Chapter Twenty-Five
“She is as she was four years ago,” Evelyn said into the telephone in her front hall. “I can’t console her, I can’t bring her out of it. She is going through terrible pain. Please come at once.”
Those were the words that had summoned Claire to Rose’s side. Rose knew this for Claire quoted them to her, as they sat on her bed, holding hands, both crying, with Rose feeling so sick and nauseated she couldn’t imagine ever getting out of bed again.
Her mother’s statement to Claire had been quite correct. She was in terrible pain, both mental and physical. All of her body ached with the loss of William.
Was this even worse than the first time her heart had been broken?
“Forget Mr. Graham and his ridiculous ‘health crackers,’ forget tea and even sherry,” Claire stated, dabbing at the corners of her own eyes after crying silently along with Rose. “It’s something stronger you need to bring you back to life. I shall go procure for us some brandy.”
This caused Rose to erupt in torrential sobbing again until she managed to convey that she and William had last drunk brandy together.
“Fine, whiskey it will be.” With her face streaked from drying tears, Claire left the room only to return a short time later with a decanter from Oliver Malloy’s study and a tray of biscuits from the kitchen.
“I’ve sent your housekeeper out for a surprise that will delight you, I know. Meanwhile, drink this.” Claire poured a very large amount of the clear liquid into the empty water glass that Rose kept by her bedside.
“Where’s yours?” Rose asked, eyeing the glass and sniffing it. “This has been sitting around since my father died.”
“That’s calledaged,” her friend declared. “It makes wine and liquor better. Go on. Drink up.”
Wrinkling her nose, Rose took a sip and coughed, nearly spilling some on her counterpane.
“Try again,” Claire said. “After a few sips, everything tastes good — or at least drinkable.”
Rose took another draught and let it burn its way down her throat and into her chest. And then, for good measure, another. She knew it couldn’t thaw the ice that had encased her, making her feel chilled, despite a warm bath and a bed warming pan to heat her sheets. Nor should it. She’d lost William, and it was all her own fault.
For a few more minutes, they sat together, with Rose sipping and pondering her lonely future and sipping some more.
“Your turn,” she said, at last handing the nearly empty glass to Claire. “Go on, try it,” Rose added, then burped and unexpectedly laughed out loud. “It’s de-pisc-able.”
Claire laughed. “What did you say?”
“I said that the whiskey is deth-pixable. Oh, you know what I mean.”
Claire took a small sip. “God, it’s awful! Like I imagine poison would taste.” She sipped it again. “Hm!”
“It hasn’t helped anyway,” Rose said, wanting to lie down. She did exactly that.
“I’m sorry,” Claire said, gazing down at her. “I wanted us to be happy brides together.”
Rose let the tears trickle down the sides of her face and into her ears. “I shall never be one. I am entirely done with men.”
Claire made a tut-tut sound. “Please don’t say that. You are still young and—”
“No,” Rose stated. “Don’t say it.” She paused, feeling as if her bedroom were spinning. “I need water. There,” she said, sitting up and gesturing across the room, “in the pitcher.”
Claire jumped up and brought it over. However, since her glass still held whiskey, Rose could think of nothing to do except drink from the pitcher, which she did, slurping from its sloped side.
She handed it back before wiping her mouth and chin on the back of her hand.
“Better?” Claire asked.
“Maybe,” Rose said. “I feel strange though. Not good strange, either. Whiskey is denifitly not for me.”
“Denifitly,” Claire repeated and giggled.
“Stop.” Rose lay back down. “Secondly—”
