Chapter 38
ALICE
Virgil knew precisely what he was about, that small and calculating man.
He could not simply cast me into the street.
What would that have said of the illustrious Sherman name?
No, he must appear benevolent, must send me “home” under the care of another.
How thoughtful of him, to place me in the keeping of a stranger.
The cruelest part is more than once I have glanced across the yard and felt my heart rise at the sight of a tall, broad silhouette, foolish and wild, before I realize it’s only Collier.
Kodiak would never loom so uncertain, as though the weight of his own limbs perplexes him.
There is nothing of a leader in Collier’s posture, nothing of a man who knows his own mind.
Collier slouches even when he stands still.
Kodiak stood tall, walked like he owned the ground beneath his feet.
Collier has not spoken to me since that night.
He passes me in the hall as one might a piece of furniture, yet his temper speaks in other ways: a heavier pail to carry, a longer list of linens to scrub.
Still, I keep my head high and my work neat.
He can pile on every burden he pleases; I would sooner die than give him the satisfaction of seeing me stumble.
It has been weeks now since I’ve seen my bear.
I remind myself that the journey from Ohio to New Orleans took weeks, and his path now will be far rougher.
Since his flight from the courthouse, every newspaper from here to the coast carries his name.
The whole world knows of his escape. And yet, I cannot help but believe he is out there, making his way to me.
This afternoon, I dare the upper hall, meaning to climb to the observatory. The key hangs on its nail by the door, though the stairwell has gone unused since before Collier took the house. I thought perhaps, just for a moment, I might look again through the great brass telescope.
But before I reach the first step, Collier’s voice stops me.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
I turn, careful to keep my tone even. “The observatory, Mr. Collier. The lens must be cleaned, and it seems no one has been up to maintain it.”
He leans against the wall, hands in his pockets, a lazy smile at the corner of his mouth. “That contraption’s a waste of space. I’m to have it stripped and converted to rooms. Bedrooms earn their keep. Stargazing don’t.”
The blood drains from my face. “You cannot mean that. The Astral Society brings half the county each year. It is the inn’s proudest tradition.”
“Then it’s time this house learned new ones.”
“But it’s one of the rare amenities that sets us apart.”
“Mrs. Sherman, it’s high time you remember there is no us. You are a servant. Nothing more.”
“And you are a dolt,” I say before I can stop myself.
His smile vanishes. For a heartbeat, the hall is quiet but for the clock ticking on the landing. Then he straightens, lazy posture gone, and takes a step toward me.
“What did you say?”
I lift my chin. “You heard me.”
The slap comes quick. A backhand meant to teach a lesson.
My head turns with it, but I keep my eyes on him.
He grips my arm hard enough to bruise. “You’ll remember whose roof you’re under.”
I open my mouth to answer, but the next blow takes the air from me. Then another. The room spins and I hit the floor hard, my hip catching first, pain bursting white.
When I lift my head, he’s already coming toward me, his face red, twisted with fury. I see the glint of his belt buckle, the tremor in his hands, and I understand what he means to do.
I scramble backward, skirts tangling at my knees, palms slipping on the boards. “Don’t you dare,” I hiss.
He kneels, catching my shoulder, pressing me down with the weight of his arm. “You can end this,” he says, the words hot near my ear. “Say the word, and you’ll live easy. Or—”
I twist hard, my bad hip screaming, and strike at him with whatever strength I’ve got left. He swears, loud and ugly, claps a hand over my mouth. Somewhere below, laughter drifts from the dining room. He freezes, head cocked.
The guests will hear. Won’t they?
“No one’s coming,” he mutters. “They won’t hear you. You could’ve come to me easy. You had the chance.”
I kick again, clawing at his sleeve, and manage a muffled shout. He jerks back, eyes flicking toward the stairwell. The sound of a chair scraping below. Voices pausing.
Gideon shouts from downstairs. “Miss Alice? Is that you?”
“Help,” I cry, but it’s mostly lost against his hand.
Footsteps pound up the stairs.
He releases me, standing so fast he knocks a candlestick from the table. “Mind yourself,” he says, voice steady now, almost polite.
“Miss Alice?” Gideon asks, appearing on the landing. He takes it all in—Collier red-faced and panting, me on the floor. “Are you all right?” he asks, extending his hand to help me up.
“Bless you, Gideon.”
Collier straightens his cuffs as though nothing at all has passed between us. “You should take it easy while you’re healing, Mrs. Sherman. Things can still get worse.”