The Painter's Daughters by Emily Howes

Author:Emily Howes
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Simon & Schuster
Published: 2024-02-27T00:00:00+00:00

* * *

The next morning Molly is very sick, which I think is a good thing, for everyone knows sickness is the bad stuff inside you being forced out. Her bedclothes are soaked, and my mother is furious, and we are sent to the dining room and told not to leave under any circumstances. Molly sits, pallid, in a chair, while I practice the harpsichord, hitting notes that jar, and starting over and over.

The door opens.

“I am to sit with you until lunchtime, Mrs. Hindrell says.” It is Gainsborough, scratching his nose.

“We don’t want you,” I say.

“Don’t care.”

He slumps down into one of the chairs, lets his head flop back, and stares up at the ceiling.

For a while, we sit there, the three of us, listening to the footsteps above us as Molly’s bed is changed. Rain hammers outside, slicing down to the street below. I can see through the window into the drawing room of the house opposite, where a small boy is blowing into a French horn, his face contorted in a burst of mute effort. Full of sound and fury, signifying nothing, I think, which is something I have heard my father say. Then I notice Molly is crying. Fat tears are soaking her face while she sits, motionless in her dining chair. I glance at Gainsborough, who has not moved, then go to her and bend down toward her chair and put my arm around her, but she leans forward so that my hand drops and she is doubled over, her face hidden in her hands. She cries and cries. Gainsborough stares at the ceiling still.

Then Molly stands and starts to walk in an endless circle around the table. Round and round and round.

“Molly,” I say, “sit down.”

She ignores me.

I look at Gainsborough, who is tracing a pattern on the table with his finger, his eyes on Molly.

“Molly,” I say again, trying to take her by the arm, “sit down, now.” She pushes me off and keeps walking in her circle.

“Do you like to dance, mad Molly?” Gainsborough Gainsborough says suddenly, grabbing her by the hand as she passes and pulling her round toward him. He stands up and swings her arms back and forth roughly.

“Stop it,” I say. “Molly, come here.” But she laughs. As I step toward her, he pushes her away so that she spins, and then he starts to beat a drum rhythm on the table with his bare hands.

“Dance, mad Molly, come on, dance!”

Molly laughs again and starts to clap her hands, and then suddenly she is dancing a quadrille, moving in wider and wider circles as if guided by a partner who is not there, her head turned toward his imaginary face, smiling and laughing and making conversation and switching direction back and forth to music that is not playing.

“Oh, the weather is fine, the weather is fine, the weather is fine, do you like cards? I like cards.”

“It isn’t funny! Stop it!” I reach out to grab Molly, but she tears past me, knocking a little statuette of a shepherdess to the ground.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.