Bone House_ A Novel - Betsy Tobin [60]
“You took him to see her?” he asks all of a sudden.
“Yes,” I say. He nods.
“Then surely he will be capable of rendering a likeness.” I hesitate slightly.
“I presume so, yes.” I do not speak of her rigid death-face, of how unlike it was.
“They will bury her today?”
“I have not heard, sir.”
“I should like to know,” he says.
“Perhaps I could inquire,” I suggest.
“I would be most indebted,” he replies. I nod and turn to go, as anxious to be rid of his presence as I had been earlier in his mother’s chamber.
“There is one more thing,” he says absently. “The painter is above. He wishes to see you, at your convenience.”
I stare at him a moment. “I’ll go at once,” I say.
I climb the stairs with mounting resentment. What more could he want from me? I pause outside his door to gather my wits. Despite my earlier resolution, it seems it will be difficult to avoid him. When I knock I hear a rustling from within, and after a moment the door opens. Like my master he is unshaven and his hair uncombed. He runs a hand through it self-consciously.
“Forgive my appearance,” he says. “I worked late into the night.” He stands aside for me to enter. I take a step into the room, but only one, then turn to face him.
“You wished to see me?” My voice is distant, formal.
He nods. “I worked late into the night, but she eludes me.” He indicates the portrait on the easel, does not meet my eyes. I cross over to look at it, and he is right. He is further from her now than before. I offer no words of encouragement.
“I cannot succeed without your help,” he says. “I need your eyes. And your words.” I look again upon the portrait. There is something grotesque about it, as if it too has died.
“I do not know,” I say hesitantly. For truly I am not sure that I can take him any further. Perhaps she is like the bird upon the mountain. Perhaps it is not possible to capture her within the frame.
“I beg of you,” he says. I look again at him and he is on the brink of despair. Why does it mean so much to him? Is it merely a matter of pride? Or has she taken root in him as well?
“I will try,” I say finally. He smiles a little, is visibly relieved. There is an awkward silence.
“You had better get some rest,” I say coldly. “I’ll come to you this evening.”
He nods. And then without his thanks, I go.
I send for Lucius myself, knowing that my master is incapable of making decisions, and feeling that I must do something for my mistress. When Lucius arrives, he is somewhat taken aback, for it is clear that she is fast declining. He asks to confer with her other physician, Carrington, as if the burden of her care is suddenly too onerous for him alone, and so a servant is dispatched at once.
I offer him a drink and he accepts readily, suggesting we take it in the parlor downstairs so as not to disturb her, but truly it is plain that he is anxious to be free of her death-room. Her condition unnerves him and he is overly talkative, telling me he has just come from the village.
“I was asked by the magistrate to examine the body,” he explains, sipping from his glass.
“He has already arrived?” I say. Lucius nods.
“Early this morning. Most anxious to attend the case.”
“You saw her?” I ask cautiously. Lucius nods. “What did you find?”
“He wished to know the extent of damage. I told him it appeared their only aim was removal of the fetus. There were no other acts of malice that I could detect.” I nod. “The job was crudely done, but effective,” he adds, not meeting my eyes.
“Is there a suspect?” I ask.
“No. But there is talk of another search. If they find the fetus, they’ll have the culprit.” I do not reply, but it seems unlikely they will find the fetus when they could not even find the corpse.
“There is talk of sorcery,” he continues. “Or some other of the black arts. Given the nature of the crime, I should