Script that was once beautiful now flowed raggedly across the stationery, veering off into a sharp decline from the page to the desk blotter. Ink trailed across the floor to where the pen had come to rest. My wife lay crumpled between the desk and the arm of her chair, her hand pointing to the fallen pen.

I picked it up.

“Shouldn’t you leave that?” Miss Carruthers was standing at the door as if afraid to come in. Did she think death was catching?

“Why?”

“Won’t they examine the death scene?”

“My wife has been sick. She’s finally at peace.” I pushed the stopper back into the bottle of ink. “A tragedy, but purely natural.”

“But... I just...”

I studied her in the fading light. She was a striking young woman. Too pretty, really, to be tending children for the rest of her life. Just as I was too handsome to mourn my beloved, sick wife forever.

My beloved--very rich--wife who’d never been sick a day in her life until she met me.

“Miss Carruthers, would you have Stanton fetch the doctor?”

She stared at my wife, hands clenched on her modest gown, wrinkling the fabric.

“Miss Caruthers?” Such formality. I should have to call her Emily very soon. No more Miss Carruthers.

She still didn’t move.

I lowered my voice, let it caress her. “Miss Carruthers, please?”

“What? Oh...yes, yes of course sir.” She cast a pitying glance at my wife, then fled.


I looked over at Emily, napping in the chair by the bed. She’d left the window open again.

“See to that, will you?” I asked Stanton.

She roused as he shut the window, and glanced over at me. “Darling, what is it?”

“Nothing, Emmie. Go back to sleep.”

Looking at the window, she frowned. “I know how you hate it when I leave it open.”

“I merely worry, my dearest, that you’ll take a chill.”

“Is that what you worry about?”

“Why ever else would I get cross with you?”

She leaned back into the chair, and Stanton went to fetch her tea cup from the little table by her side.

“Leave it for later,” I said.

He gave me a look full of pity. The cup was still half full--Emily didn’t even have the strength to finish her tea.

I knew what he was thinking: another wife sick--so terribly unfair.

I gave him a brave smile. “Love is worth all ills.”

“Yes, sir.” His smile back was full of support. And why not? Emily and I shared a deep love.

So deep I almost hadn’t noticed how tired I was becoming when I drank my nightly port. Much more tired than normal. And weak, as well. I began to watch Emily, to wait in hiding to see what she was up to. When the next shipment came in, I spied her doctoring my wine.

I’d hoped my malaise was due to a bad batch of port. But this showed intent: intent to liberate my money--my dead wife’s money.

This young strumpet thought she could steal from me? It was an affront to all that we stood for.

Emily moved slightly, her lovely profile turned to me. I felt a pang of regret. She had been so very enthusiastic in bed.

“Sir?” It was Carlotta. Emily had insisted on a foreign governess. I did not doubt that my saying I couldn’t abide foreigners was the reason.

A small lie.

“How is she?” Carlotta ran her eyes up and down me, boldly assessing my body the same way she’d assessed the house and its furnishings when she’d first arrived.

She was nothing like Emily. I’d know to watch her from the start.

“I’m afraid it’s...” I turned away, pretended to emotion I did not feel, hearing her small sound of comfort. But when I glanced back at her, I saw that her eyes were wary.

So, this one would know to watch me? How very...diverting.

# # #

Circle of Life by Gerri Leen
originally published September 10, 2008

 

 


Gerri Leen's fiction has appeared in Fusion Fragment, Renard's Menagerie, Art&Prose, the Sails & Sorcery anthology, Desolate Places, Subatomic 1: One Step Beyond, Ruins Metropolis, Staffs and Starships, and others.

For more of Gerri's work,
visit her Big Pulp author page

 

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