A sob broke through her lips, choking out the last word, but I didn’t need to hear it to know what she’d intended to say.
“None of it is your fault,” I said, squeezing her fingers right back. “Nothing. You had so much going on, Catherine.”
“But I asked you to come here and then ignored your help when you offered it. You tried to tell me you believed my story, and I refused to listen.”
Clearly, there was nothing I could say to convince Catherine this wasn’t her fault, so instead, I opted for distraction.
“You know the night I ran screaming through the moors, fleeing ghosts?” I asked.
Catherine frowned and nodded, wiping a stray tear from her cheek.
“Margaret and Abigail Wilds.”
“Really?” she asked. “They were out there in robes dancing around a fire?”
I nodded.
Catherine’s blue eyes went wide, and her mouth split into a grin. “Don’t tell lies like that, Alice. It isn’t right.”
I lifted my right hand. “I swear it. I saw those old women dancing around a fire under the full moon.”
It felt good to laugh with Catherine—to laugh about anything—even if it was at the expense of the Wilds. I had a feeling they wouldn’t mind too much.
Catherine asked questions and laughed until there were tears in her eyes for another reason entirely, and then she leaned forward and pressed a kiss to my forehead.
“I’m so glad you are all right, Alice.” She tilted her head down, eyes probing. “You are all right, aren’t you?”
“Me?” I asked with a grin. “Believe me, I’ve been through worse. I’ll be just fine. I promise.”
I’d been telling the truth when I told Catherine I would be just fine. I knew I would be, though when I would be was another question entirely.
I’d had nightmares every night. Of the moors and the bog. Of shadows chasing me through the trees. I’d wake up crying and sweating and desperate for the sun to rise.
Physically, I wasn’t much better. I’d never been so banged up before.
Nurse Gray told me several days later that she’d had to slide my kneecap back into place, rub color back into my numb toes and legs, and clean and bandage too many cuts and scrapes to count. She told me that any longer out in the woods, and I may have lost toes due to the cold.
Even days later, my body ached. Going down the stairs three days after the attack felt like a physical feat unmatched by the rest of humanity. I expected to see crowds cheering at the bottom of the stairs when I finally made it.
Going up them, however, required a very chivalrous Charles to carry me in his arms. I was embarrassed to need his help, but he assured me he didn’t mind.
In typical Charles fashion, he never told me specifically that he was sorry about his sister’s behavior, but he showed it in as many ways as he knew how.
He smiled at me when I came into rooms, offered to fetch anything at all that I needed, and swore to me that there would be a room in his house for me anytime I wanted it. Though, this particular house in Yorkshire wouldn’t be theirs for much longer.
Catherine no longer believed the house was haunted, but she’d taken some of my criticism of her life to heart and realized that, no matter how badly she’d wanted to want this country life, she was more suited to the hustle and bustle of a city. She missed having neighbors close by and friends she could meet up with for tea or lunch. She missed having visitors and hearing cars outside her window. Most of all, she missed me.
She never explicitly said that last part, but I could tell it well enough from her expression.
“Hazel and I will be in London just a few weeks after you get home,” Catherine said, marking things down on a hand drawn calendar she’d made. “Charles will stay behind to ready the house for selling, and then he’ll follow. Do you think Mama will help me by making a list of available places nearby?”
“If it means seeing her granddaughter every day, I think Mama will build you a house with her own two hands.”
Catherine laughed, but Charles frowned. “Maybe not every day.”
“But often,” Catherine said, grinning back at him and then at me.
It really was nice to see her smile.
“Of course, part of our time will be spent with Camellia,” Catherine added a bit somberly.
Charles nodded in agreement and then quickly lowered his head, focusing on a stack of papers in his lap.
He hadn’t said much about his feelings on the matter, but Charles and Catherine had both decided the best place for Camellia would be in a private care facility in London. Someplace where she could be separated from society while she sorted out her emotions and came to understand the depths of her delusions.
I hoped just as much as anyone that she could be saved. She’d left the morning before with two nurses and a large male driver I guessed was more of a personal guard than anything else.
There had been a brief conversation about hiring Nurse Gray to care for Camellia, but Catherine and I each voted against it.
Catherine had explained to me that Nurse Gray had been a nurse for terminal patients for years. She was brought in when the patient’s life was nearing its end. That was why she kept such a cool, detached manner with everyone—to protect herself and her own emotions. It was also why she’d administered so many medications.
For years, her job had been to make people comfortable, so when possible, she gave Catherine medication to put her to sleep and ease her turmoil, whether physical or mental.
But just because I understood why Nurse Gray did what she did, didn’t mean I agreed with
