“You came all the way here with the intention of charming your way into my good graces, into my family’s money. Go home, Cyrus.”
I didn’t realize I was holding my breath, but I let it out now as he snatches his hat up. He stalks to the door, turning around and thrusting an accusing finger in my direction. “You’re a fool, Lydia. As if I would want anything to do with you or your sick family.” His look drips with contempt, but there’s a break in his voice, and I know that for the right price, he would change his tone in a heartbeat.
* * *
I can’t sleep that night. If I fall asleep the bad dreams will come again. Even when I’m awake there are footsteps, cold stares from invisible eyes, figures in the woods and in the garden. I’ve even hung a linen over the mirror, lest new words appear and stare back at me. I kick off the blankets and turn over trying to find a comfortable position, but no matter what I do my dry eyelids won’t stay shut. My skin is still crawling from where Cyrus touched me, and I can’t get his words out of my head. What other chances do you think you’ll have?
I punch my pillow down to make it fluffier, but punching it feels good so I do it a few more times. I imagine that it’s Cyrus’s smug face, his aquiline nose crooked and bloody. Shameless little opportunist. But suddenly the dark hair shifts to amber, the sharp chin broadens and the face becomes John Barrett, his melancholy, clear eyes looking at me from beneath gold lashes. I stop my fist in the air and slump back. Unlike Cyrus, he’s a good person. I saw it in the way he spoke to Emeline as if she were an adult, his equal. I saw it when he crouched down beside me and took an interest in what I was reading, even though Catherine was right there, watching him. But most of all, it’s just a feeling I get, a warmth he exudes despite his serious, sad demeanor. And if he notices Catherine’s beauty and sparkle, well, I can hardly fault him for that, can I?
When sleep finally comes, it’s hot and fitful. I drift between shallow dreams. An owl’s echoing question hangs on the night air. The footsteps and laughter of a child. Not Emeline’s carefree laugh, but that of a boy. The way Tommy Bishop used to laugh when he was pulling the wings off flies, mirthless and unsettling. I’m running, the laughter inescapable, following me at every turn. A chorus of You attract them! Are you ready? Prepare! Prepare! rings out. And then the willow from the pond comes, with its rustle of papery leaves, growing and growing until it’s a hurricane of swirling branches grabbing at me, pulling me down. I have no choice but to succumb to the blackness of its deafening roar.
“WHAT’S THE POINT of having a ballroom if we never use it?”
Catherine is sprawled on the settee in dramatic repose, studying a chipped fingernail with a frown. I watch her from over the top of my book as I try to read. Emeline is cutting paper dolls out on the floor, and is still refusing to talk to me after the other day when I reprimanded her in front of Cyrus.
“We’ve been here long enough now and people will be expecting some sort of formal introduction.”
Emeline perks up. “A ball? Really? Oh, I’ve always wanted to go to a ball!”
My mouth goes dry. A ball would mean opening up our home to strangers, opening ourselves up to their curious eyes and all their gossip. Mother will be too tired, too ambivalent to carry it off, and Father will think it a frivolous waste of time. Which means that it would fall to Catherine to plan, and me to help her. “You can’t be serious.”
Catherine scowls at me. “Oh, yes I am. I think I’ll ask Mother.”
“Cath, don’t. You know she doesn’t want to entertain and we’re barely settled as it is, never mind inviting dozens of people to tramp through the place.”
“Mother isn’t some fragile bird to be kept cooped up.” She gives me a pitying look as if I had never even considered what was best for our mother. “A ball would be just the thing to keep her spirits up, give her something to be excited about.”
A ball would also mean Cyrus, who presumably is still lurking about New Oldbury on his father’s behalf, would no doubt come. He might have given up in his half-hearted pursuit of my hand, but I doubt he would give up so easily on his father’s business interests and recouping his family’s fortune the honest way; a ball at Willow Hall would be too tempting with all its local businessmen in attendance.
Catherine’s expression is one of carefully studied boredom, a favorite she uses to antagonize me. “If you weren’t so selfish you would see that it would be doing Mother a favor.”
I scramble to reason with her, trying to keep the desperation from my voice. “You said it yourself, the first night we were here...we could hold all the balls we wanted and no one would come! Don’t you think people already know who we are here? Don’t you think it would just be drawing more attention to ourselves?”
“That was before we met Mr. Barrett and Mr. Pierce,” she counters. “There might not be much polite society in New Oldbury, but what little there is we have a duty to keep up with.”
“I thought you said this was for Mother’s benefit. Which is it, for Mother, or for keeping up with society?”
“As if there can’t be more than one reason why it’s a good idea!”
Emeline watches us volley insults and arguments. I know I should stop; more than likely Catherine will lose interest and forget about her scheme in a few days. But I’m hot and irritable after my poor night’s sleep, and the prospect of formally entertaining has me on edge. “And there are more reasons why it’s a bad idea!”
“Don’t you ever get tired of being such a bore?”
“Don’t you ever get tired of all your pompous conceit?”
She’s losing her patience. Pushing herself up from her seat, Catherine crosses her arms and stares daggers at me. “Well if we just sit in this house like a bunch of invalids, afraid to step foot outside, then I’ll die of boredom.”
“I wish you would!”
No sooner so my words slip out than I regret them with a biting intensity. I cut too hard and too deep. “Cath, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean...”
Before I can apologize, Catherine shoots me a barbed look and slips out of the room.
* * *
As soon as Catherine leaves, Mother comes in with her basket and seats herself by the window, so it’s some time before I can escape upstairs to follow her.
I pause in the hall outside Catherine’s room and tap at the door. “Catherine?”
When there’s no answer, I gently turn the knob and open the door a crack. The curtains are drawn. Catherine is lying on her side in her shift, the silhouette of her body softened by the evening glow. She could be sleeping, but then I see the uneven rise and fall of her shoulders. A muffled sound comes from the depths of her pillows.
I shouldn’t be here. Quietly, I close the door, hoping that she doesn’t hear the click of the latch. I’ve never seen Catherine cry before and it strikes me that I don’t know how to be a good sister to anyone besides Emeline.
* * *
Breakfast
