flickered away toward a dusty arrangement of everlasting flowers on the mantelpiece.
“I daresay your sister’s letter will arrive shortly. She may even come and visit you.” Makepeace smiled again, more coldly, if it were possible, than the last time.
“I wish she would. I so long to see her.”
Anna was delaying what she had to do. She felt nervous. It was irrational, she told herself, to fear that Makepeace might inform Vincent whom she wrote to. She must hand over the letter without showing any anxiety. If Makepeace inquired, she would tell her that Maud Sulten was a former governess with whom she’d stayed friendly.
“Oh! I almost forgot, Mrs. Makepeace. I have another letter here.”
She pulled it out from her bodice and tossed it on the table. Maud Sulten’s name and address were written in a hand so careful and constrained Anna barely recognized it as her own. “I would like it posted immediately.”
“Very well.”
Makepeace’s buttons shivered and glittered as she took the envelope and unlocked the drawer on the other side of the table, placing the letter inside. She got up and went to the hearth.
“The wind is in the wrong direction,” she said, stabbing at the coals with unnecessary force, her rounded back turned to Anna. Fragments of ash fell through the grate into the cinders, floated out over the fender. She clattered the poker down on the hearth tiles and straightened up. “This Miss Sulten is a friend of yours?”
“Yes. A former governess. We correspond occasionally. Be sure to post it promptly, won’t you? I haven’t written to her for an age.”
“Indeed, Mrs. Palmer. I will deal with it immediately.”
Makepeace was looking at her again with an expression of malice that did not change as Anna thanked her and left.
* * *
Alone in the room, Frances Makepeace tipped back her head and poured the last drops of her cup of coffee down her throat. She enjoyedthose final drops, thick and sweet, almost syrup, as much as she enjoyed the initial stinging sip. Makepeace made coffee every morning in her housekeeper’s room, pushing the rug up against the door to keep the smell of it from seeping into the corridor. It made patients restive if they caught a whiff of it on the way to the treatment room. It could create hysteria in the susceptible—their longing for coffee.
She rinsed out the cup, dried it and replaced it on the mantelpiece. The cup and saucer were mismatched, oddly if inescapably paired. Like a husband and wife, she thought, bitterly. Her dislike of couples was extending beyond human beings to all paired things. She could tolerate items only in ones or threes. Not twos or fours. Like the animals, trooping into the ark.
Returning to her table, she got out the letter, adjusted her pince-nez and slit open the top of the envelope with a paper knife. It was an affectation of Mr. Abse’s to keep the ramblings of patients with the same care he would apply to legal documents or his own extensive and unnecessary records and logs. The ledgers he thought so much of were infested with weevils and decomposing from within. She dealt with patients’ correspondence in her own way, keeping back any she found of interest or that made complaints about herself. As Lizzie Button was in the habit of doing.
If she passed all the letters on to Abse as he’d instructed, the shelves in the study would have fallen from the walls by now with the weight of useless paperwork. She stood for a moment by the window contemplating the image of Lake House collapsing from the inside, falling in on itself with the weight of its own history like a vast failed cake.
The wind had changed again and the fire was showing signs of life. The coal sent up a mustard-colored stream of smoke, the back draft forcing wisps of it down the chimney. She put her handkerchief over her mouth and nose as she pulled out Mrs. Palmer’s letter from the envelope. “Dear Miss Sulten,” she murmured aloud. “You do
“I daresay your sister’s letter will arrive shortly. She may even come and visit you.” Makepeace smiled again, more coldly, if it were possible, than the last time.
“I wish she would. I so long to see her.”
Anna was delaying what she had to do. She felt nervous. It was irrational, she told herself, to fear that Makepeace might inform Vincent whom she wrote to. She must hand over the letter without showing any anxiety. If Makepeace inquired, she would tell her that Maud Sulten was a former governess with whom she’d stayed friendly.
“Oh! I almost forgot, Mrs. Makepeace. I have another letter here.”
She pulled it out from her bodice and tossed it on the table. Maud Sulten’s name and address were written in a hand so careful and constrained Anna barely recognized it as her own. “I would like it posted immediately.”
“Very well.”
Makepeace’s buttons shivered and glittered as she took the envelope and unlocked the drawer on the other side of the table, placing the letter inside. She got up and went to the hearth.
“The wind is in the wrong direction,” she said, stabbing at the coals with unnecessary force, her rounded back turned to Anna. Fragments of ash fell through the grate into the cinders, floated out over the fender. She clattered the poker down on the hearth tiles and straightened up. “This Miss Sulten is a friend of yours?”
“Yes. A former governess. We correspond occasionally. Be sure to post it promptly, won’t you? I haven’t written to her for an age.”
“Indeed, Mrs. Palmer. I will deal with it immediately.”
Makepeace was looking at her again with an expression of malice that did not change as Anna thanked her and left.
* * *
Alone in the room, Frances Makepeace tipped back her head and poured the last drops of her cup of coffee down her throat. She enjoyedthose final drops, thick and sweet, almost syrup, as much as she enjoyed the initial stinging sip. Makepeace made coffee every morning in her housekeeper’s room, pushing the rug up against the door to keep the smell of it from seeping into the corridor. It made patients restive if they caught a whiff of it on the way to the treatment room. It could create hysteria in the susceptible—their longing for coffee.
She rinsed out the cup, dried it and replaced it on the mantelpiece. The cup and saucer were mismatched, oddly if inescapably paired. Like a husband and wife, she thought, bitterly. Her dislike of couples was extending beyond human beings to all paired things. She could tolerate items only in ones or threes. Not twos or fours. Like the animals, trooping into the ark.
Returning to her table, she got out the letter, adjusted her pince-nez and slit open the top of the envelope with a paper knife. It was an affectation of Mr. Abse’s to keep the ramblings of patients with the same care he would apply to legal documents or his own extensive and unnecessary records and logs. The ledgers he thought so much of were infested with weevils and decomposing from within. She dealt with patients’ correspondence in her own way, keeping back any she found of interest or that made complaints about herself. As Lizzie Button was in the habit of doing.
If she passed all the letters on to Abse as he’d instructed, the shelves in the study would have fallen from the walls by now with the weight of useless paperwork. She stood for a moment by the window contemplating the image of Lake House collapsing from the inside, falling in on itself with the weight of its own history like a vast failed cake.
The wind had changed again and the fire was showing signs of life. The coal sent up a mustard-colored stream of smoke, the back draft forcing wisps of it down the chimney. She put her handkerchief over her mouth and nose as she pulled out Mrs. Palmer’s letter from the envelope. “Dear Miss Sulten,” she murmured aloud. “You do
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