Bone House_ A Novel - Betsy Tobin [8]
“She did not choose to die,” I say quietly. They both turn to look at me, and I feel the heat rise in my face. I do not know what has prompted this thought, nor why I did not keep it to myself.
“No one does, my dear,” says my mistress pointedly. “The Lord chooses for us.”
I do not reply, thinking only that Dora did not deserve such an end. Lucius looks at me and I am sure he reads my thoughts. He clears his throat.
“Any woman in her condition would have been at risk for such a fall,” he says quietly.
I raise my head to look at him. “What do you mean?” I ask.
“She was with child,” he declares, after a pause.
“I did not know,” my mistress says, raising her eyebrows. She turns to me a little expectantly, but already my mind is distracted by the image of her lifeless body. Once again I see Lucius’s hands travel loosely over her belly. Only a trained eye would have recognized her pregnancy; it was not discernible to me. But to my mother, who laid her out in death, it must have been apparent.
Chapter Three
It snows intermittently throughout the afternoon, and by the time I finish work the grounds outside the Great House have been frosted like a cake. My feet are among the first to mar the pristine whiteness covering the ground. As I hurry along the road toward Long Boy’s cottage, the snow begins to fall anew, large wet flakes that cling to my eyelashes and clothes. I raise my face to the evening sky and the snow stings my skin with its icy, moist caress. As I reach the first few cottages on the outskirts of the village, I hear the shouts of children up ahead. The sky is dark but the snow itself lights their play. They have piled up a mound as tall as I am, and scramble over each other happily, oblivious to the cold. As I watch them tumble about in the dark, I cannot help but think of Long Boy in his bed, for he has never known the joy of child’s play. He knew only his mother’s love, and now that has been taken from him.
By the time I arrive my shoes are wet through and my toes aching from the cold. It is my mother who answers my knock at the door. She is wearing a white apron, soiled from the day’s work, and her forehead is smudged with ash from the fire. Her face is lined and heavy, but no more than usual, for it has been so all my life. Like me, she is small and neatly formed, though her waist has thickened with age. Her once-black hair has turned to gray, and she keeps it tightly bound in a linen cap.
The inside of the cottage is barely discernible in the semi-darkness, the only light coming from a few glowing embers in the fireplace. My mother presses a finger to her lips and motions me inside, where I can see Long Boy sleeping in his bed. A pan of water lies on a chair next to the bed, and a cloth is draped over his forehead.
“His fever is broken,” says my mother.
“The doctor was here?” I ask.
She gives a curt nod and picks up the bowl, carrying it to the front door and emptying it outside. When she returns she goes to the fireplace and stirs a pot hanging over the embers. The room smells of brewing herbs. I recognize the aroma of one of my mother’s remedies.
“What did he say?”
She pauses before answering. “He gave me camphor.”
“Did you use it?”
She purses her lips and nods to the boy. “It was not needed.” My mother has little time for physicians and their cures, and has her own store of remedies made from ingredients she either grows or gathers. It is useless to argue with her over such things, so instead I move to the boy’s side. His skin is pink in the firelight, almost luminescent, and his dark hair is damp with sweat, but he sleeps deeply and easily. I stand for a moment over him; his face is a curious mixture of youth and maturity. His cheeks are round and full, like that of a toddler, but already he sprouts a downy show of black hair upon his upper lip.
My mother busies herself at the table, moving quietly about with various preparations. After a moment I turn back to her.
“Why did you not tell me she was