Bone House_ A Novel - Betsy Tobin [55]
“He wishes only to preserve her memory,” he says.
“He wishes to have her to himself, as he could not have done in life,” I reply swiftly. We stand facing each other in the darkness, and we are miles apart.
“I see,” he says finally. He frowns and turns away. It is evident that he does not see. I watch him for a moment in the cold light of the moon.
“It is not just that which angers her,” I say after a moment. He looks at me expectantly, and I take a deep breath before replying. “It is the fact of my presence there . . . with you.” I choose my words carefully, and cannot meet his eyes when I utter them. We both stare at the frozen ground, and the silence stretches out between us. And then finally his voice floats up out of the darkness.
“I apologize if I have compromised you in any way,” he says stiffly. “It was not my intent. I only seek to carry out my commission successfully.” He clears his throat and looks away again, and I feel my heart race with anger. Perhaps my mother is right: men only seek to further their vocation. The painter and I are not partners as I had thought: I merely serve to buttress his ambitions.
I turn and walk away into the night, leaving him behind me in the cold.
Chapter Thirteen
When I was seventeen I very nearly lost myself. The man in question’s name was Joseph and he was an itinerant quacksalver who plied his trade throughout the county. He was some years older than I, past his thirties, though of robust good looks and youthful vigor. I first saw him at a market fair, hawking his potions with a fervency that I had rarely seen outside the pulpit. But unlike most of his kind, he seemed to me no charlatan. His belief in the healing properties of his tonic was absolute, or appeared to be so at the time. And I am ashamed to admit that my belief in him was very nearly the same.
He had no carthorse, as is common among those of his trade, but carried his stock upon his back, in a rough woven pack that lay at his feet while he spoke to the gathering crowd. But his clothes were finely cut and his hair artfully tied at the nape of his neck, and his eyes were of a brilliant blue, like the plumage of some rare bird. I stood for several minutes at the back of the crowd and listened to him expound upon the merits of his tonic. Rheumatism, palsy, gout, the stone—it seemed there were no ills it could not cure. And while I was tempted to acquire some on behalf of my mother, I had not the necessary money in my pocket, so I kept my place and watched as he disposed of several bottles among the crowd. At length their numbers dwindled and only I remained, and he turned to me expectantly. He held out a bottle and I blushed and shook my head, and he stopped in front of me and pushed his three-cornered hat back so it rested precariously on the back of his head. He glanced around, saw that we were alone, and spoke with some degree of candor.
“Are you beyond the reach of ill health, or merely skeptical of nature?” He tilted his head and awaited my response, a glimmer of a smile upon his lips.
“I am neither, sir,” I replied, blushing.
“Then perhaps you are here for your amusement.”
“I thought at first to make a purchase,” I stammered. “But find my purse is light.” He nodded knowingly and smiled.
“A light purse is a most regrettable affliction, but it is not beyond cure,” he said. Then it was my turn to smile, for I could see he did not think ill of me.
“How much do you have?” he asked outright.
“I have but one and sixpence.”
“Then that is the price you shall pay,” he said, handing me the bottle.
“No, sir, I could not. It is too generous,” I protested.
“It is nothing of the sort,” he replied. “The day is long and my pack is heavy and one and sixpence will buy me a hearty supper.” And with that he pressed the murky green bottle into my hands and turned away. I watched as he disappeared into the crowds, his pack slung over one shoulder, and I was left clutching