Bone House_ A Novel - Betsy Tobin [59]
“No, mum, I did not,” I lie.
She sighs, looks down at the half-empty cup in her lap as if she does not recognize it. “He did not wish it to be known. But a mother has her ways.”
“There were many who admired her,” I say, somewhat at a loss for words.
“I thought perhaps that he might take a wife . . . now that she is gone.” She turns her watery gaze to me.
“Yes, mum. It is possible.” Such a thing could not be more unlikely, I think.
“I should like to see him settled before I die,” she continues. “It is true that he has lost his youth. But he is generous of spirit, and kind of heart. His disfigurement has made him so.” She looks at me for concurrence.
“Yes, mum. He has been a good master to us all.”
“He would make an even better husband. Loyal. And rue.” Suddenly her meaning becomes clear, for it is me she has in mind.
“Yes, mum. I’m sure he would,” I stammer.
She sighs and looks away toward the window. “He has never known the love of a woman. It would be a great tragedy if he never did.”
I think of his unbridled passion, his obsessive longing for the great-bellied woman. She does not know her son is capable of such ardor, nor that he has struggled like a web-caught insect in its grasp.
“Of course there is no question of children,” she continues in a rambling tone. “One would not want the risk. And like his father, he would not be equal to the stress. But there are other things to occupy a woman’s time. A household to run. A husband to serve. These things are ample enough reward.”
“Yes, mum,” I murmur, for her mind strays now, and she does not appear to hear me.
“She would have a title. And wealth. And would bring honor to her family.” She turns back to me pointedly. In a flash I think of my mother and the closed circle of her world. My mother dwells outside the realm of wealth and titles, has no need for them, and even less desire.
“Shall I read to you, mum?” I say.
“No,” she says quietly.
“You must rest now then,” I tell her.
“Yes.” I take the cup from her, and as I turn away she reaches out a bony hand to grasp my arm. Her grip is surprisingly strong, and I feel a little rush of panic as she pulls me back to face her.
“You will see to it when I am gone?” she asks, her tone desperate. I look deeply into the well of her eyes; they are awash with delirium.
“Yes, mum,” I say. She lies back against the cushion, but does not let go my arm, as if her hand is somehow disconnected from the rest of her. Then, as if an afterthought, she relaxes her grip and closes her eyes, and I take up the tray and hurry from the room.
When I arrive in the kitchen, Cook shakes her head at the tray. “She is not long,” she says with characteristic brevity.
“She may yet recover,” I reply, for I can still feel the claw of her iron grip upon my forearm.
“Death is with her now,” says Cook. “He is there, in that room.” It is true, for I had felt it the minute I entered—a sense of decay and imminent doom. Cook shakes her head again and I see that she has assembled a bunch of medicinal herbs on the table. But they are not the usual sort, the ones that cure: they are herbs used to relieve pain and suffering, to ease one’s passage into death.
“Perhaps we should send for Lucius,” I say tentatively. Cook shrugs and lifts a cauldron of water onto the hook over the fire.
“Do what you will,” she says. “He can do nothing for her now.”
I go at once to see my master, to inform him of his mother’s condition. I find him in a state of total disarray. There is a wildness in his eyes, as if he has not slept in days. His clothes are crumpled and his face is unshaven, and his desk is a mass of open books and scattered papers. When I tell him that his mother’s condition has worsened he looks at me as if I am speaking in tongues.
“I think it best we send for her physician,” I say emphatically, hoping to impress upon him the urgency of the situation. He nods then, finally.
“Yes, of course,” he murmurs. “I shall send a steward for him at once.” But he remains motionless, his hands frozen to the desk, and I wonder