House of Salt and Sorrows Page 3

  I remembered all those tearstained faces. “But why would she meet someone there? She didn’t even like going to the cliffs in broad daylight. The heights scared her. It doesn’t make any sense to me.”

  Hanna clicked her tongue, setting aside her cup before pulling me into a hug. I caught just a trace of her soap then—milk and honey. Hanna was far too practical for perfumes or bath oils, but the warm, no-nonsense scent comforted me. I breathed it in as my head rested against her shoulder.

  It was softer now, more giving, and the skin that peeked over the neckline of her shirtwaist was lined and crepe-thin. She’d been the nursemaid at Highmoor since Ava was born, always there to help patch skinned knees and soothe bruised egos. Her own son, Fisher, was three years older than me and grew up alongside us. Hanna laced us into our first corsets and helped pin up our hair, drying tears as the untrained curls refused to cooperate. There wasn’t any part of our childhood she missed, always nearby for a warm hug or a good-night kiss.

  “Did you turn down the bed for her that night?” I asked, sitting up. Hanna would have been one of the last people to see Eulalie. “Did anything seem off?”

  She shook her head. “Not that I recall. But I wasn’t with her long. Mercy had a stomachache. She came in asking for peppermint tea.”

  “What about…after? You helped with…her body, didn’t you?”

  “Of course. I’ve taken care of all your sisters. And your mother.”

  “How did she look?”

  Hanna swallowed deeply and made a sign of protection across her chest. “Such things shouldn’t be spoken of.”

  I frowned. “I know she must have…it must have been terrible, but was there anything…amiss?”

  Her eyes narrowed skeptically. “She plummeted more than a hundred feet, landing on the rocks. There was quite a bit amiss.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, deflating. I longed to ask her if anyone else helped prepare the body for its return to the Salt, but Hanna was done talking about it.

  “You’re tired, love,” she said. “Why don’t you settle into bed and see how you feel in the morning?” She kissed the top of my head before leaving. The door clicked quietly shut behind her.

  After checking that Verity had truly gone back to sleep, I crossed to the window, drawn by a strange restlessness. My bedroom overlooked the gardens on the south side of the house, three stories below. A wide fountain, showcasing a marble clipper ship, was at the center of the lawn, just off a decorative hedge maze.

  Verity rolled over, murmuring sleepy incoherences. I’d drawn half the heavy drapes when a flicker of light caught my attention. Though the rain had ended, the sky was choked with dark clouds, obscuring the stars.

  It was a lantern, flickering in and out of sculpted topiaries—sets of breaching humpback whales. As the light broke free from the trees, I spotted two figures. The smaller carried the lantern, setting it to the side before sitting on the fountain’s rounded lip. The candlelight caught the white streak in Papa’s hair.

  What was he doing out in the gardens so late on the night of Eulalie’s funeral? He’d sent us all to bed early, saying we ought to use this time for solemn prayers to Pontus, asking for the sea god to grant our sister eternal rest in the Brine.

  The hood of the other figure’s cloak fell back, revealing a headful of blond ringlets. Morella. She patted the empty space beside her, and Papa sat. After a moment or two, his shoulders began to shake. He was crying.

  Morella leaned against him, wrapping her arm around his back and drawing him closer. I looked away as she reached up to stroke his cheek. I didn’t need to hear what she was saying to know her words consoled Papa like a soothing balm. She might not have understood our island ways, but I was suddenly glad of her presence at Highmoor. No one should have to bear such compounded grief alone.

  Turning away from the window, I crawled into bed and snuggled up next to Verity, letting her measured breathing lull me to sleep.

  The first thing I spotted at the breakfast table was Morella’s blue satin dress. Pleats of white organdy wound around her elbows, and a choker of pearls dotted her neck. It dazzled like a jeweled hummingbird in a room full of covered portraits and crepe wreaths.

  She looked up from the side table as she picked through the trays of food. Highmoor kept a relaxed morning schedule. Everyone drifted in and out of the dining room, serving themselves.

  “Good morning, Annaleigh.” Morella added a gingered scone to her plate and slathered it with butter. “Did you sleep well?”

  In truth, I had not. Verity was a restless sleeper, lashing out like a mule whenever she turned. My mind kept wandering back to Eulalie and the cliff walk, too full to properly doze. It was well after midnight before I drifted off.

  “Hello, my love,” Papa called out from the doorway.

  We turned, both assuming his greeting was for us, but he crossed over to kiss Morella good morning. Though his frock coat was dark, it was a sooty charcoal, not the raven black I’d grown accustomed to.

  “How well you look,” he said, turning her in a circle to admire the barely discernible bump.

  “I think pregnancy agrees with me.”

  She did radiate a flushed happiness. Mama’s pregnancies were full of terrible morning sickness, with bed rest prescribed long before the usual confinement period. When I was old enough, Ava and Octavia let me help with her care, showing me the best oils and lotions to ease her pains.

  “Do you think so, Annaleigh?” Morella asked.

  I supposed she was trying to be kind, including me in the conversation.

  I studied the bright lapis satin. She looked lovely, but it was the wrong thing to wear the day after laying a stepdaughter to rest. “Are Eulalie’s dresses already too small for you?”

  “Hmm? Oh yes, of course.” She used the moment to run a satisfied hand over her stomach.

  “Actually,” Papa interrupted, reaching over to add a pile of kippers to his plate, “we have something to discuss with everyone on that very subject. Annaleigh, can you get your sisters?”

  “Now?” I glanced at the eggs I’d just spooned out. They would not keep warm.

  “Please?”

  Purposefully leaving my half-assembled plate on the center of the table, I trudged upstairs. I was an early riser, but not all my sisters shared my morning habits. Mercy and Rosalie were absolute bears to wake up.

  I chose Camille first.

  She’d opened the curtains, letting weak gray light play over her rich plum-colored furnishings. I was surprised to see her in front of her vanity, stabbing a pin through a lock of hair. Though her lips and cheeks were bare, pots of color and cut-glass vials of perfume lay scattered across the tabletop. A black crepe cover, twin to the one shrouding my own mirror, was crumpled at her feet. I wondered when she’d thrown it there.

  “Back from breakfast already?” she asked.

  “Papa wants everyone downstairs. He has something to tell us.”

  Her hand paused over a box of jewelry, then reluctantly picked up a jet-black earring. “Did he say what?”

  I sat next to her on the bench, running fingers over my own chignon. I hadn’t seen my reflection in nearly a week. “Morella’s blue dress said plenty. Eulalie would have an absolute fit if she knew what was going on. Do you remember after Octavia died, when Eulalie wanted to go see—what was it, a traveling circus or something?—and Papa wouldn’t let us leave the house? He said”—I deepened my voice to a close approximation—“ ‘Grief such as ours shouldn’t be seen by the public eye.’ And Octavia had been gone for months!”

  “Eulalie sulked for weeks.”

  “And now we honor her by wearing black for what, five days? Papa is already wearing gray. It’s not right.”

  My sister opened a jar and examined the wine-colored lip stain. “I agree.”

  “Do you really?
” I asked, pointedly looking at the mirror. I took the pot away from her, spilling some of the color in the process. Running down my fingers, it looked like blood.

  She smoothed out a stray ringlet. “I never was any good at doing my hair without a reflection.”

  “I would have helped. What if Eulalie—”

  Camille rolled her eyes. “Eulalie’s spirit won’t see a shiny surface and get stuck here. She could hardly stand being in this house during life; what makes you think she’d want to stick around in death?”

  I set the lip stain down, unsure of what to wipe my fingers on. “You’re in a mood.”

  She offered me a handkerchief. “I slept poorly. I couldn’t get Ligeia’s stupid comment out of my head.” She picked up a different shade of stain and wiped a small sheen of berry across her mouth. Guilt weighed heavy on her face. “I’ll never get a husband if something doesn’t change.”

  “That’s not true,” I protested. “Any man would be honored to have you at his side. You’re clever and every bit as lovely as Eulalie.”

  She smirked. “No one was like Eulalie. But if I hide myself away in this gloomy house, buried under layers of crepe and bombazine, I’ll never find anyone. I don’t want to disrespect the memory of Eulalie or any of our sisters, but if we go through every step of mourning each time someone dies, we’ll be dead ourselves before we’re finished. So…I’m ready to move on. And no amount of hangdog looks from you will change my mind.”

  I picked up the mirror cover, sinking my fingers into the dark fabric. I wasn’t upset with Camille. She deserved to be happy. We all did. We all had dreams of greater things. Of course my sisters would rather be out, at court, at concerts, at balls. They wanted to be brides, wives, mothers. I’d be a monster to begrudge them that.

  Still, I clung to the cover.

  “Papa wants us downstairs,” Rosalie called out, interrupting our moment. The triplets crowded in the doorway, peering in. Caught in the strange morning light, their reflection was a grotesque mass of limbs and braids. For a second, they were one conjoined entity, not three separate sisters.

  Lenore broke free of the clump, clearing the strange vision from my mind. “Will you tie this for me?” She held out her black ribbon. “Rosalie does it too tight.”

  She knelt beside Camille, lifting her heavy braid to expose the pale length of her neck. The triplets wore their ribbons as chokers. When we were little, Octavia delighted in telling us lurid, spooky stories at bedtime. She’d conjure up tales of pining damsels wasting after their true loves, ghosts and goblins, Tricksters and Harbingers and the foolish people who bargained with them both. Later, certain we were still cowering in terror under our covers, she and Eulalie would creep into our rooms and snatch the blankets from us.

  One of her favorite stories was of a girl who always wore a green ribbon around her neck. She was never seen without it, at school, at church, even on her wedding day. All the guests said she made a lovely bride but wondered why she chose to wear such a plain necklace. On her honeymoon, her husband presented her with a choker of diamonds, sparkling like mad under a starlit sky. He wanted her to wear them, and only them, when she came to bed that night. When she refused, he stalked away, upset. Later he returned to find her asleep in their big bed, naked save for the diamonds and the green ribbon. Snuggling next to her, he stealthily removed the ribbon, only to have her head roll off her body, neatly severed at the neck.

  The triplets delighted in that horrid story and asked for it again and again. When Octavia died, they wrapped black crepe around their necks with ghoulish affectation.

  Bow securely tied, Lenore twisted it around to a jauntier angle. “The Graces are already downstairs. We woke them first.”

  Camille rose from the bench. When I offered out the cover, she tossed it aside, leaving the mirror bare and sparkling.

  * * *

  Mercy, Honor, and Verity sat at the far corner of the dining room table. The older girls worked on plates of eggs and kippers. Verity had a bowl of strawberries and cream but pushed the berries about without eating. I noticed she sat as far from Honor and Mercy as she could without actually switching seats. Apparently, she’d not yet forgiven them for their late-night prank.

  We didn’t bother making up plates of our own. Papa sat at the head of the table, obviously wanting to announce his news.

  He started without preamble. “After breakfast, there is a marvelous surprise for all of you in the Gold Parlor.”

  The Gold Parlor was small and formal, used only for important guests—visitors from court or the High Mariner. Many years ago, the King and his family came to stay with us during their summer progress, and Queen Adelaide used it as her sitting room. She’d complimented the shimmering damask drapes, and Mama vowed to never update them.

  “What is it, Papa?” Camille asked.

  “After careful consideration, I’ve decided the time for our family’s sadness is over. Highmoor has spent too many years in darkness. I’m ending the mourning.”

  “We buried Eulalie yesterday,” I reminded the table, crossing my arms. “Yesterday.”

  My leg slammed back as someone kicked me under the table. I couldn’t prove it, but I would have placed bets on Rosalie.

  Papa raised an eyebrow at me. “I know this may seem premature, but—”

  “Very premature,” I interrupted, and was kicked again. This time I was certain it was Ligeia.

  Papa squeezed the bridge of his nose, warding off a migraine. “You seem to have something you’d like to say, Annaleigh?”

  “How can you possibly think of doing this? It’s not right.”

  “We’ve mourned too much of our lives away already. Now is the time for new beginnings, and I can’t bear to have our fresh start cloaked in sorrow.”

  “Your fresh start. Yours and Morella’s. None of this would be happening if she wasn’t pregnant.”

  The triplets let out a stricken gasp. I saw hurt flash in Morella’s eyes but pressed on. Feelings be damned: this was too important.

  “She said it’s a boy, and you’re ready to move earth and moon to please her. You’re willing to forget all about your first family. Your cursed family.” The word fell out, black and ugly.

  Verity let out a noise halfway between a shriek and a sob.

  “There’s no curse.” Lenore rushed to her side, snapping at me. “Tell her there’s no curse.”

  “I don’t want to die,” Verity wailed, knocking over the bowl of cream.

  “You’re not going to die,” Papa said, gripping the arms of his chair so tightly that it was a wonder the wood didn’t splinter. “Annaleigh, you’re out of line. Apologize immediately.”

  I rose and knelt beside Verity, hugging her and stroking her soft hair. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. There’s not really a curse.”

  Papa’s voice was cold and flat. “I didn’t mean Verity.”

  I pressed my lips together in silent defiance. Though my knees felt weak, I willed myself not to look away from him.

  “Annaleigh,” he warned.

  I counted the seconds ticking by on the little silver clock on the mantel. After two dozen passed, Camille cleared her throat, drawing Papa’s attention.

  “You said there was something in the parlor?”

  He rubbed his beard, suddenly looking far older. “Yes. It was Morella’s idea, actually. A treat for you all.” He sighed. “To celebrate the end of our mourning, we’ve brought in dressmakers to design new clothes. Milliners and cobblers too.”

  My sisters all squealed, and Rosalie rushed to Papa, then Morella, throwing her arms around their necks. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

  I kissed Verity on the top of her head and stood up, intent on returning to my room. I didn’t want new clothes. I was not going to forget the old customs, bribed by shiny baubles and silks.

 
; “Annaleigh,” Papa called out, stopping me. “Where are you off to?”

  “As I have no need of new clothes, I’ll leave you to them.”

  He shook his head. “We are all coming out of mourning, you included. I’ll not have you in drab weeds while the rest of us get on with our lives.”

  I sucked in my breath, but the fiery barb could not be contained. “I’m sure Eulalie wishes she could get on with her life as well.”

  He was across the room in three quick strides. My father wasn’t a violent man, but in that moment, I truly worried he might strike me. Grabbing my elbow, he pulled me into the hallway. “This obstinacy will end. Now.”

  Drawing on mettle I didn’t know I possessed, I shook my head, openly defying him. “Go, move on, since you’re so set on this new life. Leave me alone to mourn my sisters as I see fit.”

  “No one can move on if you’re wandering about the house draped in black, never letting them forget!” He turned toward the window with a curse of frustration. When he looked back, deep creases wrinkled his forehead. “I don’t want to fight, Annaleigh. I miss Eulalie as much as you do. Elizabeth and Octavia and Ava too. Your mother most of all. Do you think it brings me joy to have returned half my family to the Salt?”

  Papa dropped onto a small conversation bench. It was too low for him, and his knees buckled to his chest. After a moment, he gestured for me to join him.

  “I know most men want strapping young sons to follow after them, to take over the estates, to carry on their names, but I was always proud to have so many girls. Some of my best memories were with the eleven of you and your mother, playing dress-up, picking out dolls. I loved those times. And when Cecilia was pregnant with Verity…it was such a wonderful surprise. When she passed away, I thought I’d never have happiness like that again.”

  A tear fell, running down the end of his nose. He pushed it aside, gazing at the tiles beneath our feet. Small chips of sea glass made a mosaic of waves crashing down the hall.

  “After so many years of tragedy and sadness, I have the chance to grab that happiness again. It’s not as complete—how could it be, with so many gone?—but I need to take it while I can.”