Picture the Dead

That night, as I’d lain awake, I’d made a secret prayer that this party will be the prelude to a farewell. Of one thing I was certain: for as long as I remain at Pritchett House, I will live in anxiety and dread.

When the time is right I’ll suggest to Quinn what has weighed heavy on my mind that we need to move from here. We can live in Boston or Hartford, away from Aunt and Uncle. Away from this house of nightmares. No Bible, no prayers or blessing by Father Sheehan or Reverend Meeks could possibly drive out the vengeful spirit in the house. We will escape it instead. I want Mavis to come with me, too, though I haven’t dared put the question to her yet. Pritchett House is all she knows. For now I will keep my plan secret.

That night and the next day pass uneasily as I help Aunt Clara with the minute arrangements of seating charts and music selection.

“Do you think everybody will come?” I ask.

Patches of angry pink appear in Aunt’s cheeks. “Are you implying that anyone would dare refuse?” she snaps. “Jennie, we are Pritchetts.”

Not I, not really, not yet. But I use her dudgeon to take quick leave, retreating to my room, where I wait for Madame Broussard, who will be making Aunt’s and my last-minute alterations.

Sunlight has ignited my bedroom, but the room itself is cold just as it had been in my attic. I build up the fire and settle back with some lacework.

Percy, the calico kitten that Mavis has given me in secret, looks up at me from his basket. So far, the kitten has not seemed the least bit troubled by malevolent spirits. In fact, he seems quite content with his flannel-lined bed and yarn mouse. He is a sweet thing with unblinking amber eyes, and what Aunt doesn’t know of his presence won’t hurt her.

The kitten’s belled collar tinkles faintly as he jumps into my lap. His purring is warmth and music. My eyes close into memories of a long-ago sled ride. I am waiting my turn on the top of a hill as Quinn prepares to launch Will and me. Quinn had pushed hard and fast, and the sled’s bells jingled as we’d whooped our delight turning almost instantly to terror as one runner caught a buried rock and sent us jettisoning into the air, flipping over the sled, slamming our bodies through space to land hard and skid against the ice-packed earth.

“You did it on purpose!” Will had accused his brother in a spitting fury as we’d collected ourselves. “You wanted to scare everyone off the sled why, you probably planted the rock, too and I’m gonna tan your arse for it!” Invoking the stable boy’s rough language and tone so aptly, it shocked us all.

“Toby, stop him!” I called through my drenched, mittened hands as Toby chased Will, who was chasing Quinn up and down the meadow. Afterward we’d all trod back into the house for cider and molasses cake. The chaos of the event soon forgotten as we’d all indulged our sweet tooth. Later Quinn admitted to us all that he’d wanted to see what would happen if he pushed us with all his strength “but I didn’t hide the rock, Will. And I can’t apologize for something I didn’t do.”

Yet Will had refused to accept this, looking daggers at his brother for the rest of the day.

“Mon dieu!” I wake with Madame’s eyes on me. “This room is freezing! How do you sleep in such condition? But we must hurry, it’s nearly four.”

“Oh…” I wince. Strangely, I feel bruised all over, a phantom pain as if I’d taken that fall from the sled only minutes ago. I glance at the mantel clock, and I see with shock that it is stopped at half past two.

The undertow, catching back my past, drowning me deep inside it.

The room is like ice. The fire has died and the window is frosted. Percy has left my lap to shiver in a ball in his basket.

“Let me light the fire. Il fait si froid ici than outdoors, but I am not sure how that could be.”

Outside, the afternoon sun is a butterscotch blaze, sinking fast and igniting the outline of the tree.

“Alors, we have one last fitting,” says Madame. “I pray you have not lost more weight.”

She will be disappointed. I take my position, standing on the ottoman in my whalebone corset as Madame unwraps the bottlegreen silk dress along with its pounds of accompanying petticoats plus metal-hooped crinoline.

“These latest French fashions are the tiniest bit scandalous, especially with that neckline dipping ever so slightly off your shoulders,” Madame murmurs. “You will be the talk of the soiree.” She sinks to her hands and knees, the better to make last-minute adjustments to the point-jupe cords that pick up my skirt.

“So heavy. I feel as if I’ve doubled my weight,” I remark.

“Eh, I wish.” Madame pinches some of the dress fabric, loose at the waist, though she’s taken it in once before. She works in silence, saving her thoughts until she finishes. “You’re a sparrow in peacock finery,” she pronounces lightly, but there’s truth in the joke. My collarbone juts, my eyes are hollowed, even my hair lacks the luster for my upsweep. Like the rest of me, it seems to wilt, and when I slap at my cheeks they look as garish red as gypsy kisses in my wan face.

I drop my eyes to the dressmaker, who is knotting her needle. “I’m sorry that you won’t be staying on for dinner, Madame.”

“Non, non I’m not one for crowds.” She stands, gathering her spools and needles into her sewing basket. “But I’d advise you to test your shoes, Mademoiselle,” she says, as we both glance over at them. Ivory kid leather in a pouched silk box. “Two inches off the ground will alter your perspective. You must learn to walk before you can waltz in them.”

“Quite right.” I jump down from the ottoman, and Madame assists with the shoehorn and binds the straps then sends me tottering down the corridor. I wobble up and down the flight of stairs. At the end of the hall, I try a curtsy, then brave a dip and twirl. Madame applauds.

“À bientôt,” she says as she kisses each of my cheeks. “Young Mr. Pritchett desires me to return next week to plan your wedding trousseau.”

“Thank you, Madame.” My heart lifts. A trousseau. I’ve imagined mine since I was a young girl. The trunk trays of delicate undergarments, the nightcaps and linens, the yards of laces, the variety of fabrics pongee and pique, silk and velvet and Swiss muslin. For a moment I am almost envious of Madame, who presides over the arrangements of so many trousseaux while a bride must settle on only one. But now I will heed her advice and learn to walk in these ridiculous shoes so that tonight I might be a gazelle on Quinn’s arm.