Bone House_ A Novel - Betsy Tobin [7]
“It is difficult to believe that she is dead,” she says finally. I raise my head and she is looking past me into the grayness, her expression frozen. She turns to me slowly and blinks.
I stare at her, unable to reply.
Lucius arrives an hour later, delayed by the roads, which are barely passable this winter. He bustles in carrying his case of instruments, and clears his throat with measured self-importance. My mistress appears not to notice his affectations. Indeed, she becomes coy whenever he is present, if such a thing is possible for one so old. It is difficult for me to comprehend why she behaves this way. Lucius is not much younger than she, though he is stouter and more robust. His face is not handsome but I suppose his bearing is impressive. His best feature is his hair, which although graying, is thick and lively and entirely his own. Indeed, on a windy day it operates independently of him, and I have often glimpsed him struggling to restrain it outside my mistress’s chamber. His eyes are small and piglike, however, and his nose is prone to redness. Both are made worse by the complete absence of a chin, which he tries to mask with a thin goatee and an oversized ruff.
Still, she flirts with him like a young maid, and sends for him when there is only the slightest provocation. This morning she sits up when he enters, and I am reminded of a bird opening its plume. My mistress has the ability to transform herself at will, to shrug off both age and infirmity when an opportunity presents itself. Lucius is just such a one. He bows to her and she extends a bony hand, which he presses lightly to his lips.
“Your humble servant, madame,” he says.
“You are neither, Lucius,” she responds with a wave. “But you are nevertheless welcome. I am near death this morning.”
“My lady exaggerates,” he says, stepping forward. “A touch of colic, nothing more, I should venture.” He picks up her wrist and feels her pulse.
“Perhaps,” she says with a shrug. He opens his case and takes out a cone-shaped instrument, not unlike the one my mother uses. He motions for her to bend forward and he places it against her back, lowering his ear to listen. My mistress frowns a little. In truth, she does not like the actual process of being examined, no more than she likes the various treatments he applies, but she tolerates them for the sake of his presence. I am sure he is aware of this, and he always responds to her complaints with as much gravity as he can muster. Together, hey are like players in a comedy.
“Your chest is a trifle heavy,” he says finally. “A dose of camphor should suffice.” It is his favorite remedy, and not one she is overly fond of. She barely manages to conceal her distaste.
“Very well, if I must,” she says with a sigh.
“It will clear your chest and raise your spirits,” he responds, snapping his case shut with authority.
“I should be grateful if it did not give me indigestion.” He appears not to notice this comment and takes up his case in preparation to leave. “Will you not stay on for lunch?” she asks, a note of irritation creeping into her voice.
“I apologize. I am needed in the village.”
“In the village?” says my mistress, raising her eyebrows. There are few in the village who can afford a physician’s services. “For whom?”
“The boy. The Long Boy. He has been overcome with fits.”
“How unfortunate,” she murmurs, her eyes once again flitting to the window. “They say that she froze solid.” She turns to him. “Is this true?”
Lucius blanches, for the question clearly unsettles him. “Such a thing is possible,” he says finally. “By the time I saw her she was . . . thawed.”
My mistress shrugs, picks at her bedclothes. “I suppose we should not pity her. She lived life as she chose.”
“No,” says Lucius quickly. He pauses, then deliberately relaxes his tone.