The following days brought no relief from the twin torments of Mother’s diary and the pending engagement announcement. Elizabeth could resolve the latter by talking to Father, but he seemed to be avoiding her. He took supper in his office. The door was always closed. When she knocked, he either did not answer or asked her to come back later.
That left the diary. What had happened to the other daughter? Twenty years of silence shrouded the answer. She might have died or left Key West. She might still live here. Who would know? Who could Elizabeth ask? Certainly not Father. Aunt Virginia wouldn’t know. Despite her proclaimed closeness to Mother, this was not something that Elizabeth’s mother would have shared with anyone. None of the current servants had been here at that time. Nathan and Cook arrived shortly before Charlie was born. Florie came along soon after. Only Mother’s maid and Mammy had served the household, but both were gone now. Mother’s maid died of fever when Elizabeth was little, and Mammy left the summer before the hurricane. Anabelle was born two months after Elizabeth. There was no one to ask.
By evening, her head ached so fiercely that she begged Aunt Virginia to excuse her early from their reading in the parlor.
“You do look rather out of sorts.” Aunt Virginia lifted a handkerchief to her nose. “I hope there isn’t another of those dreadful yellow fever plagues coming around.”
For an instant, Elizabeth was tempted to claim the onset of fever. It would keep even Mr. Finch away, but it wasn’t true. She felt none of the aches associated with tropical fevers. A little hint wouldn’t hurt, though. “I hope not, but it’s prudent to take precautions.”
“Especially with the Harvest Ball nearly here.” Aunt Virginia shooed her away, handkerchief still covering her nose. “You must be in the best of health by then.”
Only after Elizabeth shut her bedroom door did her headache begin to ease. The layers upon layers of petticoats along with the crinoline felt like lead. She stripped off the dress and as much of the underpinnings as possible and then lay on the bed staring at the plastered ceiling.
A knock on the door signaled Anabelle’s arrival. “Miss?” One eyebrow lifted at the sight of her partially undressed mistress.
“It’s too hot.” Elizabeth rolled onto her stomach. “Get this dreadful corset off me.”
Anabelle closed the door. “I thank God every day that I don’t have to wear that contraption.”
As she loosened the stays, the air came back into Elizabeth’s lungs. “When Aunt Virginia leaves, I’m forgoing it also.”
“Do you think Mr. Finch will look favorably on his future wife shunning proper attire?”
Elizabeth winced at the words future wife. “Aside from the fact that I have no intention of marrying Mr. Finch, I don’t think I shall ever be a proper wife.”
“Oh?”
“I despise shoes and hats and corsets and all of this frippery.” Elizabeth tossed the pile of petticoats off the bed. “Teas and visits bore me to tears. The thought of spending the rest of my days managing a household is insufferable. I want to do things. Go places. See strange and marvelous sights.”
“And how would you pay for this gallivanting about? Your father wouldn’t support such goings-on.”
“I could write articles for the newspaper.”
“I doubt Mr. Finch would want his wife to stoop to working,” Anabelle said as she untied the crinoline. “In my experience, husbands make all the decisions.”
Perhaps that was what terrified her. “Like Father.”
“Like your father.” Anabelle hung up the underpinnings. “Do you want a nightgown, Miss Lizzie?”
The airy cotton chemise felt wonderful, but it was even better to hear Anabelle use her nickname. Elizabeth was transported back to when they’d giggled under the covers late into the night.
She scooted over and patted the bed. “Why don’t we pretend we’re girls again? I’ll tell you a secret, and you can tell me one.”
Anabelle looked at Elizabeth as if she wasn’t quite sure she should trust her. She glanced at the closed door. “Your aunt will wonder where I am.”
“You’re with me. I’m mistress of the house now, and I want you here tonight.” It felt good to take charge, to finally do what she wanted, not what everyone else said she should do. “I want to talk with you.”
“Very well.” Anabelle sat stiffly on the edge of the bed. “What do you want to discuss?”
Elizabeth had to laugh. “Goodness, you’re acting like you’re afraid of me. What happened to the old Anabelle?”
“She grew up.”
Elizabeth hugged her knees to her chin. How glorious it felt to go back in time! One day soon she’d have to step forward into the dismal future, but she deserved just one night as a girl, didn’t she? “I’m sorry. For everything.”
Anabelle didn’t ask what she meant. “You didn’t have a choice.”
“I suppose not.” Elizabeth examined her soft, pale hands, so different from Anabelle’s lean, callused fingers. Instead of inheriting Mother’s long, graceful hands, Elizabeth had gotten Father’s. Who else walked this earth with Father’s features? Mammy was the only one still alive who might have known.
“Your mother,” she began.