Rose was so poor at dressing my hair, I had her brush it out so it fell over my shoulders. I’d disguised my lip with rouge, my cheek with powder, and fixed my elbow so that it rested on the arm of the chair, thereby lifting my shoulder to a normal position. My recovery had left me thin and pale; the pallor intensified the blue of my eyes, or so I told myself. Charles’s eyes betrayed only the mildest alarm when he came into the parlor, where I had arranged myself to receive him. I held out my left hand as he approached and he bent over it, brushing his lips against the bridge of my fingers. “My dearest sister,” he said. “You have been in my prayers every minute.”
“Do you pray so often?” I said.
He stepped back, remembering that I had never been charmed by him. He tried another line. “Maybelle sends her love and her sympathy,” he said.
Then I felt sorry for him, because Maybelle is as fat as a hog. That thought led straight to a pang of guilt. Maybelle alone of my relatives showed me the courtesy of refraining from any mention of God in her condolence letter at Mother’s death. She recounted a kindness Mother had done for her when her son was ill and Mother directed her to a specialist. Everyone else felt the need to assure me that Mother’s death was part of God’s plan. Exactly, I wanted to shout after reading this sentiment half a dozen times—his plan is to kill us all, and if an innocent child dies in agony and a wicked man breathes his last at an advanced age in his sleep, who are we to call it injustice?
“Please give Maybelle my warmest regards,” I said to Charles.
He wandered away to a chair and lowered himself into it with the care of a man who has been riding all day. “Your aunt tells me that you are feeling well enough to take an interest in your affairs.”
“I am,” I said. “It seems to me there’s a great deal to attend to.”
“You needn’t be bothered with any of it,” he said. “We are in hopes that you will come to live with us at Chatterly.”
My aunt has told him what Mother’s estate is worth, I thought. “That is kind,” I said. “But I long to be near my aunt, to be of use to her. She has been so good to me.”
“I see,” he said. “The children will be disappointed.”
This remark was shockingly transparent, as I hardly knew my nieces and nephew, nor have they ever expressed the slightest interest in my acquaintance. I looked about the room, resting my eyes upon various empty spaces where ghosts might reside, and indeed I felt a curious chill, such as I used to experience when my husband looked at me. “I can’t bear being in the country, Charles,” I said. “I never feel safe for one minute.”
“Of course,” he said. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“I want to sell this place and everyone in it, except Delphine.”
“I’m sure a buyer could be found,” he said. “But I fear the price will not be satisfactory.”
“My husband was in debt to half the parish,” I said, enjoying the amazement that settled upon my counselor. “He owed you five thousand dollars, isn’t that correct? Close to six with interest.”
“I’m not sure of the exact amount.”
“He owed the banks a fortune, he owes the factor more than he would have made on this year’s crop. Still, I think if I sell everything, even at a poor price, it will clear out the debt.”
“I would have to look into his books,” he offered, but tentatively now.
“Yes, you should do that,” I said. “You might want to take a glass of whiskey with you, to brace yourself against the shock.”
“My poor brother,” he said, considering the full extent of my husband’s folly, which included having a wife who knew what he was worth.
“Fortunately, I have my mother’s estate,” I said. “I will move into her house in town. The income from her investments will be sufficient for my needs, so I should have no occasion to call upon the charity of my husband’s relatives.”
He frowned. “I am pleased to learn that you will be independent,” he said. “I think you couldn’t be at peace any other way. But it is wrong for you to speak of the solemn obligation I bear my brother’s widow as charity. If you were penniless, I would consider it both my duty and an honor to provide for you.”
It was the first time anyone had called me a widow to my face. I liked the sound of it. I pictured my fate in this man’s house if I were forced to rely upon his honor—the widowed aunt, sulking about with an embroidery hoop, called upon to play the piano when the young people wanted to dance—and I sent a heartfelt message of gratitude to my mother for her sound investments, her excellent financial sense.