“Yes, I suppose I am. But I’m no murderer, Kate, I promise you that.”
Her hands go still, warm and soft on my skin. “How did it feel, when you stole from those rich men?”
I interrogate myself as she studies me. Howdidit feel? I remember the rush of excitement when I dipped my fingers into Patrick Calhoun’s pocket and claimed his coins. I felt guilty at first, when I stole from the drunk man, but stealing from the rich was exhilarating. Perhaps a better person would feel ashamed. But these men sit in their great houses, unbothered by the fact that they made their riches by exploiting the enslaved, the fingerprints of their human chattel in every brick that built their lofty kingdoms. They shunned my family in society and wanted my father dead. No. I don’t feel guilty. Or ashamed. I only feel justified.
I raise my eyes to Kate’s. My heartbeat pounds in my ears. “It felt good. Really good.”
She glides her hands up my leg, above the hem of my drawers, her fingers brushing the soft skin of my inner thigh, briefly, before returning to my calf. My belly tightens, wondering if she’ll dare to touch me in a more intimate way. Hoping. But she doesn’t. She lowers my foot onto the floor.
“And my massage? How didthatfeel?”
“Even better,” I say, bashful.
“Good.” She smiles, slowly. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
Thirteen
After readying my bath, Kate leads me to the main house, to a wing of Angel’s Rest where I’ve not yet been. Portraits line the walls of the long hallway, papered in flocked velvet. These somber-faced strangers stare at me as we pass, the flickering light from Kate’s candelabra glancing off their varnished images. I follow her to a set of open double doors. Inside, a fire crackles in a marble hearth. The copper bathtub she hauled up to my room last week stands there, steaming. Above the mantel, a large portrait of a beautiful woman holds court, her dark eyes boring into mine.
“I haven’t the strength to carry you up the stairs tonight,” Kate says. “You can sleep here instead.” She gestures to the imposing bed, topped by a pleated canopy and draped on all sides with bronze velvet curtains.
“Is this your room, then?” I ask, my eyes flicking up to the raven-haired woman in the portrait. I’m certain she’s Lucrezia.
“Yes. It is.”
“I don’t want to take your bed.”
“Nonsense. It’s no imposition. I’ll take a room on the second floor. Good night, Lillian.”
She turns to go, shutting the doors behind her, and I disrobe, removing the green silk gown and placing it over a chair to prevent it from wrinkling. Lucrezia watches from above as I sink down into the bath, steaming water lapping over my bare skin. I close my eyes, wetting the scrap of woolen cloth Kate left on the side of the tub and sweepingit between my breasts and over my throat. I think of everything Kate and I discussed tonight. I think of her hands on my flesh, the sure way she soothed my pain with her ministrations.
Though we share little in common, I can’t deny the attraction between us. I’vetriedto deny it. Tried to excuse the warmth radiating through my belly when her eyes linger on mine, the memory of how she looked at me when she sang, as if the lyrics of her song were meant for me. How my skin blazed when she touched me tonight and how badly I wanted her to test my boundaries and touch me in ways I could only imagine. I glance up at Lucrezia and imagine the sorts of things she and Kate might have done.
I know very little about sexual congress, but I saw two women together at the jail once, during my kitchen duties. I was emptying the slop bucket when I heard a low moan coming from the yard. I turned the corner and saw a young woman, her face pressed against the wall, her back arched, eyes closed, lips parted. As I watched, hidden behind the shrubbery, a whimper escaped the young woman’s lips, her face reddening as she trembled. I almost went to her, thinking she was having some sort of seizure, given her obvious state of distress, but another woman emerged from beneath her skirts, wiping her mouth. She seized the young woman by the hair, pushed her down on her knees, then lifted her skirts and covered them both. Realization broke over me, and I fled, frightened and embarrassed.
Yet I was excited by what I’d witnessed, much to my chagrin. When William had kissed me, I’d felt nothing but mild disgust. Although I was fond of him, the thought of what might happen in our marriage bed only filled me with dread. Mother had always been circumspect about such matters, and the women in her circle never spoke of their marital intimacies in polite company.
But that day, behind the jail, I discovered something about myself. Something I’m not entirely comfortable with but that fascinates me all the same. Women are beautiful, after all. Infinitely more appealing to me than men. Their lines, their supple curves, the softness of their skin,and the easy pleasure of their company. I’ve heard stories and rumors of spinsters living together as married couples—so-called romantic friendships—and of nuns who chose their vocation because of their aversion to men and marriage, more than a desire to serve God. Might I be the same?
I’ve never had a large coterie of friends, like Rebecca did, but the closest thing I’ve ever felt to true love was with Eleanor, who died of measles in the winter of 1846. We sent one another valentines and fond letters (even though the Meades lived only three streets away), and spent every spare moment we could find together. Her death left me unmoored. I remember what I heard Arabella say at Miss Mabel’s.I’ll never forgive her for leading my sister astray.
What did she mean by that? Did my and Eleanor’s girlish affection for one another draw suspicion? Looking back now, I’m quite sure my bond with her exceeded friendship, though neither one of us had the words or the courage to ever speak such things aloud. Such love was forbidden. Yet, all the same, Arabella may have known Eleanor better than I. Perhaps Eleanor confessed her feelings for me to her younger sister, and Arabella resented me for it. I never understood why Arabella hated me so, when I was always kind to her ...
I ponder all these thoughts as I step out of the bath and dry myself, then don the clean cambric gown Kate set out for me. I nestle beneath the covers of the massive bed and close the drapes around me, hiding myself from Lucrezia’s intense gaze. I can smell the scent of Kate’s hair pomade on the pillows. As the tea takes hold, sending me adrift into sleep, I imagine her next to me, her lips seeking mine in the dark, her mouth hungry and eager.
My sleep is anything but restful. Rebecca accosts me in my dreams, chasing after me, her mouth wide, her teeth sharp like an animal’s. Herbeauty has become terrible in death, her eyes vacant black pools. I run from her, inside some endless, looping maze without corners.
But no matter how fast I run, her anger falls around me like sharpened swords, her howls and screeches inhuman. She’s like something out of a myth, a nameless horror bent on vengeance. The worst of it is, even in the midst of this surreal, unnatural dream, I know too well the source of her anger and why it’s justified. I didn’t kill her, but she’s pitted her wrath against me all the same. There’s no lie in my plea of innocence. But there are so many ways I failed her daily. So many ways I might have saved her if I’d only been brave enough to speak my mind. All the doctors Mother hired over the years stream through my memories. Most of them quacks and charlatans, offering their tinctures and tonics. Yet still, Rebecca’s illness remained uncured. And then there’s the matter of what I witnessed, just days before she died. A truth I can hardly bear to confront, even after all this time.
The next morning, I wake to find Kate staring at me. I startle, sitting up, the covers falling around me. It’s barely dawn, with only a faint pink glow filtering through the oaks outside the window.
“You sleep like the dead,” she says, arching her brow. “No wonder they buried you alive.”
“That’s not a very nice thing to say,” I retort. “And I slept horribly.”
“There’ll be time for a nap after breakfast. You can help me with the morning chores.” She pats the bedcovers. “Get up. You need to build your strength.”
I groan, swinging my legs over the side of the bed.
