When the priest had passed, Charlotte leaned close and murmured, “You really don’t know anything about Brigid Tierney?”
Arthur shook his head.
She straightened, tucking a stray hairpin back into her chignon. “Well, that’s something.”
He flinched. She hadn’t known about the money; he’d hoped, when he gave it to Mary, that she’d never find out. Trust Mrs. Tierney to ruin that.
Sure enough, Charlotte leaned back over as the priest gave a short welcome. “We could’ve used the money.”
“It wasn’t much.”
“All the more reason to have kept it,” Charlotte said, but she focused back on the service rather than her brother’s romantic whims.
As Mass went on, she stumbled over responses and hymns she’d known her entire life. The fog that had enveloped her brain on and off since her illness had that effect; she’d forget a word, why she’d entered a room, or what she’d meant to add to her medical kit before visiting a patient. Gripping her hand, Arthur responded and sang louder so she could follow along, but her eyes brimmed with angry tears. She kept one hand on the wedding ring at her neck, rubbing it for comfort.
At long last, Mass was over. The sun guttered weakly in the uneasy sky. Long tendrils of mist lifted and burned away; the late-August air had grown clammy rather than warm. Villagers spilled from the church. Their gossip washed around theThrockmorton-Prentices, but Arthur tuned it out. He didn’t want to hear delight over the scandal of Mary Tierney’s elopement or speculations about the disappearance of her sister.
He couldn’t help speculating himself, however. “Where has Miss Brigid gone, do you suppose?”
Charlotte glanced at him wearily but offered no answer. She’d managed the end of the liturgy without stumbling over the words, but concentrating so hard to remember something she’d known for thirty-six years had exhausted her.
“She was seen heading uphill the other night,” one of the other Tierney girls said, drifting toward them. “Then she was gone. Ma’s convinced she’s eloped like Mary did, but—” the girl’s voice lowered “—we’re afraid she’s gone into the wood.”
“Kitty!” Mrs. Tierney snapped from somewhere in the throng of people. The girl jumped. “Where have you got to? Are all my daughters to run off on me now?”
“Tell us if you see her, won’t you?” Kitty whispered, then called, “Coming, Ma!” and rabbited away.
iv. In which Charlotte faces wood sickness
The Throckmorton-Prentices hadn’t made it past the churchyard when a well-dressed old woman with milky skin and impeccable posture stopped them. She took one of Charlotte’s hands in both of her own, warm and welcoming as she’d been for as long as Charlotte could remember.
“My dear Charlotte. I hoped I might speak to you.”
“What can I do for you, Mrs. Livingston?” Charlotte asked.
The old woman nearly snorted, but she was too well-bred. “‘Mrs. Livingston.’ Please, Charlotte, I pray you will call me Agnes. How long have we known each other, yet you insist on such formalities?”
Charlotte’s lips twitched. “It seems one of us ought to.”
“Silly girl,” Agnes said fondly.
Charlotte may have been thirty-six, but she’d been a favorite of Agnes’s since childhood. After their father’s disappearance, their mother, drowning in grief, had taken to her bed, neglecting her work, her home, and her children. The villagers had offered her no help or sympathy. Twelve-year-old Arthur had dressed himself and Charlotte in their best clothes, taken his sister’s hand, and walked up to the Livingstons’ manor door to ask in a trembling voice whether they had any clocks in need of repair.
Agnes’s husband had wanted to turn them away, but Agnes had hushed him. Pulling an old mantel clock out of storage, she’d told Arthur she’d pay him to fix it. She’d played a game with Charlotte while he’d worked, made him stop so they could have supper, and, when he’d managed the repair, paid him far too much and told them to come back the next day.
Agnes was the main reason the two of them hadn’t starved, since Arthur’s only notable skill was clock repair and Charlotte had been just five years old. Back then, Charlotte had wished the old woman was secretly their grandmother and would adopt them once the truth came out. But she wasn’t, and she didn’t.
The old woman smiled at Arthur, offering her hand.
“Arthur, dear boy.” He kissed her hand, bowing, and she turned back to Charlotte. “Do you have a moment to come by the house?”
“Is everything all right?”
Charlotte hadn’t visited in some time. As she and Arthur had grown, and Charlotte had become a healer, they hadn’t relied so heavily on Agnes. Then, too, Charlotte had become more aware of the differences between them; Agnes could sail about doing whatever she pleased because she had money. Though Arthur cared for her ever-increasing collection of timepieces, she’d never had need of Charlotte’s services before: She’d long kept a live-in physician who’d tended her husband’s poor health. Agnes had outlived her physician (and her husband), but surely she’d send to Port Lorne for a doctor if she needed medical attention now.
“It’s poor Gracie—my cousin, you know. Gracie Buchanan. I don’t think you’ve met her yet, Charlotte. Arthur has, of course, he comes by so often. I do wish you’d visit more.”
“Gracie Buchanan?” Charlotte prompted.
