Born Wicked
Page 17

I giggle. “It was good to see Paul. I missed him.”
“He makes you smile,” Maura observes. “You ought to flirt back. Did he give you any hints? You know—about marrying you?”
“He said we’d have plenty of time to get reacquainted before December.”
“Cate!” Maura shrieks, leaping on me, knocking me over sideways, puppylike in her excitement. “Why didn’t you come tell me straightaway?”
“Because he didn’t ask me officially, not yet. He hasn’t even spoken to Father. And because I can’t—I don’t know if I can say yes.”
My sister stares at me, her face two inches from mine, sapphire eyes wide with puzzlement. There’s a tiny scar on her chin from when she had the chickenpox. “Why not?”
“Because he’s going back to New London. The man he was apprenticing under offered him a position in his firm.”
Maura sits up, brushing her hair out of her face. “Lucky thing. I’d give my right arm to live in New London. You didn’t—oh, Cate, you didn’t refuse him, did you, just because of that? I know you wouldn’t relish the idea of living in a little flat somewhere with no trees and no garden. But there are parks in the city, aren’t there? And eventually he’ll make enough money to buy you a proper house and—”
“He said we could rent a house. It’s not that.” I stare at the coverlet, at Mother’s neat, even stitches. “I can’t just leave you and Tess.”
Maura kicks me. “Yes, you could. We’d come visit you, silly.”
“But it’s so far. It’s not just in town, or the next town over; it’s two whole days away. I’d never forgive myself if something happened.”
There’s a silence, and then Maura shoves me with both hands. I roll off the bed and stumble awkwardly to my feet. “Don’t you dare!” she hisses. “Don’t you dare use us as an excuse not to marry him, Cate. We can take care of ourselves.”
I wrap my arms around myself, miserable. Can they really? I wish I knew.
“Perhaps we needed you a bit—right after Mother died—”
A bit? I stiffen, thinking of the nights the three of us slept in one bed, curled together like kittens. When Maura grew pale and thin and hardly left her room, I coaxed Mrs. O’Hare to make all her favorites. After she cleaned her plate, as a reward, I’d take her out to practice magic in the gardens. When Tess had scarlet fever, I refused to leave her side. I read to her during her convalescence until my own throat was raw. I tried to make up for Mother’s absence. I never quite managed, I know—no one could—but I tried so very hard.
“I don’t care what you promised Mother,” Maura continues, frowning at me fiercely. “You are not responsible for us, do you understand me? If you want to marry Paul, you had better say yes when he asks you. There’s no guarantee he’ll ask twice.”
Dinner is a strange affair. Mrs. Corbett is here, prattling on about Regina’s advantageous marriage. She’s in absolute raptures over how lovely Regina’s estate is and to what great effect Regina’s decorated the rooms. She eyes our own dining room with clear distaste. The heavy red damask paper on the walls hasn’t been replaced since Father was a boy, and the flowered carpets are starting to show signs of wear. The mahogany table and chairs have curved backs decorated with scrollwork and dragons, in the old Oriental style instead of the new Arabian fashion. All the houses in town have gaslights now, but we still rely on candles. Father insists on it.
I hear the hum and buzz of conversation but barely take in the words; I find myself watching Elena instead. I wish I could read people the way Tess can. She’s the observant one, brilliant at seeing motives and desires written out on people’s faces, in the pauses between their words. All I notice about Elena is her impeccable table manners and her sycophantic flattery of Mrs. Corbett.
The soup is salty but serviceable; the boiled codfish is decent if dull. But when Lily brings out the main course, I wince at the platter of gray, overcooked roast. I can’t bring myself to complain to Mrs. O’Hare, but it’s rather mortifying to serve our guests meat that’s tough as shoe leather.
Except when I bite into it—it’s not. I ladle a bit of the thin, watery onion gravy: it’s seasoned to perfection. After I capture a forkful of mashed potatoes, only to have them melt buttery in my mouth, I’m afraid to try anything else. The limp string beans, the historically dreadful stewed squash— I’m certain it’s all delicious.
I stare at Grandmother’s pale blue china in horror. Tess promised me! Improving dinner for Father’s pleasure is one thing—still dangerous, but it’s unlikely that he would notice the discrepancy. But to risk it in front of guests—
I glare at her, but she shakes her head, eyes wide. We both swivel to Maura. She’s listening to whatever Mrs. Corbett and Elena are saying, purposely not meeting our eyes.
I concentrate on my dinner, pushing against the glamour until it gives way. The next bite requires a goodly amount of chewing, so I let the glamour slip back over me.
No one in her right mind wouldchooseto taste this food.
I glance around the table again. Father is scooping up his potatoes; Mrs. Corbett is dabbing her greasy lips with her napkin. Even Elena is taking delicate bites of the squash. It was a ridiculous gamble, but it doesn’t seem any harm was done. This time.
As soon as we’ve eaten Tess’s fruit compote and apple tart, I make my excuses, pleading a headache. Maura, who knows my constitution is quite strong, offers to keep me company. I refuse. I need to read Mother’s diary in private. My heart hums, hopeful, in my chest. Whoever my mysterious correspondent is, she wouldn’t have told me to look for the diary unless it contained something that would help. There have been times I have resented Mother for leaving me with so much responsibility and so little guidance. But she must have always intended me to find it. I feel silly for not looking sooner. Perhaps I could have saved myself a great deal of worry.
Mrs. O’Hare has started a fire in my room to ward off the chill. I kick off my slippers and grab the quilt from the foot of my bed. Mother sewed it especially for me, embroidering it with the blue daylilies that were my favorite flower when I was little. I fling myself onto the faded violet settee with Mother’s diary in hand. I took a few things from her sitting room when she died—this settee, the rose-patterned rug next to my bed, her little watercolor painting of the garden. If I bury my face in the arm of the settee and breathe in deep, sometimes I think I can still catch the scent of the rose water she always wore.
The September wind whistles at the windowpanes and the candle dances on my table, throwing eerie shadows against the walls. If I believed in ghosts, tonight would be a perfect night for an apparition.
If Mother’s spirit could give me answers, I’d welcome it and gladly.
You must watch over your sisters for me. Keep them safe. There’s so much I wanted to tell you. And nowI haven’t time,Mother lamented the last time I saw her. She was pale as a ghost and fought for each breath. Her sapphire eyes, so much like Maura’s, had dimmed, as though part of her had already gone ahead into the next world.
I promised, of course. What else could I do? But it was a heavy promise for a girl of thirteen.