City of Light by Lauren Belfer

training them to be better wives.”
    Why did I confess that to him? I chastised myself immediately. Granting him the leverage of such knowledge certainly wouldn’t help me. That’s what came of engaging in repartee: I lost sight of my own self-interest.
    “You can’t fool me, Louisa. I’m sure your ‘sneakiness’ makes you more proud than ashamed. Once Margaret said—well, never mind about that.”
    “No, please. What did she say?”
    “Forgive me, Louisa, I promised myself I would never become the sort of person who spends his life quoting the dead.” Sadness filled his voice. “But this reminds me of something I’ve been meaning to ask you. Margaret has the most beautiful clothes.” I ached, that he referred to her in the present tense. “Three closets full. The latest fashions, needless to say.”
    Margaret had always loved beautiful clothes, and she’d always chosen them wisely: items that accentuated her own grace and beauty rather than making her into a mannequin.
    “Grace uses the clothes for dress-up—with the results you’ve seen. But it’s a pity they should go to waste and turn unstylish. I was thinking—you’re about the same size as Margaret; maybe you’d like some of them.”
    I was so close to tears I couldn’t answer; he must have realized, for he continued without waiting for my response.
    “At home we always passed along the good clothes—and the not so good—when someone died. It was a bit of an honor, you know.” His Irish brogue was stronger now. “Uncle Rob’s Sunday suit going to little Tommy whether it fit him or not. Whether it needed patching or not.” He stopped, and I saw that he too was close to tears. “Anyway, if you’d like to come over and look through some afternoon, just send a note to Mrs. Sheehan. Any day is fine for her, I’m sure.”
    I said nothing. I could never take Margaret’s clothes. They would make me feel as if I’d shrouded myself with a ghost. Margaret, I thought, how could you have left us? Unmooring us both, and leaving us to drift alone.
    “I don’t feel ready, somehow,” he continued, staring at the darkened windows, “to give those beautiful things away to strangers.”
    There was a heavy knocking upon the front door. Grace bounded down the stairs to answer. Tom checked his watch. “Odd, having a visitor at this time of the night.” He turned his head to listen.
    We heard the sound of a low voice identifying himself, and Grace’s clear, high-pitched Irish accent: “Do you have a card, sir?” Apparently he did, and Grace brought it upstairs on a silver tray.
    “Excuse me, sir, ma’am.” She nodded at each of us. “A mister Karl Speyer to see the master.”
    “What?” Abruptly Tom stood. He took the card from the tray and studied it, as if doubting her words. “Excuse me, Louisa. This is”—he reached for the proper phrase—“an uncommon intrusion. Mr. Speyer is a business acquaintance. I’d planned to see him at a meeting at the club this evening. A problem may have come up that I must attend to immediately.” He moved toward the hall. “Thank you, Grace.” When he passed her, he touched her lightly on the shoulder.
    As he went down the stairs, she walked slowly to the banister and stared after him, looking bereft. I joined her, putting my hand on her shoulder in the same place he had touched. I shivered when I realized what I’d done and pulled my hand away.
    “Good evening, Speyer,” we heard Tom say.
    “Mr. Sinclair,” was the curt response.
    “No problems, I hope, to bring you here this evening?” Tom’s tone held an ironic cast. “Come into the parlor.” The parlor was a small room at the front of the house, next to the staircase and opposite the drawing room, which Margaret had designed for Tom to use when he conducted business meetings at home.
    Grace turned to me with an odd expression on her face, like an appeal, for what I didn’t know. “I wonder why he came here,” she said, playacting no