The Sister's Tale by Beth Powning (e reader for manga .txt) 📕

edge, and the women backed away, hands to their faces, coughing. Beyond, the real house was so massive in contrast as to appear to lean back against a tapestry of blue sky and leafless lindens. The fire grew to a muted lion’s roar, momentarily enveloping the still intact house in rapacious light. The posts crumbled, first, tearing away the veranda. Spurts of flame shot from the turrets. The roof collapsed and then the fire began a louder snapping, as if it devoured dry spruce needles. Within minutes, the little house was a pile of sticks, melting glass, blackened fabric. A burning curtain detached and was borne away like a butterfly. The men shovelled the outer edges of debris into the fire’s lessening heart. Flora poked a burning table back into the flames. She saw a carpet, blackening. She saw the tiny iron stove that Mr. Tuck had bought in Hampton. The men dashed water, causing hissing puffs of steam.

“So quickly!” Enid murmured. She held Flora’s arm, limpeting herself, as she had ever since the abduction.

“Be glad it was not our real house,” Rosamund remarked. Her voice was harsh. She turned away and slid the back of her hand up a donkey’s furry face.

Flora was brushed by a sense of relief. She felt an urgent need to go home and clean the workshop with vinegar and hot water, to scrub its floor and shelves and windows, and then do the same to the room Mr. Tuck had slept in, putting clean sheets on the bed, airing the blanket that had touched his cheek.

“Her name was Elsa,” she said. “The woman he murdered. Elsa Cavanaugh.”

The smoky breeze stirred their skirts, their collars and ribbons. Shovelling soil onto the pyre, the men considered them in fleeting glances.

“Rest in peace, Elsa Cavanaugh,” Rosamund whispered.

Burn in hell, Jasper Tuck, Flora thought.

Pulling Enid close.

—

Gas from the lighting fixture left a familiar, sour redolence in Harland’s throat. At his desk, he was designing advertisements for the Christmas season. Fairweather’s Gentlemen’s Clothing, he wrote. Quality Attire for the Modern Man. Have on offer…

Permelia had criticized his advertisements. He scratched out Have on offer and substituted We Sell as Low as Any.

His employees were exclaiming over items, rustling paper, unpacking a shipment of goods. He read over the bills of lading. Fancy Lisle Socks. Black Taffeta Silk Umbrellas. Peccary Hogskin Gloves.

His mind was on Josephine, seeking an excuse to visit her. The hunt for Jasper Tuck was in the hands of the police. The courts were reconsidering the murder of Mrs. Elsa Cavanaugh. Enid was safe. Mr. Mallory had been brought to justice.

It occurred to him that a woman had multiple needs a man could solve. Someone to shovel her lane. Firewood. A broken door on her kitchen range.

He pulled out his pocket watch and saw that he would not be expected home for dinner for another half-hour.

—

Josephine untied her apron, leading him to the turret room.

“I’m going to my dinner,” he said. “I just had a moment and thought I would stop in.”

She folded the apron and set it on her lap. The cloth was soft and made a small, square package.

She reflected upon an opening remark. Three weeks had passed since the disappearance of Jasper Tuck. The news had faded in importance. No reporters came to the house. Enid was fragile, but recovering. Maud was in her final year at the Pleasant Valley Academy. His interest had always centred on Flora, as the link that attached him to Josephine. Flora was occupied with many things. Which one should she tell him about? Her arithmetic studies? Latin?

“Are you well, Harland?”

She had seen a jar of dyspepsia powder on his desk. She wondered about the ravages of his wife’s sharp tongue, how it sculpted him, shaving away the parts Permelia found unacceptable.

He held his hat on his knees.

“Nothing to complain about, Josephine, thank you. I was wondering about your spare room. Now that Mr. Tuck…I thought you might need help finding a new tenant.”

“Flora has taken care of that. She met someone at Humphreys and Teakles’ who knew someone who knew…you know how it is. I made sure, though, that the person was well regarded around town. It is a Miss Caroline Macpherson.”

“The Harold Macphersons?”

“Yes, those Macphersons.”

“That’s good, then.”

His lips worked as if he wished to speak but had nothing to say. He ran a finger over the hat, not looking at her.

“I wanted you to know that I am always at your service. If you need a man for doing any little…or perhaps large…thing. Carpentry, or gardening, or the like. I can always help you find someone. Or, of course, do it myself, if I can.”

Josephine listened to the words that he spoke; heard, as well, the ones that lay beneath.

“Thank you. I feel that between Flora, Ellen, Maud and myself, we are becoming a very capable team. But of course I shall ask you if…”

She broke off.

“We want to see one another, don’t we, Harland?”

“I didn’t—”

“I know you didn’t. You have never been the least bit improper. But now that the problems you have helped me with are solved, there is no reason for you to come here. And…and you know…people have begun to talk.”

Flesh thickened along his jaw, making a slight droop. Fine black hairs darkened his wrists. His shoulders were slumped; his clothing shielded him, like armour.

“Harland. My dear friend. I wonder if you are prepared to divorce Permelia.”

He considered his fingers, spread out on his knees. The fingertips tightened. “I have looked into it, Josephine. And I have concluded, regretfully, that I cannot.”

She realized that he would rather have postponed this question. Or left it unasked, unconsidered.

“It is as I expected.” She stroked the folded apron, not meeting his eyes. “No, you needn’t tell me. I can well imagine all the…oh, the disastrous consequences.”

The boarders were letting themselves in the front door, hanging coats and hats on the rack. A draft travelled across the floor and touched her ankles.

She did not care