Part 9 (2/2)

”It's just Nellie,” I told him.

James rubbed the sleep from his eyes. ”You're certain it's not-”

I put my hand gently over his mouth. ”Don't say her name.”

”Tell Nellie to come in,” he mumbled.

The girl entered, carrying a coal scuttle as usual. ”Beg your pardon, but the fire needs tending,” she said to James. To me, she said, ”Be ye coming to supper, miss?”

”I am.” I turned to James. ”How about you? Do you feel well enough to join us?”

”If Uncle would be kind enough to carry me down. My legs are a bit shaky still.”

Nellie gave him a shy smile. ”It'll be a rare sight to see you at table,” she told James. ”Never have ye been out of yer bed since I come here.”

James sat up straighter, a grin on his face. ”I hope to be out and about every day, Nellie. I've stayed in this room much too long. There's more to do than lie in bed and read and sleep.”

Nellie turned her attention to the fire. When she'd added coal and stirred it with a poker, she asked James if she should ask Mr. Crutchfield to bring him down to the dining room.

James nodded. ”Yes, please, Nellie.”

Cheeks flushed with pleasure, Nellie darted away.

Soon Uncle appeared, a bit breathless from running up the stairs.

”Nellie tells me you wish to dine with us,” he said. ”Dr. Fielding advised you to rest, but if you feel strong enough, you jolly well shall join us!”

With a smile, Uncle wrapped James in a blanket and carried him downstairs. As he settled him in a comfortable chair, Aunt shot her brother a disapproving look but said nothing. Without speaking to any of us, she sat quietly, cutting her mutton into small bites, chewing slowly, and pausing now and then for a sip of water.

All around her, Uncle, James, and I talked and laughed and discussed the days that lay ahead. We did not mention the roof. We did not speak Sophia's name.

When Mrs. Dawson came to clear the table, she was humming an old song about wild mountain thyme and blooming heather. She gave us all a cheerful smile and patted James on his head.

”It's right glad I am to see you here, my boy,” she said, ”eating your dinner and enjoying yourself. It's as if a dark cloud has lifted and the days ahead will be bright and sunny and you'll play like the lamb you are.”

James ducked his head and looked embarra.s.sed, but I had a feeling he was glad of the happiness in Mrs. Dawson's voice. Glad to be at the table instead of in his lonely room. Glad his sister was gone.

From that night on, James's health improved quickly. Although Dr. Fielding was delighted, he couldn't explain it medically. But he was happy to attribute it to his skill.

Unfortunately, Aunt continued to compare me unfavorably to Sophia, refusing to listen to anyone else's opinion of her niece. She also considered me a bad influence on James.

”He was no trouble while he was sick,” she pointed out with a frequency that quickly became monotonous. ”A perfect little angel, he was, before that girl took an interest in him.”

Early that spring, Aunt took it into her head to move to Eastbourne, where she shared a residence with a cousin even more disagreeable than she was-or so Mrs. Dawson claimed. No one missed her. Indeed, we were all glad she was gone.

As he'd promised, Uncle hired a governess for James and me. Miss Amelia was young and pretty and good natured. She made our lessons entertaining, and I found myself enjoying subjects I'd previously disliked. Even mathematics lost its terror.

As winter waned and the days grew longer and warmer, Miss Amelia encouraged James and me to spend more time out-of-doors. Impressed with our drawing skills, she urged us to try what she called plein air exercises.

”Find a tree, a building, a view,” she told us, ”and sit outside and sketch.”

At first we were satisfied to draw the garden, the terrace, the fine old oaks lining the drive, and the distant hills. There seemed no end of interesting views to capture. Old stone walls, outbuildings, Spratt at work with hoe or shovel, Cat sleeping in the sun.

One afternoon, I was hard at work drawing the cat's ears, a very difficult thing to get right. Suddenly James sighed in exasperation and threw his pencil down.

”I'm tired of drawing that cat,” he said.

”Draw something else then,” I suggested. I was vexed with the cat myself. He kept changing his position, which meant everything I'd drawn before was wrong, including his dratted ears.

James looked around and frowned. ”I don't see anything I want to draw.”

”We could go for a walk,” I said. ”Maybe we'll find something new.”

Gathering our pencils and sketchpads, we headed for the fields beyond the stone wall. A narrow public walkway led over a hill.

”I've been this way before,” I told James.

”When?”

”I walked up the drive the day I came to Crutchfield Hall, so it couldn't have been then.” I looked around, beginning to remember. ”There was snow on the ground, and I was cold. The wind blew in my face. I was running.”

”Were you alone?” James asked, suddenly serious.

I shook my head, remembering everything. ”I was with Sophia. She took me to the churchyard to see her headstone. It was the day she made you climb out on the roof. Her death-day.”

”Poor Sophia,” James whispered. ”She's been gone all this time, and we haven't visited her grave once.”

”Do you think we should?” Truthfully, I wasn't at all certain I wanted to be that near Sophia. Suppose we disturbed her somehow? Suppose she came back?

He looked at me. ”She's all alone there.”

Reluctantly, I followed James up the hill, through the gate, and down the road to the village. It was a weekday, so not many people were about. A woman hung laundry in her yard. A small child pulled an even smaller child in a wagon. A horse trotted by hauling a carriage at a good clip. I glimpsed a bonneted head inside. A dog sleeping in the middle of the road got up and moved slowly out of the horse's way.

Under an almost cloudless sky, the old stone church dozed in the shade of trees. How different it had looked on that snowy day last winter, the stones dark and imposing, the trees bare, the wind howling. Now the headstones rose from freshly cut gra.s.s, tilting this way and that, some mossy with age, others newer. A flock of crows strutted among the stones, pecking in the gra.s.s. From the church roof, a line of wood pigeons watched us. Their melancholy voices blended well with the setting.

Hand in hand, James and I walked along gravel paths looking for Sophia's grave. Then we saw it. Her tilted stone cast a shadow across the gra.s.s.

In a low voice, James read his sister's inscription aloud. When he spoke her name, I braced myself, fearing she might rise up before us.

She did not appear. The wood pigeons cooed, a crow called and another answered, a breeze rustled the leaves over our heads, but Sophia remained silent.

”Do you know what today is?” James asked.

I thought for a moment. ”It's the twenty-seventh of July,” I whispered. ”Half a year since we last saw her.”

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