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.
