The Daring Ladies of Lowell

Author:Kate Alcott [Alcott, Kate]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction
ISBN: 9780385536509
Google: 4favAAAAQBAJ
Amazon: 0385536496
Publisher: Doubleday
Published: 2015-02-23T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

There was no true sleep; every now and then, a few seconds of dozing, then just hours of staring at the ceiling. No, she wouldn’t think of Samuel. Instead she tried in the stillness of the night to re-create the sound of Lovey’s laughter, the humor and fun that she produced so naturally. She couldn’t. The sound was gone.

Somewhere in the early morning Alice drifted into sleep. At seven o’clock, she awoke with a start; she never slept this late. She rose and dressed herself in her own clothes, which had mysteriously appeared, laid out over a chair at the end of the bed. Mary Beth must have somehow tiptoed in and left them there. She was probably already scrubbing the clothes Alice had contaminated by the simple act of wearing them.

She stared into the mirror by the side of the bed. Her eyes were glazed by lack of sleep, and her hair was hopelessly tangled. She feared Mrs. Holloway had not packed her a comb; her fingers would have to do. That wasn’t her main concern. What mattered was arranging her face in such a way as to erase as much expression as possible. Her feelings had hardened over the sleepless night. She was just a mill girl; he was a rich man who could have any woman he wanted, and she would let him know she was not going to be some kind of casual dalliance.

But her reflected image was too mobile, too revealing, even when she pulled her lips into a straight, firm line, tightening her jaw. Soon she had to descend those stairs again and make her way to the dining room. For him, probably, last night could be shrugged off. He would be at the spotlessly clad white linen table, dressed in his usual proper fashion, drinking coffee, talking soberly to his father. He would probably pull out that ponderous-looking watch of his, checking the time, eager to pack her into a coach for the trip back to Lowell.

It helped to fantasize such coldness from him. She felt entangled in the intimacy of their talk last night, still hearing the quiet reflectiveness in his voice, but she could not let herself be fooled. She had endangered herself by staying there, talking, in her nightdress; that was the fact of it. She would not think, could not think, about the gentleness with which he had touched her face.

She groped in her handbag, looking for her mother’s cameo, and slowly took in that it was not there. And in that sickening moment when one knows something is truly lost, she realized she had forgotten to remove it from her dress last night. She gasped aloud. How could she have done such an idiotic thing? Frantically, on her hands and knees, she searched the floor. It must have rolled under the bed surely. No, it wasn’t there. Had it gone into the washing tub with her dress? Had it been ruined or even stolen?

She was crying now. Just sitting on the floor, a stupid girl, out of her depth, wishing only to be somewhere else.

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