A.T."
Helen and... Amy Travers?
No, it couldn't be, simply couldn't. But "...my dearest lover"?
No, it didn't bear thinking
about. She was making much more of the inscription than it deserved,
and perhaps it was little wonder after what she'd been witness to
today: James and the drunken cowboy, Esther on the window ledge and
stair landing, the Widow Bellavance in the doorway. She'd been
trained by the good citizens of Cheyenne to expect bizarre behavior
until now she was finding it even when it wasn't there.
Still, as she read through
the inscription once more, she experienced an unfamiliar sensation.
For just a moment she felt furtive, embarrassed almost, as though
she'd opened someone else's correspondence or read someone else's
intimate diary.
- Chapter 6 -
She let the book fall into
her lap, and by the time she thought of lifting it up again, she
noticed something wrong with the electric light in the room. It was
pale, had a weak, sickly quality--and then she realized that daylight
was coming through the window, dissipating the effect of the lamp.
And somewhere a meadowlark sang. It was morning, and she had slept
the night through, slept deeply, totally, beyond the reach of either
dreams or nightmares.
The window was open a
little way, a gentle breeze blew in, and she lay still, savoring the
feel of its June coolness on her arms and face. She heard the
meadowlark again and thought how lovely his song was--and how lonely,
too. It took on overtones of solitude and isolation from the vast
prairie quiet until he sounded as though he were the only bird in the
world.
Gradually the human noises
began. Somewhere in the house someone turned off a tap. A screen door
slammed, and a child's voice floated up from outside. A dog
barked--wasn't that Tom? Sally must have him outside, playing with
him.
There were footsteps on the
stairway, low voices in the hall, and Sophie decided to get up. When
she had dressed, she entered the hallway to find Esther waiting for
her. She was sure that's what the girl was doing, though Esther was
taking pains to make the encounter seem a coincidence.
"Aunt Sophie. Good
morning. Are you on your way down to breakfast too?"
As they started toward the
stairway together, Sophie thought of mentioning the bicycle, but
rejected the idea. It was James' place, not hers, to bring it up.
They passed the bedroom Sophie thought had been Helen's, the one she
had asked Esther about yesterday. "That was my mother's room,"
Esther said, tilting her head and looking up.
Sophie merely nodded. She
had the impression that the girl was testing her somehow by offering
the information so casually, and she didn't want to show her
surprise. Nor did she want to risk triggering another hysterical
outburst like yesterday's.
They walked on down to the
dining room, where an enormous breakfast was waiting in covered
dishes on the sideboard. There was crisp-fried pork, fat buckwheat
cakes, and sliced peaches glistening in their heavy juice. Sophie had
little appetite, but Esther kept pressing food upon her, food and
conversation.
"You don't have any
children, do you, Aunt Sophie?"
"No, that's right."
"I think I shan't
either."
"Oh, why is that?"
She shrugged. "It
hurts too much. I wasn't very old when Sally was born, but I remember
my mother screamed and screamed." She finished the last of her
buckwheat cakes. "Mmmmmm, these are good. You really ought to
have some."
Sophie glanced at her. Was
she trying to shock? Is that what she'd been doing yesterday when she
walked into the drawing room and in the most matter-of-fact voice
imaginable described horror stories in the newspapers? But she had
been tense then, keyed up. Now she seemed cool and unruffled as she
took three more buckwheat cakes and chatted on.
"But the baby that
really hurt was the one after Sally."
"The one that was born
dead."
"Mmmm-huh. Mother
screamed for a whole day and a whole night that time." She was
pouring thick maple syrup on to the
Helen and... Amy Travers?
No, it couldn't be, simply couldn't. But "...my dearest lover"?
No, it didn't bear thinking
about. She was making much more of the inscription than it deserved,
and perhaps it was little wonder after what she'd been witness to
today: James and the drunken cowboy, Esther on the window ledge and
stair landing, the Widow Bellavance in the doorway. She'd been
trained by the good citizens of Cheyenne to expect bizarre behavior
until now she was finding it even when it wasn't there.
Still, as she read through
the inscription once more, she experienced an unfamiliar sensation.
For just a moment she felt furtive, embarrassed almost, as though
she'd opened someone else's correspondence or read someone else's
intimate diary.
- Chapter 6 -
She let the book fall into
her lap, and by the time she thought of lifting it up again, she
noticed something wrong with the electric light in the room. It was
pale, had a weak, sickly quality--and then she realized that daylight
was coming through the window, dissipating the effect of the lamp.
And somewhere a meadowlark sang. It was morning, and she had slept
the night through, slept deeply, totally, beyond the reach of either
dreams or nightmares.
The window was open a
little way, a gentle breeze blew in, and she lay still, savoring the
feel of its June coolness on her arms and face. She heard the
meadowlark again and thought how lovely his song was--and how lonely,
too. It took on overtones of solitude and isolation from the vast
prairie quiet until he sounded as though he were the only bird in the
world.
Gradually the human noises
began. Somewhere in the house someone turned off a tap. A screen door
slammed, and a child's voice floated up from outside. A dog
barked--wasn't that Tom? Sally must have him outside, playing with
him.
There were footsteps on the
stairway, low voices in the hall, and Sophie decided to get up. When
she had dressed, she entered the hallway to find Esther waiting for
her. She was sure that's what the girl was doing, though Esther was
taking pains to make the encounter seem a coincidence.
"Aunt Sophie. Good
morning. Are you on your way down to breakfast too?"
As they started toward the
stairway together, Sophie thought of mentioning the bicycle, but
rejected the idea. It was James' place, not hers, to bring it up.
They passed the bedroom Sophie thought had been Helen's, the one she
had asked Esther about yesterday. "That was my mother's room,"
Esther said, tilting her head and looking up.
Sophie merely nodded. She
had the impression that the girl was testing her somehow by offering
the information so casually, and she didn't want to show her
surprise. Nor did she want to risk triggering another hysterical
outburst like yesterday's.
They walked on down to the
dining room, where an enormous breakfast was waiting in covered
dishes on the sideboard. There was crisp-fried pork, fat buckwheat
cakes, and sliced peaches glistening in their heavy juice. Sophie had
little appetite, but Esther kept pressing food upon her, food and
conversation.
"You don't have any
children, do you, Aunt Sophie?"
"No, that's right."
"I think I shan't
either."
"Oh, why is that?"
She shrugged. "It
hurts too much. I wasn't very old when Sally was born, but I remember
my mother screamed and screamed." She finished the last of her
buckwheat cakes. "Mmmmmm, these are good. You really ought to
have some."
Sophie glanced at her. Was
she trying to shock? Is that what she'd been doing yesterday when she
walked into the drawing room and in the most matter-of-fact voice
imaginable described horror stories in the newspapers? But she had
been tense then, keyed up. Now she seemed cool and unruffled as she
took three more buckwheat cakes and chatted on.
"But the baby that
really hurt was the one after Sally."
"The one that was born
dead."
"Mmmm-huh. Mother
screamed for a whole day and a whole night that time." She was
pouring thick maple syrup on to the
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