She Walks in Beauty (43 page)

For the first time in …
months
. . . when I looked down, it was at my own flesh. I fingered the dents where the boning had pressed into my skin. Ran my hands along the ridges of my ribs, the dip of my spine. Used a handkerchief to press against the nicks from the knife. Assured that I was still there, that I was still myself, I took one deep, deliberate breath. And another. Then I pulled the pins from my hair and shook it out. Donning a dressing sacque, I found my Byron, took up the apple, and burrowed into my bed.

So we’ll go no more a-roving
So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,
And the moon be still as bright.
For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And Love itself have rest.

38

TWO DAYS LATER I waited for Lizzie in the hedge, praying that she would still come. Just as I had resigned myself to having lost her friendship forever, I heard the squeak and swing of the gate and then a rustling in front of me, behind the hedge.

“Hello, Lizzie.”

“Hello.” If only she wouldn’t look at me with those wounded eyes! “Did you enjoy the Patriarch’s Ball?”

The Patriarch’s Ball. The one instance in which I had been given an advantage during the season. I shrugged.

She raised her chin then and looked me straight in the eyes. “You weren’t here last week.” A flush crept up her cheeks, and she glanced down toward her muffed hands.

“Did you come? I didn’t think you would. It was so cold. And snowy.”

“You know I’d always come for you.”

I winced at the accusation, my gaze sliding away. Oh, Lizzie, what had happened to us? I stretched a hand out toward her and looked up. “Lizzie, I wish—”

But she had already gone.

Father died the next day.

I sat with him as he breathed his last. Those long, terrible, halting, gasping breaths. There was so much I wanted to say to him. To this man I really hadn’t known at all. “I wish you had been . . .” What? Different, better? If I wished him so, then why not wish for myself the same? I took up his hand and thought back upon the season.

I wished I had been different.

I wished I had been better.

I wished I could have been what he wanted. What he had needed. I had failed him just as much as he had failed me.
Just As I Am
? No. I had never been good enough for him just as I was. And neither had Mama. But perhaps … perhaps the failure was in being willing to be molded just as much as it was in the molding.

I squeezed his hand. “I wish you could have known me just as I was. I think you might have liked me that way.” I kissed him on the forehead and smoothed back that thatch of distinguished gray hair.

My words must have been a sort of benediction. After that, I sat waiting for a breath that never came.

Shortly thereafter, as if summoned by the celestial realm, Mrs. Hobbs rang the bell. Gently. Softly. Once admitted to the parlor, she settled herself into a chair across from us, folded her hands upon her lap, and sighed. “When I heard there was a death at the Carter residence, I was so hoping that it might have been you, Miss Carter. Such a handsome corpse you would have made. That’s what I told Mr. Hobbs as I walked out the door. ‘I hope it’s the young miss.’ That’s what I said.”

I had a sudden urge to laugh outright. I put a handkerchief to my eyes and pretended to cry instead.

Beside me, Aunt shifted. “May we make the arrangements?”

“Yes. Yes, of course. Let’s make the arrangements. But … could I just have a look at him?”

“A … look?”

Mrs. Hobbs nodded. “Yes. Just a little peek.”

Aunt rose and led her from the parlor up the stairs. They only remained a minute and then I heard them coming down. Mrs. Hobbs retook her seat and pulled a small book and pencil from her reticule.

Aunt remained standing.

“Now then. You’ll want him in a suit of course.”

“Yes. I’ll have it sent.”

“As for pallbearers?”

Aunt bristled. “What of them?”

“Who will they be?”

“I … don’t know.” Aunt’s voice sounded perplexed. But I could understand why. I didn’t know, not really, who he had considered his friends. And we couldn’t call upon his patients for that task.

“You don’t know … ?”

“I wouldn’t know who to ask. Could you not handle that task?”

“Of course, of course. Mr. Hobbs has a dozen fine young men he can call upon. All quite handsome, yet suitably morose. Of course … you’ll supply the gloves and the crape? For their arms?”

Aunt nodded.

“About the carriages?”

“We’ll keep the funeral private.”

Mrs. Hobbs looked up from her book. “Of course. But you’ll still have friends coming.”

Aunt shook her head.

“No friends?”

Aunt’s mouth had gone tight. “No friends.”

I very much doubted that we had any left anymore.

“Be that as it may, you’ll need a carriage for the clergyman.”

“Yes. I’ll have it sent.”

“And the name of the church? For the announcement.”

“We’ll have it here. At home.”

“At home.” Mrs. Hobbs was writing somewhat viciously in her little book. “At home.” She shook her head. Then she looked up from her book. “Might I inquire as to flowers?”

“Do as you think is best.”

“Certainly.” She had returned her attentions to the book. “If only it had been Miss Carter … there are such lovely displays to be made from white roses …
tsk
,
tsk
.”

I pushed to my feet and excused myself. Ran up the stairs to my room and clapped a pillow to my face. And there I laughed into it until I began to cry. I cried for a mother I had known for too short a time and for a father I had known not at all.

That afternoon Aunt busied herself with ordering mourning for me. She needed none for herself. If she had gained anything from her marriage to a poor but respectable old Knickerbocker, it was the right to mourn his death. For as long as she wanted.

The dressmaker came the next day, by appointment, bringing all sorts of gloom with her. Samples of black crape and fringe. Lengths of gauze and Henrietta cloth. Caps and cuffs and collars. “What would you like made?”

“Nothing for myself. But for my niece, some simple gowns in crape.”

“Yes, madam. With a full bodice? Or perhaps a habit-basque?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“A jacket, perhaps? Or a cloak?”

Aunt did not respond.

The woman looked up from her book, a frown crimping her forehead. “Pardon me for asking, but … for the funeral? For being out of doors?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Aunt looked up toward me then, a sad truth clouding her eyes. It didn’t matter because no one would be coming to the funeral nor anywhere near me afterward. One celebrated when a vehicle of oppression, when an extortionist, died; one did not mourn. Aunt sighed. “She’ll need some petticoats and handkerchiefs. Hose and gloves. And some bonnets.”

“Yes, madam.”

“You can speak to the milliner on our behalf?”

The dressmaker nodded.

“And you’re to put it on the account.”

The dressmaker’s eyes bounced awkwardly about the room. “Dr. Carter’s? I’m afraid—”

“
My
account. Mrs. Lewis Stuart’s.” Aunt rose and began walking toward the hall.

“Oh. Well, in that case. Of course.” The dressmaker rose to follow.

But there was one thing the dressmaker needed to know. I coughed. Politely. “My measurements . . .”

She turned, brow lifted in expectation.

“They’ve changed. I’m no longer wearing a corset.”

Her eyes nearly popped from her head. “No longer? But—!”

An expression of befuddlement swept across Aunt’s face.

“I’ll need to be re-measured. For a proper fit.”

“But … no corset at all?”

“None.”

“But—”

I raised my chin, extending myself to my full height. “I’ll need to be re-measured.”

The woman finally bowed rather stiffly and left.

Aunt was still standing in the middle of the room. “No corset?”

I took her hand and led her to the sofa. “None.”

“Surely people will send letters of condolence.” Aunt had been sitting in the parlor on the sofa where I had placed her, doing absolutely nothing at all since the dressmaker had left.

But my time had not been spent so uselessly. I lifted my eyes from my book. From Byron.

“They will have to send letters of condolence. It would be petty of them not to.” Though Aunt was speaking, she wasn’t looking at me. She seemed to be conversing with herself. “I’ll order some cards. It’s only proper. The only proper response to a letter of condolence. I’ll have them done with a wide black edge. That’s what I’ll do.”

I was curled up in a chair by the window. The old dress I was wearing allowed plenty of latitude for movement. Carriages passed by on their way into town. Carts rumbled up the other direction on their way out. It was so peaceful here, watching the world go by, knowing that nothing was required of me. And I felt … nothing at all. It was strange to feel so little. I was an orphan now. A girl still, with an interrupted debut, and no one pledged to wait for me. I ought to feel alone, lost, abandoned. But I felt nothing at all.

Nothing but peace. And an odd sense of relief.