I choke back a sob, steeling myself, regaining my self-possession. Kate has taught me well in that. “There was another killer,” I say, calmly. “I saw him murder Arabella. I don’t know who he is. His motives. I don’t even know for certain whether he’s fully human. But I did not kill those girls, Mother. Not a one of them.” I look up at the ceiling, study the plasterwork for a moment before speaking. “I’ve come here to say goodbye. I only wanted you to know that at least one of your children survived.”
“Goodbye? But where will you go?”
“To England. I’m betrothed. My husband-to-be is the man you saw that night, at the park. The one who pretended to slay me. It wasmerely a hoax, so that I could leave my old life behind, once and for all. We’re leaving tomorrow. I’m not sure if I’ll ever return to Charleston, so I wanted to see you one last time.”
“But why? You could stay here, with me. You can hide in the attic when we have callers. So long as you never leave, no one will ever know.”
Another prison. I sigh. Pinch my eyes shut and then open them. “No. You’re not understanding, Mama. I’m getting married. I’m building a new life with my husband. A free one. I can’t stay here. It’s impossible, especially now.”
“Who is he? This man you’re running off with?” Her words are accusatory, judgmental. She’s angry that I’m choosing someone else over her. And if she knew the full truth of my and Kate’s relationship, I’d be dead to her, I’m sure.
“His name is Alexander Mayhew. He’s a doctor.”
“Oh.” She studies the carpet, shamefaced. “A doctor. I suppose I must accept it, though it saddens me to think of you so far away. I do hope that you’ll at least write.”
“I will,” I say, though I don’t think I shall. I take a drink of my tea. It’s already cold. “There’s one more thing I need to ask you, before I go. It’s about Papa.”
“I already know what you’re going to ask. It was his heart, Lil. It was sudden. He did not suffer. Dr. Broadbent assured me of that.”
“Is he still ... are you still seeinghim? I’ve known for some time, so please don’t lie to me about that.”
“No. We haven’t seen one another like that, for many months. He only escorted me to the gardens, to your ...”
“My execution. What a circus.”
“Your father and I loved one another. But it was never a grand passion, do you understand? I was so young when I married Richard. I knew little about the world.”
“Did he know? About your affairs? Dr. Broadbent wasn’t the only one. There were more men, Mama. Rebecca knew it, too.”
She blanches at my forthrightness. So unusual for me.
“Yes. I believe he did know,” she says.
So, she never told him. Only assumed he knew. Of course.
Her eyes skitter along the wall behind my head. “It shames me to speak of such things, Lillian. And the truth of the matter is Dr. Broadbent was a comfort to me after the twins died. And with Rebecca. I was hoping that after my mourning period for Richard reached a respectable end, we might marry. But it seems he’s married someone else. I saw Georgina at the market, and she told me. I suppose I’ll have to go live with Tillie now. I don’t want to, but with you going away, I haven’t many choices, have I?”
“I understand.” Frankly, knowing that she’ll have Aunt Tillie to take care of her in her dotage makes me feel less guilty about leaving her behind. We sit there in silence, letting time drip by, moment by moment. I study her, this woman who gave me life, and find that my feelings for her have grown numb. Indifferent. But there’s still one more matter I must address.
“Mama, did Rebecca ever tell you anything ... strange about Dr. Broadbent? I saw something. Just a few days before Becca died.”
She puts her hand up. “Whatever it is, I don’t want to hear it. It won’t change anything.”
“But I need to tell you. You need to know.” I pull in a steady breath. “This is indelicate, but was Rebecca still a virgin when she died?”
“What?” Mama’s face reddens. “Of course she was!”
“But I saw ... I saw Dr. Broadbent. He was touching her. In a way that he shouldn’t have been touching a maiden.”
I squeeze my eyes shut against the memory of that day but force it to unspool all the same. I’d gone to the privy after keeping vigil at her bedside, then stopped in the kitchen for a glass of cold water, before going back upstairs. I’d paused outside our shared room, at the sound of Dr. Broadbent’s voice.
Then I heard Rebecca whimper, as if in pain.
The door was cracked. In my dressing table mirror, I saw them. Rebecca, lying on her side, Dr. Broadbent behind her on the bed, her nightdress bunched above her waist, his arm latched around her neck. His other hand was a blur, it was moving so fast between her legs. Suddenly, Rebecca stiffened, her lips drawn tightly over her teeth. Dr. Broadbent bucked, the bedpost slamming into the wall as his face transformed into a paroxysm of apparent agony. And then Rebecca saw me standing in the doorway, her eyes widening. I stepped back from the door and fled, the water glass slipping from my hands and shattering on the floor.
Now Mother stares at me, incredulously. “Are you talking about the treatments? He was only trying to help Rebecca,” she says, wadding her hands in her skirts. “He was convinced her asthma was brought about by hysteria. That when she was energized properly with manual stimulation, it would resolve. It did help her.”
“What I saw, what I witnessed, was more than a treatment, Mama. He was violating her. Perhaps even raping her.”
