Dancing Dead by Deborah Woodworth Page B

burst of lightning and thunder startled her. She opened her eyes to find Beatrice Berg standing near her, fists on hips, scowling at Horace. She must have finished up in the kitchen and decided to join them, though she seemed the last person who’d want more of their company. She still wore her work clothes, a shapeless dress of faded brown cotton with irregular dark patches where food stains hadn’t washed out. A narrow black belt barely indented the middle of her square figure. Gray pincurls had turned to frizz from bending over steaming dishwater, and she hadn’t bothered to smooth them back into place.
    â€œTook the best seat for yourself, I see,” Beatrice said to Horace. “I reckon you’d’ve took both of them, if you could’ve figured out how.”
    â€œMrs. Berg, how charming to see you again,” Horace murmured.
    â€œAh, Mrs. Berg, you’ve joined us,” said Saul Halvardson, with every appearance of delight. “Come sit on the settee. I’ll be right back, just going to fetch another bottle.” He relinquished his seat with a bow, and left the room. Through the open parlor door, Gennie saw him bound up the stairs two at a time.
    Daisy Prescott hugged one end of the settee, bent over her magazine. As Beatrice sat, Daisy stood and mumbled something involving the word “sweater.” Only Gennie and Beatrice paid any attention to her. She seemed to fade from the room, but her back was straight as she glided up the stairs.
    â€œThat’s an odd one,” Beatrice said to no one in particular.
    â€œWhat do you mean?” Horace asked. He twisted in his seat to look at her.
    â€œDidn’t mean anything by it, so you can keep your nose to yourself, mister.”
    â€œYou don’t have much use for us poor menfolk, do you, Mrs. Berg?” Horace’s voice—smooth and faintly menacing—never seemed to vary, no matter what the provocation.
    Beatrice’s hands fluttered as if seeking something to hold on to, then folded across her stomach.
    â€œWhy should she?” Mina Dunmore’s question came out with such venom that all heads turned toward her. Mina didn’t seem to notice. She didn’t sound drunk, but red splotches had spread across her cheeks and down her neck. She stared into the fire, her shoulders hunched. A crack of thunder and a ferocious blast of wind failed to startle her.
    â€œWe’re supposed to be the weaker sex,” Mina said. “What a laugh. Men are nothing but children playing grown-up. When the rest of the world doesn’t want to play, men just up and leave, and it’s womenfolk who have to carry on.”
    â€œIt is my understanding, Mrs. Dunmore, that your husband passed on,” Horace said. “Surely you can’t believe that doing so was a childish abdication of responsibility?”
    Mina didn’t answer, didn’t even glance at him.
    â€œOr perhaps you are speaking of someone else?” Horace asked.
    The rattling of glass on glass announced the return of Saul Halvardson, holding two bottles of port in one hand and a box of cigars in the other. “Here we are,” he said. “All set for a long, rainy evening.”
    Daisy Prescott slipped into the room soon after Saul. She had changed into a thin wool suit with a jacket, and she carried several magazines. After a glance at Beatrice Berg’s uninviting presence on the settee, she chose a chair across the room, near the windows.
    â€œYou ain’t smoking them things in here,” Beatrice said.
    â€œNonsense,” Horace said. “A gentleman needs his smoke in the evening. I’ll take one, Mr. Halvardson, if you please.”
    â€œRules of the house,” Beatrice said. “Shakers don’t like smoking, and that’s that.”
    â€œI understand they don’t care for drinking, either,” Horace said, “yet there you are, sipping port.”
    Saul hesitated, his