Bone House_ A Novel - Betsy Tobin [34]
“The men who came here?” I ask.
He shakes his head no.
“You are sure?” I press him further.
“Yes,” he says.
I stare at the money for several moments, and cannot help but wonder whether she died for it. I turn to him again. “Long Boy, I fear you are not safe.”
“Why?” he says.
I nod toward the money. He stares at me with complete incomprehension. He is a simple boy.
I am afraid to leave the money here, but I can think of nowhere else to hide it. Something tells me that he would object if I tried to remove it, not because of its value, but because it was hers. In the end I place my master’s purse within the larger sack of hemp and stow both beneath the floor. When the board has been relaid, I am relieved to see that it is indistinguishable from the rest.
“The money will be of use to you,” I tell him. “It will help you to buy food and provisions, until you are old enough to work,” I say. He frowns then, his eyes narrowing with pain.
“She bought the food,” he says quietly. “My mother.”
It is the first time I have ever heard him use this word, and a lump rises in my throat. I turn to him and he trembles, then begins to shake all over, uncontrollably. In an instant I move to him, cradle his enormous frame as best I can, comfort him the way a mother does. But no matter how hard I hold him, my arms cannot quell the shaking. I lay him gently in his bed, cover him with quilts, smooth his hair against his head, smooth his trembling shoulders.
“We will buy your food,” I tell him. “My mother and I.”
I stay with him until he has fallen into deepest slumber, his gangly arms and knees drawn inward, like a child.
That night she visits me in my dreams, and I can see her clearly, for she is standing by the foot of my bed. She wears her death-dress, the one she was buried in, and she is as real to me as she ever was in life. She stands by the tiny window in my room, staring out of it into the night, never once glancing in my direction. Slowly I raise myself up, edge closer to her, terrified that she will flee, or simply vanish. Finally she turns to me, and I see her eyes fill and brim with tears. I have never seen her cry before, and the sight of it moves me beyond words. I pause then, see her blink, and as she does the first tears drop upon her snow white dress. They fall as blood—and we both stare as great drops of crimson bloom upon her skirts. I stare at her for several moments, unable to speak. And then she turns and swiftly crosses to the door, pulling it closed behind her, leaving me alone once again.
And then I wake, the moon’s rays streaming through my tiny window, a column of unearthly light splitting the floor. The house is deathly still, and I hear only my own labored breathing, together with the wild beat of my heart. I close my eyes, hoping that sleep will take me quickly, for I do not wish to be alone with the troubled images of my mind.
Chapter Nine
The next morning word has already spread to the Great House that Dora’s grave has been robbed. At breakfast there is much speculation among the servants as to the motive, but the sight of her in her death-dress remains frozen in my mind, and when I overhear their banter it sickens me. I move to the kitchen so as to avoid their talk, and take only a small draught of ale, drawing disapproving looks from Cook. Afterward I go to prepare my mistress for her morning sitting with the painter.
Today we are more practiced and we complete her transformation in almost half the time. When I am through she looks at her reflection in the mirror and sighs a little wistfully.
“What a triumph to be desired even as a corpse,” she says.
Her comment startles me in its boldness. I frown, cannot quell the thought that Dora has not been taken for this reason, but for some other. Perhaps an even darker one.
“She may yet be found,” I stammer. My mistress responds with the trace of a knowing smile.
“In the arms of the devil, my dear.”
Just then the painter arrives outside her chamber and she bids him enter. When he does, his eyes dart quickly to mine, then