The Arsenic Eater's Wife by Tonya Mitchell

Author:Tonya Mitchell [Mitchell, Tonya]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2024-02-08T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 17

Torrence House

May 9, 1889

She is aboard the Baltic. Timothy attracts her attention almost instantly after they pull away from the pier. It’s as if they’re meeting for the first time, yet she’s always known him. She’s arrested by his good looks, his fine manners. He is equally smitten and soon, it is he who strolls with her on deck in the afternoons, he who escorts her into the dining room each evening. After a clutch of days at sea, they disembark arm in arm, pledged to each other in love. But as Timothy brings her hand to his mouth for a kiss, she spies William at the end of the plank. She laughs. You can’t stop us now. We’re to be married, William! There’s nothing you can do. William draws a pistol and fires once, twice, three times. Timothy’s chest explodes. Her lover staggers and reaches for her as his body teeters back, but his hands clasp only air. He falls from the plank, a black snarl of water swallowing him whole.

Constance gasps and sits up, the filaments of the nightmare dissolving like thin clouds. She runs a hand along her forehead. It’s damp. Her whole body sweats. She’s fallen asleep in the drawing room again. William doesn’t like to awaken without her beside him. She takes the stairs. The door to the sickroom is open. She has the absurd notion that the light coming from within is hesitant to invade the gloomy darkness of the landing.

Anne stands at the side of the bed. In her hands are folded towels. The nurse’s chair is empty. Constance has always thought Anne a comely girl—not overly pretty, but pleasing in a simple, country way, with a sprinkle of freckles and hair of pale gold. But there’s something about the way she’s looking at William sleeping that is neither attractive nor simple. For an instant, she thinks the girl aims to smother him with a towel and then the thought scampers off as quickly and inexplicably as it came.

“Anne?” The nanny swivels to her. She expects her to recover herself, but she remains in some sort of fugue. “What are you doing?”

The nanny’s lips draw down, her irises vacant. It’s as if a magician has waved his hand and magicked a different person. “He doesn’t care for you,” she says. “He doesn’t care for any of us.”

Constance is taken aback. “What? Where’s the nurse?”

Anne shifts back to William as if she hasn’t heard and Constance’s thoughts swim and connect. Anne knows William wishes her gone. Since the summer, the girl has read every message William has sent her: his clipped, over-sharp words; his affronted body language. She has only pretended not to notice.

Poor girl. How she must hate him. She stays for me. Me and the children.

Down the hall, the water closet door opens with a creak of hinges and brings Anne from her trance. She blinks and looks at Constance. “Can I mail another letter for you, mistress?”

The old Anne. The moment is gone.

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