Bone House_ A Novel - Betsy Tobin [80]
“Thank you, mum,” I murmur.
“He is unused to exploiting his title. Influence does not come easily to him, in the way that it did to his father. So we shall have to see.”
I think of his father, my father, and the tale my mother told of the manservant he nearly flogged to death. Is this what she regards as influence? I feel suddenly as if I should not be here, that I cannot serve her in good faith any longer.
“When you and Edward have married, there will be much you have to learn. I was very young when I married, had no idea what to . . . expect.” She pauses, her eyes flit across the room toward the window. “It was a difficult period in my life.” She turns back to me and smiles wanly. “But I survived. And so shall you.”
I stare at her: cannot bring myself to speak. Like my mother, she survived him. And by birth and implication, so have I, for he has altered the course of life for all of us. She begins to cough and as she does lifts a handkerchief to her lips, discharging the contents of her mouth into it. At length the cough subsides, and she is left wracked by it, her small chest heaving from the effort.
“The two of you must marry quickly if I am to be present,” she says through a choked voice. Just then I hear a stirring in the hallway and when I turn, Edward is there in the shadows of the doorway. He clears his throat and enters, glances at me, and crosses directly to her bedside.
“I’ve returned, Mother,” he says, taking her hand. “I’ve done what you asked, but you must stop all this talk of death, for you shall be as right as rain by spring.” My mistress looks up at him and smiles.
“She is here,” she says. “She is waiting for you.” She waves a hand in my direction. My master reddens and clears his throat.
“You must rest now,” he says.
“It is time now, Edward,” she continues, pressing his hand fervently.
“Please, Mother,” he says urgently, his embarrassment acute.
“I cannot wait,” she says in desperation.
He stares at her and words fail him.
“You must promise me,” she says, her voice thick with emotion.
“I cannot,” he says. There is silence then as the three of us regard each other.
“Perhaps I should go,” I say tentatively.
“No,” says Edward quickly. “No. You must stay. For this is a family matter,” he says with emphasis, turning to face me. “And you are family.”
He tells her then: the entire bloodstained tale, sparing no details. And as he does, a film of resistance seems to settle over her eyes. She does not meet my gaze even once during the telling, but her body seems to collapse upon itself, like a withered rose. My master speaks in even tones at first, but as she draws away, his voice takes on a greater urgency. When he finishes there is a suffocating silence, and the air is heavy with her enmity. Her disbelief is almost palpable.
“She is lying.” Her voice rolls across the room to where I stand by the window, and it is thick with rancor. “I do not know her motive,” she continues in steely tones, “but he would not have been capable, with his weakened heart, of such an act.”
“I was there,” interjects my master. “And I saw it. And he was not struck dead.”
“You were but a child,” she retorts.
“I saw the knife in his hand, and the blood upon the stable floor,” he says. “I heard her screams,” he adds. My mistress eyes him for a long moment, purses her withered lips.
“So I am to believe that he sired a bastard child without my knowledge?” she says finally.
“You can believe what you wish,” he replies wearily. “We speak the truth.”
My mistress turns away then. “I am tired,” she says. “And there is pain behind my eyes. I wish to sleep.” And with that, she closes her eyes, shutting out the past and its secrets, and the offspring of her husband.
My master slowly turns to face me, his eyes dark and his cheeks flushed with anger. The color ebbs from his face, and with it goes something else, perhaps his pride. He bends to retrieve his walking stick and shuffles from the room without another word. I turn back to my mistress and her face is like granite, though her spindly chest rises and