window. “And you are not to go out on the veranda again on those afternoons when we’re at home. The wind flushes your cheeks most unbecomingly. I’ll not have people thinking I allow you to wear rouge like some Thames Street harpy.”
Tears burned in Emma’s eyes as she watched her mother leave the drawing room, stiff-backed in the armor of her whalebone. But it was the sight of her sister’s pale, anguished face that tore at her heart.
“Oh, Maddie, I’m so sorry.” She knelt beside Maddie’s chair and took up her hands. They were cold and shaking, and she chaffed them with her own. “Mama’s furious with me, and in her uncanny way she knows just the thing to make me feel utterly wretched about it and that’s to take it out on you.”
“Why, shame on you, Emmaline Tremayne, you’re flushing again,” Maddie drawled. “It will not do.”
Maddie was smiling, but Emma saw the tightness of her sister’s throat as she swallowed. The brightness of tears held back in her eyes.
Maddie’s gaze fell to her lap. She pulled her hands free and then plucked at the fringed rug that covered her legs. “Emma, will you be a darling and prevail upon one of the servants to carry me up to my room. I very much wish to be alone for a while.”
“Oh, Maddie. Shouldn’t we—”
“No, we shouldn’t. I don’t want to talk about him, because there’s nothing to be said. I suppose now that he’s home our paths must cross eventually. Whereupon he’ll see that I’ve become a cripple, and then that will be the end of that.”
Emma couldn’t bear to stay in the house a moment longer than it took to see Maddie comfortably settled in bed with a glass of warm milk and her favorite book of poetry. Emma was determined to go for a walk if only to subject her cheeks to the ravages of the cold and the wind until they were redder than a pair of peeled tomatoes.
Her half boots crunched on the winter-brittle grass. The coming night was already casting its black shadows over the dying day. The low dense clouds promised more rain.
When she got to the edge of the lawn she turned and looked back. Her slave-trader ancestor, the first William Tremayne, had built what he called his “plantation house” in 1685, in the square and stolid style of his day. But his pirate, whaler, and merchant heirs had embellished it with wings and bays, towers and cupolas, coves and cornices. Over two hundred years’ worth of hot summer sea breezes, fall hurricanes, and winter snowstorms had weathered its shingled walls to a delicate silver gray, the color of the birches that gave the house its name.
Most days, The Birches looked enchanted, with its steeply gabled roofs, and its piazzas spread all around it like the skirts of a curtseying debutante. But on this day the house appeared to be cowering under the heavy sky. A sullen fortress of rules and duties and reproaches, of must-dos and must-nots.
Gaslight flickered in her sister’s window and then went out. She had known that as soon as she left the room, Maddie would take the bottle of chloral hydrate out of the drawer in the bedside table. Their uncle, who was a doctor, had prescribed it for the pain in the girl’s back and hips. But Maddie had confessed once that she drank itmore for the pain in her heart. “It brings me such sweet and gentle dreams,” she’d said.
Oh, Maddie . . .
Emma turned her back on the house and entered the forest of birches, following the old Indian trail that ran along a broken stone wall down to the bay. The bare white branches dripped water onto her uncovered head. The leaf mold on the path gave off a melancholy smell, like forgotten old love letters. The world had been stripped of its color; it was all white and black and gray.
She thought of how this stone wall, these white birches, had born witness to the whole of her life. They knew the entirety of who she was, and yet to her ownself she was a mystery. She felt as if she’d always been holding a part of
Tears burned in Emma’s eyes as she watched her mother leave the drawing room, stiff-backed in the armor of her whalebone. But it was the sight of her sister’s pale, anguished face that tore at her heart.
“Oh, Maddie, I’m so sorry.” She knelt beside Maddie’s chair and took up her hands. They were cold and shaking, and she chaffed them with her own. “Mama’s furious with me, and in her uncanny way she knows just the thing to make me feel utterly wretched about it and that’s to take it out on you.”
“Why, shame on you, Emmaline Tremayne, you’re flushing again,” Maddie drawled. “It will not do.”
Maddie was smiling, but Emma saw the tightness of her sister’s throat as she swallowed. The brightness of tears held back in her eyes.
Maddie’s gaze fell to her lap. She pulled her hands free and then plucked at the fringed rug that covered her legs. “Emma, will you be a darling and prevail upon one of the servants to carry me up to my room. I very much wish to be alone for a while.”
“Oh, Maddie. Shouldn’t we—”
“No, we shouldn’t. I don’t want to talk about him, because there’s nothing to be said. I suppose now that he’s home our paths must cross eventually. Whereupon he’ll see that I’ve become a cripple, and then that will be the end of that.”
Emma couldn’t bear to stay in the house a moment longer than it took to see Maddie comfortably settled in bed with a glass of warm milk and her favorite book of poetry. Emma was determined to go for a walk if only to subject her cheeks to the ravages of the cold and the wind until they were redder than a pair of peeled tomatoes.
Her half boots crunched on the winter-brittle grass. The coming night was already casting its black shadows over the dying day. The low dense clouds promised more rain.
When she got to the edge of the lawn she turned and looked back. Her slave-trader ancestor, the first William Tremayne, had built what he called his “plantation house” in 1685, in the square and stolid style of his day. But his pirate, whaler, and merchant heirs had embellished it with wings and bays, towers and cupolas, coves and cornices. Over two hundred years’ worth of hot summer sea breezes, fall hurricanes, and winter snowstorms had weathered its shingled walls to a delicate silver gray, the color of the birches that gave the house its name.
Most days, The Birches looked enchanted, with its steeply gabled roofs, and its piazzas spread all around it like the skirts of a curtseying debutante. But on this day the house appeared to be cowering under the heavy sky. A sullen fortress of rules and duties and reproaches, of must-dos and must-nots.
Gaslight flickered in her sister’s window and then went out. She had known that as soon as she left the room, Maddie would take the bottle of chloral hydrate out of the drawer in the bedside table. Their uncle, who was a doctor, had prescribed it for the pain in the girl’s back and hips. But Maddie had confessed once that she drank itmore for the pain in her heart. “It brings me such sweet and gentle dreams,” she’d said.
Oh, Maddie . . .
Emma turned her back on the house and entered the forest of birches, following the old Indian trail that ran along a broken stone wall down to the bay. The bare white branches dripped water onto her uncovered head. The leaf mold on the path gave off a melancholy smell, like forgotten old love letters. The world had been stripped of its color; it was all white and black and gray.
She thought of how this stone wall, these white birches, had born witness to the whole of her life. They knew the entirety of who she was, and yet to her ownself she was a mystery. She felt as if she’d always been holding a part of
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