Odette was delivered to Herne House a week ago in a flurry of whispers and averted eyes. No one has said a word of blame to her directly, but the accident hangs around her like a miasma, sickening all who come too close.
Odette has eaten little since that moment, and she feels faint, unreal. It isnother fault. She tries to make this thought whole, shape it into something that can exist outside of her. She did not push Penelope. She did not tell Penelope to be there. It was anunfortunate tragedy in a busy station, and Penelope will neither be the first nor the last poor soul to be crushed beneath the wheels of a train.
It is no comfort. It should not be.
The worst thing is that she can imagine the colours her mother would have chosen to paint the bloodstained scene.
There was chaos at the station when Penelope fell. Odette screamed – or those around her did – and the world became all noise, the whistle of steam and stamping of feet, slamming doors as passengers alighted, and Odette and George shouting for the guard, for anyone.
She will never forget what she saw when she knelt at the platform edge to reach down for Penelope. There was a hand reaching up to her, pale fingers wearing Penelope’s rings, extended as though in supplication, and Odette strained to touch them.
When she did, the hand toppled sideways, the arm sliced off above the elbow and was tossed, somehow, to stand upright. A trail of blood and torn satin led to the rest of Aunt Penelope.
Odette knew she should not look. And yet.
There was not a person left anymore.
How awful, then, that she is now so profoundly grateful to have been gifted the body of her own mother to wash and dress and bury.
What is left to Cecilia but scrap meat in a box?
It must be right that she does not see Cecilia. They have shared one mind, one thought; how could Cecilia not look at her and at once see everything Odette had seen? Experience each horror as her own?
Cecilia’s first and only letter has come with the morning post. It is kinder than Odette deserves and harsher than anything Cecilia has ever said to her before.
It is done, then. Odette has pushed and pushed, like a catnudging a glass towards a table edge, curious to see the glitter of the shards as it shatters on the ground. If the splinters cut her, then it is only fair. It is her doing, after all.
The door opens to admit Claudine and a short, brown-haired young woman in her early twenties, wearing a travelling dress, with an unremarkable, watchful face.
‘Ah, there you are,’ says Claudine. ‘Odette, this is Miss Rosebury – she will be your lady’s companion and travel with you to Bad Gastein. Miss Rosebury, this is Miss Fairfax-Waugh.’
Odette rises mechanically and the two women exchange the obligatory pleasantries.
‘Pleased to make your acquaintance,’ says Miss Rosebury.
She has not taken off her hat and gloves, and from this, Odette understands that they are expected to depart at once. It is good that she did not unpack her trunk from Cambridge. It has simply been delivered to Herne House intact and will go with her now to the Continent.
Miss Rosebury is unreadable. She makes no reaction to Odette’s hair that escapes its pins, the red rings around her eyes, the bitten quicks of her nails. Odette supposes she must have seen women in all sorts of states in her career. There is a trailing thread on the lace at Miss Rosebury’s collar and the flash of a fine gold chain at her throat – a locket? A family? A sweetheart? Maybe she is kind. Odette hopes she is kind.
‘Well, you will have time to become acquainted on the journey,’ says Claudine, when Odette says nothing more. ‘Miss Rosebury, the kitchen will have some refreshments for you, I’m sure.’
There is a slight flicker in Miss Rosebury’s eye at being relegated to staff quarters. She will no doubt perceive it as a slight, occupying that strange in-between position that governesses and companions find themselves in, neither welcome below stairs nor with the family. Odette wonders fora moment if Claudine meant it intentionally. She has been a governess, too, and a teacher in Dresden. Perhaps it is a reflex, to hurt, to put people into the places she once found herself.
Miss Rosebury leaves, and Odette sinks back into her chair. She is too tired to think more hateful thoughts about Claudine. She has lost the battle. Surely she has. Aunt Penelope has died. It has gone too far now.
Lydia drifts across the room, the white train of her shroud dragging across the carpet. Her eyes are so dark now, sunken into her skull. It is as though her ghost rots along with her corpse in the ground, the softness of her mother in life sloughing away into something hard and cold and angry.
A bony hand comes to rest on her shoulder.
‘May I – may I see Cecilia before I leave?’ Odette asks. She knows what the answer will be, but she cannot go without asking once more. ‘I thought I should attend the funeral with her, if she intends to go?’
Claudine’s expression grows pinched. ‘I don’t think you should speak of her. She will do far better without you in her life.’
Odette is crying again, the tears a hot wet line along her raw cheek. ‘I only want – if there’s some way I can make it up to her.’
There is a moment’s pause, then the rustle of skirts, and Claudine sits on the settee beside her.
‘The best thing you can do is leave. You might not think it, but I am trying to help you.’ It is a shock to hear a near-softness in her tone. When Odette looks up at Claudine, it is to see the flash of Lydia in her face, the shape of her eye and the line of her nose. ‘You aren’t happy here.’
