The last fragment of hope died in her eyes. She staggered back, tears pooling, yet the old Elizabeth reappeared in the stiffened shoulders and jutted chin. “I understand.” Her voice wavered. “I understand perfectly. You don’t care.”
He could not look in her eyes. Agreeing would be the kindest thing to do. It would sting for the moment but eventually heal over. It would also be a lie. “I must go.”
When she discovered that he had sailed away and would not return for a full year, her anger would flash and her affection would wither.
A sob hiccuped out of her.
He turned from her before he changed his mind.
Her footsteps raced away as the candle sputtered and died.
12
Rourke hadn’t answered her. He hadn’t insisted he loved her or even cared for her. No, he’d let her stand there raw and vulnerable. Then he’d looked away before firing the final volley. He had to leave, as if being near her was intolerable. He’d even turned his back on her.
Elizabeth carried that pain home with her. She woke up to it—and to a raging dispute in the pantry between Aunt Virginia and Anabelle.
She could not face her aunt this morning, not when she knew Anabelle had broken curfew and left the house after midnight. It was getting more and more difficult to defend her friend.
Elizabeth still ached from Rourke’s rejection. She could not bear to see another soul, so she escaped to the only room no one would think to search—her mother’s bedchamber. She turned the knob, and tightness gripped her chest. What would she find inside? Often the bedding, the clothes, and even the furnishings of a yellow fever victim were burned. Was it all gone? Were the miniature and the portrait in Father’s study the only things that remained of her mother?
She took a deep breath and pushed open the door.
Time seemed to have stood still inside the room. Her mother’s brushes lay on her dressing table exactly where she must have left them. The bristles were even turned up—so they would stay stiff, Mother had always claimed. Elizabeth stepped into the room and closed the door behind her. A gentle breeze tickled her cheeks. The air smelled antiseptic, of vinegar and lime. She wandered to the dressing table where a saucer was filled with water mixed with chloride of lime. She’d seen this used near coffins and in sickrooms to purify the air. She drew the stopper from the bottle of rose water. The fragrance brought a trace of her mother near, as if she had whispered past and floated out the open windows.
Open windows. That meant Florie kept the room clean. Mother’s favorite quilt, appliquéd with oleander blooms, topped the bed. The piles of pillows were plumped and freshly covered with crisp linens. Mama’s Bible lay open on her writing table, which had been pulled beside the bed.
Elizabeth glanced at the page. Psalms. The twenty-third.
Mother knew she would not live. Yet nothing in the room spoke defeat. The light cotton curtains billowed in the breeze. A vase of brilliant orange-red Turk’s Caps graced her writing desk. The blotter stood ready beneath the open Bible. Ink pot and pens waited in the upper right corner. A blue satin gown hung at the ready, as if she expected to go to a soiree the next day.
Elizabeth let the tears well in her eyes. “I miss you, Mama.”
The breeze carried her whisper around the room and out into the shimmering blue sky.
“Why?” A sob escaped. “How could you die? You were here too long to let yellow fever take you. Did you give up? Was it because I disappointed you?” She pressed her wadded handkerchief to her face. It wiped away the tears but not the questions. “Didn’t you know that I would need you? Why did you have to go?”
She sank onto the edge of the bed. A teardrop splashed against the blotter. She swiped at it, but it had already soaked in, marring the pristine surface. Mother was so careful in her writing. She never left an ink blot or misspelled a word. This blotter appeared unused, yet Elizabeth had received a letter from her dated a week before she perished. Had Mother kept her letters?
Elizabeth pulled open the smaller drawer. Extra pens and nibs were neatly arranged beside two bottles of ink. The larger drawer contained the letterhead, embossed with “Mrs. Charles Benjamin” and a floral flourish. It also contained letters received. Elizabeth’s letters sat in front, tied by a bright blue silk ribbon. Her most recent letter had been written nearly six months ago, three months before Mother’s death. If Elizabeth had been a good daughter, she would have written each day.
She slammed the drawer shut and drew in a shaky breath. Maybe she shouldn’t have looked through the desk. Memories only intensified the pain.