“Perhaps I do need to rest,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry. I just—”
She got up to leave and tripped over the leg of a chair, catching herself on the back of my chair to keep from falling.
“Catherine, I’m sorry,” I started. “Do you want me to help you—”
“I’m fine, Alice.” She laid her hand on my shoulder, and her fingers were cold. The chill seeped beneath my blouse and sunk into my skin. She summoned a small smile on her way out of the room. “Perhaps we can go on that walk later. I would like that.”
“All right, Cat.”
I didn’t know what happened, and when Catherine left, no one seemed keen to discuss it. Camellia went on about Hazel’s night-time habits and how big she was growing, and Charles just nodded along absently.
I wondered if he was worried about his wife. It seemed like he was, but his actions didn’t show it. More than anything, it seemed like Charles wanted someone else to solve his problems.
Unfortunately, it seemed as though that person would have to be me.
When I went up to see Catherine later in the afternoon, Nurse Gray opened the door.
She had on the same dark dress as the day before—or, if not the same one, then one very similar—and her hair was pulled back into a tight bun. She folded her hands behind her back, blocking the door.
“Mrs. Cresswell is sleeping.”
I angled myself to look around her, trying to see my sister, but Nurse Gray pulled the door partway closed. “She is tired and needs her rest.”
“She told me she wanted to go on a walk this afternoon,” I said. “She requested that I come find her when I was ready to go.”
This wasn’t entirely true, but I hoped, if nothing else, Catherine’s own wishes would sway Nurse Gray’s iron will.
Unfortunately, they did nothing to sway the nurse.
“I’m sorry, but today has been tiring for her. Perhaps, you can try again tomorrow.”
Before I could formulate a better argument or desperately shout into the room to try and rouse Catherine from her unnatural sleep, the door closed, and I was alone in the hallway.
Camellia had, once again, been in the nursery with Hazel all morning, and Charles had gone into town.
The house was quiet and eerie, and I couldn’t stay inside for another minute. So, I pulled on a coat and set off on a walk.
Not wanting to trudge through the bogs along the trails or be submerged in shadow under the trees, I walked down the driveway towards the road rather than following the paths behind the house. Once I reached the road, I turned left, and it was only when I turned left again on the Wilds’ property that I realized where my feet were actually carrying me.
Margaret and Abigail must have seen me coming because they were in the yard when I crested the final hill in front of their house.
Abigail had a hand raised to her eyes, squinting against the gray light in the overcast sky, and Margaret was plucking handfuls of weeds from the garden in front of their house. They’d built wire cages around the produce, probably to keep smaller animals from getting to the food. On a hook near the corner of the house, I noticed one such small animal hanging by its foot. Its lifeless body swayed in the wind.
If the women offered me stew today, I would decline. I did not want rabbit again.
“I hope you don’t mind me coming by unannounced,” I called once I was close enough.
“Of course, not,” Margaret responded, wiping her dirty hands on the sides of her dress, leaving streaks of dirt on the brown fabric. “Like we said, you are always welcome at our home.”
My mother would have been horrified by my lack of manners, but she also would have been horrified by Margaret and Abigail Wilds, so I didn’t think it mattered much. Besides, if what Charles had said the night before was true—that the Wilds were lonely—then they really wouldn’t mind my surprise visit.
“We are making preserves today. If you don’t mind helping, then you can stay as long as you like.” Abigail held out a cloth sack full of bruised apples.
“She doesn’t have to help.” Margaret chastised her sister and then turned to me, shaking her head. “You don’t have to help, Alice. We are just happy for the company.”
I didn’t mind the work. It was much better than staying in my sister’s quiet home. Besides, even though I hadn’t consciously planned to come visit the Wilds, I was glad for the opportunity to talk with them without Charles present. I had some questions.
The women had at least six apple trees behind their house. As we picked up the apples from the ground, Margaret told me they had been a gift to their father when they were only girls.
“He helped the previous owner of your sister’s home deliver a newborn calf. The man was poor, but he had a hearty garden, and he uprooted several of his own trees and strapped them to his horse, hauling them here one by one. Father didn’t think they would last the season, but sixty years later, here they are.”
“I propogated the three in the back from the one on the right,” Abigail said. “That was almost twenty years ago now. The children grow sweeter apples than their mother.”
“But the mother’s are the best for pie,” Margaret said.
Abigail nodded in agreement. “Tart apples make the best pie.”
The trees all looked identical to me, but the women knew them all intimately. It made sense. If they had as few visitors as they claimed, then this land—these trees and this garden—were their entire life. These trees were a kind of family to them.
“We lost one tree during a particularly dry spring and a harsh summer. It became diseased,
