Weeks pass and nothing happens. We settle into a normal that is not quite our own, but not quite new.
This morning, when he needs to go into the village, he kisses my cheek, and I stroke Jewell’s mane while he saddles her up. I wave goodbye to them without much care. My worries have started to wane.
When two days pass with him still gone, fear returns with a vengeance, gnawing away in my stomach. I remember the stories passed down from mother to daughter, of men arriving, of accusations and torches.
I worry they will come for me. That he will tell them what he suspects, and they will believe him because he is a man, and I am but a stupid woman.
Then there is a knock.
When I open the door, it is a man from the village who awaits me, with a face I barely recognize. He does not carry a torch, nor is he traveling with a horde of men. He is alone, and he wears a grim expression on his wrinkled face.
“Mrs. Wilde.” He pulls his hat off his head and places it over his heart, his voice trembling slightly. He doesn’t need to utter another sound, for I know in an instant what words will come. “I hate to bring this news to ya, on a Sunday no less. Your husband, Jonah, well they found him late last night, ma’am. Dead.”
My fingers turn to ice as I squeeze them against my skirt. I can’t summon a single word.
“They don’t know what happened. He was in the woods, just outside of the village.”
The earth beneath my feet seems to swing this way and that, and I take a small step away from him, grabbing onto the door to keep from falling over. In front of me the man is still talking, but for the life of me, I can’t understand what he’s saying. His words blur together, silenced by the blood rushing in my ears, as loud as a raging rapid.
I find my senses again as his words come back into focus.
“The reverend said it looked like the animals had gotten to him before he was found. He was…” He ducks his head. “Forgive me, Mistress, but he was torn apart. I can let his family know, if you need. His father is a good friend.”
I think I nod, but I can’t be sure. My legs below me are as liquid as broth, and the walls are holding their breath, closing in.
Eventually, the man leaves, though I don’t recall sending him away. When night falls, I sit in Foxglove’s kitchen, drinking my tea with trembling hands.
The world feels terribly lonely, terribly silent. In my belly, my daughter moves, as if to tell me I’m not alone. Someday I will tell her why she is wrong. Why life as a Wilde woman will always be lonely.
I don’t sleep for two more days, except for fits of exhaustion here and there. I sit and I drink my tea, thinking of my mother, wondering if her pain felt this sharp.
I watch the fire as it dances, casting shadows that look strangely like women, and I imagine they are the women long gone from this place—women who knew better than to trust. Women who lived, loved, and lost in the belly of this house—a mother’s womb meant to protect and hold us. Though for some, the grip could be too tight.
Someday I will smile again. For my daughter, if no one else. I won’t waste away like my mother, I promise myself that.
But for now, silent tears fall down my cheeks, and I don’t dare dry them. These tears feel sacred, necessary. I cry for my mother, and for myself, and for a home I will never be allowed to share.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CORINNE WILDE - PRESENT DAY
As soon as Lewis steps out of the car, I leap from my seat, rushing forward ahead of the men. I reach Greta’s car in what feels like a vacuum.
All things, all time, all sound have ceased to exist.
I run my hand along the door, breath shaky. It’s definitely hers. Even through the rain-covered window, I can see the David Rose air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror.
Very uninterested in that opinion.
I pull at the handle, surprised to find it unlocked. Rain smacks into me, drenching my hair and clothes as I lean inside the car, searching for her phone or any sign she’s been here recently.
Come on.
Come on.
Come on.
I pull back out. “She’s not here,” I say, though it’s obvious. “The keys are gone.” I look at Conrad. “This is our friend’s car. She wasn’t supposed to be here.” I shield my eyes from the rain, searching through the dark for answers that feel impossible. “She shouldn’t be here.”
