Bone House_ A Novel - Betsy Tobin [58]
Since then I have not known desire. And as I trudge along the cold, dark road, it is the knowing grin of the quacksalver that appears before my eyes. Perhaps he is my guardian angel, here to remind me of my previous sins, and steer me toward a pious future. Or perhaps he is the devil, here to taunt me with my past and lead me into despair. But he is irritating in his maleness, so I shake the image from my mind, and concentrate upon the frozen rutted road beneath my feet. It seems to me that I have once again fallen prey to circumstance. The painter clearly seized upon an opportune moment: had the taper remained lit we would not have succumbed to temptation and I would not be walking home alone in the darkest hour of the night.
But I would still have to face the wrath of my mother, who would have disapproved regardless of whether or not she had surprised us in a clench of desire. For as I told the painter, the fact of our presence there together was sufficiently damning in her eyes. My mother and her mask of betrayal would have to be reckoned with tomorrow.
When I reach the Great House I collapse into my bed, the weight of the night’s events heavy upon me. I toss and turn for several hours, and when sleep finally arrives, it is troubled. In the early hours of the dawn I dream that I am caught in the vortex of a whirlpool. At the point when I am nearly lost, my mother’s face appears directly overhead, looking down into the swirling water. I shout at her to help me, but my words are swallowed by the torrent and she does not hear. She peers more closely, as if she is idly curious, then turns away, disappearing from view. And then I feel myself succumb, as I am dragged down far below the surface.
Chapter Fourteen
In the morning I go directly to my mistress. To my relief, I find her awake and somewhat improved from the previous day, though she remains only the shadow of her former self. When I enter she is sitting up in bed, propped against her cushions, staring toward the window. Cook has evidently brought her breakfast, for she clutches a small tankard tightly in her hands. She startles when she hears me, spilling some of the ale upon the bedclothes, but does not appear to notice. She turns her eyes full upon me, and I see that they are glazed with illness, like boiled sweets.
“It is you,” she says slowly. “How long you’ve been away.” Her voice is heavy with the burden of infirmity.
“I’m sorry, mum. I shall not leave you today,” I reply, taking a seat beside the bed. I have already resolved to forgo any more sessions with the painter; he cannot possibly need me further, now that he has seen his subject in the flesh. My mistress waves a hand as if to say it is no matter. She takes a sip of ale and her hand trembles as she lifts the cup to her withered lips.
“Edward remains with the painter today,” she says after a moment.
“Yes, mum,” I murmur.
“I cannot think why I wished my own portrait to be done,” she says. “I feel that if he paints me in my present state he will rob what little life is left.” She smiles wanly at me.
“No, mum. I’m sure that is not so,” I say, but believe that she is right. At any rate, there is no question of her sitting for him, as she is far too weak.
“They found her body, did they not?” she says suddenly.
I pause. “Yes, mum.”
“I overheard the others,” she says. I wonder what else she has heard.
“She will be buried again soon,” I say cautiously.
“A body must be laid to rest,” she says, her eyes wide. Does she speak of herself? She turns to me.
“Edward was fond of her, you know,” she says point-blank.