“You look like something the cat yakked up,” Althea said.
“I can always count on my friends to make me feel better.” I added honey to the mug Mom handed me. She disappeared into the walk-in pantry.
“Just saying,” Althea said with a shrug. She pursed her lips to blow on her coffee. “Since we’re not making anyone beautiful today, I thought maybe I’d experiment with a new hand cream I’ve been thinking about for Althea’s Organic Skincare Solutions. Glycerin, maybe some sandalwood oil and ginger to give it a more exotic scent . . .” She made a note on a lined pad.
“Did you hear from Loretta yesterday?” I asked Althea casually, aware of my mother shifting cans in the pantry.
Althea’s eyes slanted toward the pantry door. “That boy never came home last night,” she said in a low voice. “Loretta’s worried sick about him.”
I wondered if I should mention that Dillon had wanted the police to bring Lonnie in. Maybe he hadn’t shown up at home because he was in jail? No, if that were the case, someone would have let his aunt know.
“Said several folks had been by asking for him and Loretta didn’t like the looks of any of them.”
“Did you mention the—” I made a gun with my hand.
Althea nodded heavily. “I thought she should know. If she gets a chance, maybe she can talk some sense into him.”
“Into who?” Mom asked, emerging from the pantry with a can of crushed pineapple in her hand. Not waiting for an answer, she said, “I thought I’d make some pineapple upside-down cake. Just in case we lose power tomorrow, it’ll be good to have something special to eat.”
“Good idea.” I finished my tea, feeling much better, and stood. “I’m going to find Rachel and see how she’s doing.”
“She’ll be at school, dear,” Mom pointed out.
“Oh.” I’d forgotten. “Well, then I’m going to read through the rest of my Rothmere letters and maybe talk to Lucy to see what she’s knows about Clarissa’s fate. Can I come back for dinner?”
“Of course. Spend the night, too, if you want. The forecasters say Horatio should make landfall late tonight. You’d rather be here, wouldn’t you, than in that dinky old carriage house?”
“Absolutely. We can play Crazy Eights and Spades if the electricity goes out.”
“Yippee,” Althea said with a marked lack of enthusiasm.
Mom and I laughed. I kissed them both and headed out, feeling strangely at loose ends.
The copies of the Rothmere letters were still in my car, so I walked home, the wind nudging me from behind. A big clump of pampas grass planted beside the Rivingtons’ driveway, taunted by the wind, reached out to slap me with its long blades as I passed. Retrieving the pages from my Fiesta, I shut myself into my apartment and sorted out the ones I’d already read. The next one that came to hand was from Clarissa to her friend Felicity.
Christmas Day 1831
Dear Felicity,
It is a labor to be truly joyous on this most holy day when my heart aches for my father. With my mother and my brothers and sisters, saving only Sophia, staying with us for the holidays, I should be able to put aside my grief. But in truth, the press of people in the house makes me nervous. I hear whisperings outside my door at night and footsteps in the empty gallery. I do not share these imaginings with my family since they already look askance at me and say I have been unbalanced by Father’s death. Only the knowledge that I am to marry my dear Quentin next month makes it possible to bear with my family at this time. Do you think me unfeeling? I am ready to shed Rothmere like a snake sheds its skin and join Quentin at Oakdale Manor as Mrs. Dodd. If I did not know I could leave so soon, I think I must, indeed, go mad. I do so look forward to your arrival, my dearest friend, and trust that I will be feeling more the thing by then. My stomach ailments had subsided somewhat near Thanksgiving, but I’m feeling bilious again these past few days. Perhaps it is due to the stress of dealing with brother Geoffrey and his wife, who have embraced their roles as lord and lady of the manor with too much enthusiasm, even though Mama is still in residence! It seems disrespectful to me. I must hasten to get this in today’s post, so I bid you adieu for now.
With deepest friendship,
Clarissa
Clarissa’s illness was beginning to worry me. Maybe she had ulcers. Or a mid-nineteenth century version of IBS. Another thought occurred to me and I smoothed a hand down the copied page, irritated by its textureless modernity, wanting the rougher, richer paper that Clarissa had written on. Could Clarissa’s symptoms be explained by a poison of some kind? Hadn’t ladies used lead in their makeup in those days? I couldn’t remember. Could she have been exposed to some household toxin that was making her ill?