From the bottom drawer of the dresser, she removed a fresh menstrual towel, unfastened the safety pins on her bellyband, front and behind, and then dropped the soiled, blood-soaked cloth into the slop pail she’d had no need to use during the night. She secured the fresh towel, hoisted the bellyband higher on her waist, and then removed from her dresser the fresh underclothing she would wear. A pair of muslin underdrawers. A white petticoat. A white chemise. It was too hot for stockings, and she did not in any event plan to go out today. She dressed hastily, slipping on the chintz wrapper, buttoning it behind and then putting on her combing cape — Alison’s fingers untying the ribbons, the cape falling soundlessly to the grass buzzing with hidden bees.
She brushed her hair without interest, tucked back a stray wisp, put down the brush and then stood uncertainly again, fearful of going downstairs, knowing she should talk to Maggie, ask her for answers to the questions that were hounding her, and yet fearful of a confrontation, delaying, making up her bed, folding her nightdress and putting it under her pillow, gathering up the undergarments she’d worn yesterday, placing them in the hamper, closing the shutters. There were some handkerchiefs she planned to iron today. She took them from the dresser top, surveyed the room and finally picked up the slop pail containing her soiled menstrual towel. She was almost to the door when she remembered that she was barefooted. She was tempted to go downstairs just this way, but she could visualize her father’s raised eyebrows, her stepmother’s silent look of disapproval. She found a pair of scuffed felt slippers — the last time she’d worn them had been at the farm — put them on, picked up the slop pail and handkerchiefs again and went out onto the landing.
The door to the spare room across the hall was open. The room empty and tidy, the bed made, the shutters closed. She was passing the open door when she glimpsed the candlestick on the dresser near the bed. She went into the room. It seemed cooler in here, the shutters closed, this side of the house facing north, away from the sun. She stood looking at the candlestick, remembering. And some of them rather old. One particularly handsome one used to belong to my mother’s mother. We keep it in the spare room across the hall. Emma says it’s eighteenth century. I would suppose it came from England.
She had never known her grandmother.
She did not remember her mother at all.
She picked up the candlestick.
There was a fresh white taper in it, and it almost toppled from its socket. She pressed it down firmly, impaling it more securely on the pricket. The antique brass felt silky to her touch, somehow soothing. There was solidity and weight to the long stem and the square beveled base; in a poignant rush, she recalled London again — and Alison. Fresh tears welled into her eyes.
She stood staring at the candlestick for what seemed a long while and then, sighing, put it back on the dresser. Turning toward the door, she stood uncertainly for a moment, forgetting where she’d put down the slop pail and the handkerchiefs, coming dangerously close to tears again. She found the handkerchiefs on the bed, and the slop pail where she’d left it, just inside the door. Sighing again, she went out of the room.
Her father was in the sitting room downstairs, slouched in the large chair near the mantelpiece, reading the morning newspaper. He looked up when she came into the room.
“Good morning, father,” she said.
“Good morning, Lizzie,” he said, and went back to his paper. He finished the paragraph he was reading and put the paper down. The Providence Journal. He rose, turned to the mantelpiece, took down the key to his room and, without saying another word, went out into the kitchen. She could hear him at the pantry sink, the water running there. Through the open dining-room door, her stepmother came into view, a feather duster in her hand.
“Oh,” she said, startled. “Good morning, Lizzie.”
“Good morning.”
“How do you feel?”
“Hot.”
“I meant otherwise.”
“A little better.”
“Will you have some breakfast then?”
“I don’t think so.”
“There’s still coffee on the stove, should you want any.”
“Thank you.”
“It docs seem hotter today, don’t you think? Than yesterday?”
“Yes.”
“Yes,” her stepmother said, and nodded. “Lizzie, I’m having company on Monday, and I want everything in order. Please leave the door to the spare room shut, will you? When I’ve finished up there?”
“Why would I go into the spare room in any case?”
“Well, if you should. Remember to close the door again, will you?”
“I’ll remember,” she said.
“Do you know what you’d like for dinner?”
“Will you be going out?”
“When the room’s done. I’ll be ordering meat, so if you can tell me what you’d like...”
“I don’t want any meat.”
“What would you like?”
“Nothing. I’m still not feeling well.”
“I thought you said...”
“Yes, but not quite myself yet.”
“There must be something going around. A great many people in town seem to be sick. I suppose Dr. Bowen was right. I suppose it wasn’t poison, after all.”
“I should hardly think so.”
“I can’t imagine anyone wanting to poison us, can you?”
“No one I can think of.”
“Still, it might have been the milk. With so many people sick, it could be the milk, you know.” She shook her head, clucked her tongue. “Well, I’ll be going as soon as I’ve done the pillows,” she said. “Are you sure you don’t want...?”
“Won’t you change your dress before you go out?”
“Whatever for? What’s wrong with this one?”
“It’s so hot today. I only thought it might be too heavy.”
“No, it’s good enough. I’ve left some wrappers in the parlor... would you direct them for me, please? While I’m gone?”
“I will.”
“Well, I’ll see to the guest room then,” she said, and went out.
Lizzie waited. She could hear her father passing through the kitchen again, and then his footfalls on the steps leading up to his bedroom. She took a deep breath and went into the kitchen. Maggie was at the pantry sink, rinsing dishes. She looked somewhat pallid this morning, her pretty face sheened with perspiration, her dark hair braided close to her head, a tall, well-formed woman with a narrow waist, flaring hips and a firm, high bosom. The two top buttons of her dress were unbuttoned. The clock read ten minutes to nine. Above, Lizzie heard her father rummaging about in his bedroom. She set down the slop pail, and put the handkerchiefs on the kitchen table. They had not yet exchanged greetings. She knows, Lizzie thought. She’s avoiding me.
“What will you want for breakfast?” Maggie asked, coming back into the kitchen.
“I don’t know as I want any breakfast,” Lizzie said. “I may just have some coffee and cookies.”
“There’s coffee on the stove. Shall I pour some for you?”
“I’ll get it myself.”
She went to the cupboard and took down a cup and saucer. At the stove she poured the cup full, and then took a molasses cookie from the jar on the counter.
“Did you sleep well last night? ” she asked.
“Not very,” Maggie said.
“A bit noisy, wasn’t it?” Lizzie said, and looked at her.
Maggie turned suddenly, one hand coming up to her mouth, and lurched toward the kitchen entry and the back porch. The screen door slammed shut behind her. Lizzie rose from the table and went to the back door. Peering through the screen, she saw Maggie near the grape arbor, doubled over, vomiting. Alarmed, she was about to go to her when she heard her father coming down the back stairs. She returned to the kitchen, took the handkerchiefs from the table and carried them and her coffee cup into the pantry. Standing at the sink, she alternately sprinkled the handkerchiefs and sipped at her coffee. She could hear her father in the kitchen now. She gathered up the damp handkerchiefs, left the coffee cup on the edge of the sink and went out to him. He was standing near the stove, looking down in distaste at the slop pail Lizzie had left beside it. The key to his bedroom was still in his hand. He was dressed for town, wearing a black vest and trousers, black Congress shoes, his black Prince Albert coat.