” She gestures to the imposing bed, topped by a pleated canopy and draped on all sides with bronze velvet curtains.
“Is this your room, then?” I ask, my eyes flicking up to the raven-haired woman in the portrait. I’m certain she’s Lucrezia.
“Yes. It is.”
“I don’t want to take your bed.”
“Nonsense. It’s no imposition. I’ll take a room on the second floor. Good night, Lillian.”
She turns to go, shutting the doors behind her, and I disrobe, removing the green silk gown and placing it over a chair to prevent it from wrinkling.
Lucrezia watches from above as I sink down into the bath, steaming water lapping over my bare skin.
I close my eyes, wetting the scrap of woolen cloth Kate left on the side of the tub and sweeping it between my breasts and over my throat.
I think of everything Kate and I discussed tonight.
I think of her hands on my flesh, the sure way she soothed my pain with her ministrations.
Though we share little in common, I can’t deny the attraction between us.
I’ve tried to deny it. Tried to excuse the warmth radiating through my belly when her eyes linger on mine, the memory of how she looked at me when she sang, as if the lyrics of her song were meant for me.
How my skin blazed when she touched me tonight and how badly I wanted her to test my boundaries and touch me in ways I could only imagine.
I glance up at Lucrezia and imagine the sorts of things she and Kate might have done.
I know very little about sexual congress, but I saw two women together at the jail once, during my kitchen duties.
I was emptying the slop bucket when I heard a low moan coming from the yard.
I turned the corner and saw a young woman, her face pressed against the wall, her back arched, eyes closed, lips parted.
As I watched, hidden behind the shrubbery, a whimper escaped the young woman’s lips, her face reddening as she trembled.
I almost went to her, thinking she was having some sort of seizure, given her obvious state of distress, but another woman emerged from beneath her skirts, wiping her mouth.
She seized the young woman by the hair, pushed her down on her knees, then lifted her skirts and covered them both.
Realization broke over me, and I fled, frightened and embarrassed.
Yet I was excited by what I’d witnessed, much to my chagrin.
When William had kissed me, I’d felt nothing but mild disgust. Although I was fond of him, the thought of what might happen in our marriage bed only filled me with dread.
Mother had always been circumspect about such matters, and the women in her circle never spoke of their marital intimacies in polite company.
But that day, behind the jail, I discovered something about myself.
Something I’m not entirely comfortable with but that fascinates me all the same.
Women are beautiful, after all. Infinitely more appealing to me than men.
Their lines, their supple curves, the softness of their skin, and the easy pleasure of their company.
I’ve heard stories and rumors of spinsters living together as married couples—so-called romantic friendships—and of nuns who chose their vocation because of their aversion to men and marriage, more than a desire to serve God. Might I be the same?
I’ve never had a large coterie of friends, like Rebecca did, but the closest thing I’ve ever felt to true love was with Eleanor, who died of measles in the winter of 1846.
We sent one another valentines and fond letters (even though the Meades lived only three streets away), and spent every spare moment we could find together.
Her death left me unmoored. I remember what I heard Arabella say at Miss Mabel’s.
I’ll never forgive her for leading my sister astray.
What did she mean by that? Did my and Eleanor’s girlish affection for one another draw suspicion?
Looking back now, I’m quite sure my bond with her exceeded friendship, though neither one of us had the words or the courage to ever speak such things aloud.
Such love was forbidden. Yet, all the same, Arabella may have known Eleanor better than I.
Perhaps Eleanor confessed her feelings for me to her younger sister, and Arabella resented me for it.
I never understood why Arabella hated me so, when I was always kind to her . . .
I ponder all these thoughts as I step out of the bath and dry myself, then don the clean cambric gown Kate set out for me.
I nestle beneath the covers of the massive bed and close the drapes around me, hiding myself from Lucrezia’s intense gaze.
I can smell the scent of Kate’s hair pomade on the pillows.
As the tea takes hold, sending me adrift into sleep, I imagine her next to me, her lips seeking mine in the dark, her mouth hungry and eager.
My sleep is anything but restful. Rebecca accosts me in my dreams, chasing after me, her mouth wide, her teeth sharp like an animal’s. Her beauty has become terrible in death, her eyes vacant black pools. I run from her, inside some endless, looping maze without corners.
But no matter how fast I run, her anger falls around me like sharpened swords, her howls and screeches inhuman.
She’s like something out of a myth, a nameless horror bent on vengeance.
The worst of it is, even in the midst of this surreal, unnatural dream, I know too well the source of her anger and why it’s justified.
I didn’t kill her, but she’s pitted her wrath against me all the same.
There’s no lie in my plea of innocence. But there are so many ways I failed her daily.
So many ways I might have saved her if I’d only been brave enough to speak my mind.
All the doctors Mother hired over the years stream through my memories.
Most of them quacks and charlatans, offering their tinctures and tonics.
Yet still, Rebecca’s illness remained uncured.
And then there’s the matter of what I witnessed, just days before she died.
A truth I can hardly bear to confront, even after all this time.
The next morning, I wake to find Kate staring at me. I startle, sitting up, the covers falling around me. It’s barely dawn, with only a faint pink glow filtering through the oaks outside the window.
“You sleep like the dead,” she says, arching her brow. “No wonder they buried you alive.”
“That’s not a very nice thing to say,” I retort. “And I slept horribly.”
“There’ll be time for a nap after breakfast. You can help me with the morning chores.” She pats the bedcovers. “Get up. You need to build your strength.”
I groan, swinging my legs over the side of the bed.
She smiles. “You’ve had plenty of cosseting, Miss Carmichael. I mean for you to stay. I want you to stay. But a house this size needs attention and you have able hands. Lying abed won’t help you heal.”
I turn my head so she can’t see my smile. She wants me to stay. I stretch, sighing at the pull in my muscles.
“I washed your trousers and brought them for you to wear while we work,” Kate says, handing me the folded breeches.
“You should look through Lucrezia’s things later.
She wasn’t as shapely as you, nor as small, but we can alter any of them you like.
Take up the hems.” She lights an oil lamp, then pours a ewer of warm water into the basin on the dressing table.
“I haven’t known what to do with her things .
. . since she passed.” A flicker of sadness crosses Kate’s features in the mirror.
“That’s her, isn’t it?” I gesture to the painting over the mantel.
“Yes. Her husband commissioned that portrait when they were newly wed.”
“She was beautiful.”
“She was.” Kate sighs, folds and unfolds the scrap of washcloth next to the basin. “But she was so much more than her beauty.”
I have the urge to go to Kate, to lay my hand on her shoulder to offer comfort, but I don’t. Instead, I stand there awkwardly in my nightgown, watching her. I can’t stop watching her. She’s absolutely magnetic, every emotion amplified by the contours of her face, by her expressive eyes.
“I’ll leave you to get dressed,” she says. “After breakfast, and after Ruby’s lessons, we’ll practice your act. If you’re going to live here with me, your transformation as Mary Jones must be convincing. You must become her anytime we encounter someone else.”
A shiver of delight runs through me. If you’re going to live here with me.
There can be no doubt now that living here is what I want.
To remain at Angel’s Rest, and see where things might lead.
Even though I know very little about Kate’s past, I’ve grown to trust her.
“I’ll do my best,” I say. “And I want to work. To help. I don’t want to be a burden to you. ”
Kate stills. She fixes me with an icy stare. “Don’t you ever say that again.”
“What?”
She doesn’t answer me, but stalks off, closing the door with a sharp snap.
I stare at the closed door for an inordinately long time, willing her to return.
When she doesn’t, I wash up and dress hurriedly in the chilly bedchamber, frustration and hurt cycling through me.
I care too much about what she thinks of me.
But this has always been my problem—caring too much for what other people think.
It’s a condition that’s plagued me throughout my life.
Even prison didn’t absolve me of my inclination to diminish myself to make others more comfortable.
I find Kate on the side porch, overlooking a small patch of lawn, where a gaggle of hens peck at the ground. She turns to me, her expression inscrutable. She doesn’t seem angry, merely indifferent, as she hands me a hooped basket. “Have you ever gathered eggs before?”
“No. Our maid always did that.”
“Of course.” Kate rolls her eyes. “It’s not difficult.” She motions at the rickety chicken coop, with its sloping roof. Two rows of holes line the top and bottom. “Just reach in the hole and pull them out. There’s usually one or two eggs in each cubby.”
I go to the coop and reach through the first hole.
I’m rewarded by a smooth, brown egg, speckled with ruddy freckles.
I carefully place it in the basket and continue on until I have six more.
I squat and reach through the first hole on the bottom row, feeling around.
My fingers brush against something smooth, cool, and dry.
It moves under my hand. I shriek and pull back.
A rat snake streams out, and races like a whip to the blackberry thicket bordering the yard.
Kate cackles. I turn around and glare at her. “That wasn’t funny.”
“Oh yes it was!” She smirks. “Your eyes were big as teacups. Gather the rest, then we’ll clean the coop.”
But there’s no “we” to it. Kate takes the basket of eggs, then brings me a barrow of fresh straw.
She supervises me from the porch as I open the hatch and remove the old nests from the other side of the coop, where I can clearly see whether there are more snakes in hiding.
She stands against the porch post, one long leg insouciantly cocked, her arms crossed over her chest. “You’re doing such a good job, Lillian,” she calls teasingly. “So thorough.”
I mutter a curse beneath my breath, but her teasing praise lights a glow in me all the same.
I want to please her. To prove myself worthy of staying here.
The chickens watch me with their beady, gimlet eyes, clucking as I work.
I never had to lift a finger as a girl, but as a ward of the jail, I was forced to labor until my knees gave out.
This isn’t so bad by comparison. Not with the calls of birdsong overhead and the scent of spring in the loamy air.
I find a rhythm—scrape out the old nest with the heel of my hand, then replace it with fresh hay—and before I know it, I’m finished.
I wipe my hands on my trousers and join Kate on the porch.
She gives me a sly smile. “How are you feeling?”
“Hungry,” I say.
“Come in and wash up. I’ll make you breakfast. You’ve earned it.”