Chapter 24 #2
Luckily, an elderly Gullah fisherman rows by and offers to take me to town.
I sit in the keel of his boat, my head lowered as he hums and checks his nets along the way.
I give him a few coins from my pouch as payment, then make my way up the King’s Highway into town.
Though it’s early, people are already out and about on their errands.
I furtively scan the alleyways and shops, lingering in the shadows outside the pawnbroker’s to see if I can get a glimpse of Kate, to no avail.
Finally, exasperated, I steel my spine and go into the shops to ask if anyone has seen a man fitting her description.
She went out as Alex—in full gentleman’s dress, so as not to attract suspicion from the brokers.
But although I go from shop to shop, asking about my “husband,” the shopkeepers only shake their heads.
I’m becoming hot, and agitated, and my worry has grown teeth.
I debate hiring a skiff to take me back up the Wando to Angel’s Rest or boarding the ferry over to town proper.
Finally, I decide on the latter. I won’t go back home until I find her.
As the steamer churns across the Cooper, I stand against the railing, my fear rising as we pass White Point—that place of my greatest fear and humiliation.
I swore I’d never set foot on the Peninsula again after that night.
Yet here I am, on a fool’s errand for love.
Where is she? What has she done?
Do you trust her?
When the ferry makes port, I wait until all the other passengers have disembarked, then rush along the wharves, looking everywhere for her tall hat, her confident stride.
Again, I search the pawnshops along the wharves, but she’s not there and no one has seen her.
I have no idea where else I should look.
My mind spins out in a thousand scenarios.
Perhaps she has another lover. Or she’s gone to see Barbara, her paramour in yellow, one last time.
Has Kate met her for a final farewell tryst?
Eventually, the midday heat and my emotions get the best of me.
I go inside Saint Michael’s to rest and cool off, tucking myself into a box near the back.
I need water. And food. I rushed out this morning without eating.
All this seems foolish. Every bit of it.
I resent Kate for her inconstant heart and broken promises.
The church bells chime two o’clock. I’m only a few blocks from our Tradd Street rowhouse, and my mother, who thinks me a monster.
But she loves me still—I saw it that night, at White Point.
Suddenly, such a longing overtakes me. Such an undeniable, powerful yearning to see her one last time, and to say all the things I need to say before we’re parted forever.
I stand outside the ocher-painted door for a long time, thinking of the right words to say in greeting. A black crepe bunting adorns the lintel, and all the shutters are drawn. She’s still in mourning, then. Surely for Papa. But perhaps for me, too.
I lift the brass knocker and tap three times.
At first, I hear nothing. And then, from inside, a rustle of stiff skirts. The sound of paws scratching the door and Walter’s excited bark. The door opens, slowly. My mother stands there, blinking at me in confusion. “Yes? Is there something I might help you with?”
I lower my hood. She takes a step back, her hand flying up to cover her mouth and the whimper that follows.
Walter dances at her side, hopping onto his hind legs and pawing at my skirts.
Mother doesn’t say a word, only snatches my wrist and pulls me inside.
She shuts the door and bolts it behind me.
Then I’m smothered in waves of black bombazine as she embraces me, her thick rose attar perfume clouding my senses. Walter nudges my hand, and I bury my fingers in his rough fur. Tears spring to my eyes.
“Oh, Lil,” Mother coos. “You’re here. It’s really you, isn’t it? This isn’t a dream?”
“Yes, Mama,” I say, pulling back to look at her. I wipe my eyes and smile, showing my teeth. “And I’m no monster, I promise you. It was all a ruse. But you mustn’t tell a soul. You mustn’t tell anyone you saw me, or that I came here.”
“Oh, Lil, I didn’t dare hope.” She squeezes my hand.
“Yet here you are, as rosy-cheeked as I remember. You look well, daughter. Healthy. That color suits you,” she says, motioning to the blue walking suit I wear.
One of Lucrezia’s, altered to fit me. Of course she would focus on my appearance, but I glow under the light of her approval all the same.
She leads me into the parlor, its velvet curtains drawn to block out the afternoon light. Walter trails us, his tail still wagging excitedly. “Come, sit. I’ll lay out tea.”
“Where’s Siobhan?”
“Oh, she left me weeks ago. Her health. Rheumatism. I’ve been getting by on my own just fine, for now.”
I look around the front parlor. The mirrors are draped in black crepe, the clock silent on the mantel, as is the custom for households in mourning.
But a fine veneer of dust covers everything.
There are cobwebs in the corners. The grate still holds ashes from the last fire.
And on closer inspection, Mother herself is diminished; her acclaimed beauty, while still present, has faded.
Her oily hair hangs in limp plaits from a pale center part.
Only her eyes, the selfsame violet as my own, still shine, wet with grateful tears.
“Oh, Lil, my love. My darling girl,” she croons, wringing her hands. “Tea. I’ll fetch it. Would you like cake? I’ve made a sponge, just in case I had callers.”
“I’m famished, Mama. I’d love cake.”
I perch on the davenport, focusing my thoughts.
There are so many things I want to talk about with her.
This may well be the final time I see her in this life, and my heart is full of complicated feelings.
There’s Rebecca, of course, and Papa. I want to know the details of his death—I hope that he did not suffer.
When Mama brings the tea and pours it for me, my hand shakes as I lift the cup to my mouth. Her sponge cake is dry, and tasteless, but I eat it all the same. She sits across from me, in her favorite chair, and leans forward. Walter settles at my feet, nuzzling his head against my shins.
“Oh, Lil! I used to dream of this moment. Of being reunited with you on this side of heaven, by some miracle.” She laughs, runs a hand over her oily hair. “I didn’t believe him when he told me you were still alive. But he was right, wasn’t he?”
I still, a shiver running through me. “Who told you I was alive?”
“Why, Dr. Broadbent. He examined you after Papa claimed your body at the jail. He’s the one who insisted that we leave the lid to your casket unscrewed.
He felt there was a chance, however slim, that you might have just had another one of your fits.
He watched over your body, in the receiving tomb, for three nights before he agreed with Papa that it was all right to bury you.
” Mama sighs. “It was torture for me, Lillian. All of it. We didn’t have a public funeral.
There was a sensation about it all in the papers, so we did it quietly. Just me, Papa, and Father Flynn.”
I sit back in my chair, flummoxed. Dr. Broadbent certainly knew I’d survived the grave, at least since Barbara Kincaid’s party.
He saw through my guise as Mary Jones on the same night Arabella died.
But he substantiated the vampire claim as well.
They quoted him in the papers—he told them my dress was covered in blood and that I was unnaturally pale when I came to fetch him from the party to see to Arabella.
“When did Dr. Broadbent tell you I was alive, Mama?”
“After Arabella died, darling. He saw you at a party. But Arabella told me she saw you, too. In town.” Mama’s eyebrows furrow. “Did you kill her, my dove? Or any of the others?”
“No, Mama. I did not. I’ve never been a killer.” I grip the arms of the chair to keep my hands from shaking. “And quite frankly, it wounds me that you would even question it. We need . . . we need to talk about Rebecca.”
“I can’t talk about Rebecca,” she says, her face crumpling. “I cannot.”
“I didn’t kill her, Mama.” I say the words clearly, calmly. “I think we both know what happened. Who was responsible.”
“Lillian, please . . .”
“I’ve forgiven you for it. For all of it.
That’s why I’ve come.” I reach for her hand, but she pulls it away.
“I know you had the best intentions. You changed, after the twins died. Their death wasn’t your fault, Mama.
Lots of people died. I almost died, too.
” My fingers find the smallpox scar on the back of my wrist, remembering how the fever raged through my body.
Through our home. “You nursed us all, as best you could. I remember.”
“It was horrid. I cursed myself for not having all of you inoculated. I should have. It saved my life.” She sobs. “Do you know the guilt I felt, after losing my babies? So needless.”
“Yes. And you didn’t want to lose another child,” I say gently.
“You couldn’t. So you believed every charlatan that came knocking at our door when it came to Rebecca.
I remember, Mama. I remember when you started with the syrup.
You thought you were doing the right thing. But it killed her. Slowly.”
“How dare you,” she says coldly, her tearful eyes narrowing into angry slits. “To come here, and imply . . .”
“It’s not an implication. It’s the truth. I watched you. I knew what you put in that syrup.”
“It was helping her!”
My hands knot in my skirts. I bite my lip to quell the vicious words that long to jump free. “I know you believe that. I do.”
“Of course I do. Because it’s the truth.”
“Then if it was so innocent, so well intentioned, why didn’t you tell the judge? The jury?”
Her tear-reddened eyes skate from my own. “I . . . I was frightened, Lillian.”