I sat next to her. “Was lunch confusing?”
“How do you know everyone so well? Miss Mopflop? Miss Thistlebum? I had no idea what to say.”
“I could tell that bothered you. Jane Bennet was just being playful. Sir Walter didn’t understand either.”
“So they weren’t real?”
“No. You’ll have to dismiss a lot of what people say here. They are having fun, playing roles at a party. There might be a lot you won’t understand.”
I wasn’t sure if this was the right thing to do, but this wasn’t as contained an atmosphere as fifteen years ago. That week we never left the house. My parents controlled all the variables. Here I was alone and lost. I peeked at my phone. No message from my dad or Dr. Milton.
“Oh . . . There’s that noise again. I heard it this morning.” Isabel swept her hand around the room.
“It’s your phone.” I slid it from the bedside table and held it out to her. She shied away and crawled off the bed, then crossed to my side of the room and opened my wardrobe. “After we change, what shall we do this afternoon?”
“Everyone is resting.” I tossed her now silent phone onto her bed. “Except Mr. Bingley. He’s off shooting with Grant.”
That piqued her interest. “Could we walk out with them?”
“I suppose . . . But I don’t think they are walking the fields. There’s a clay shooting range beyond the stable.” I pushed off the bed and stood beside her. “How’s this? We’ll spend some time here doing whatever ladies are supposed to do in the afternoon, then we’ll join the bowls game Mrs. Jennings plans to set up on the south lawn.” I couldn’t stop my smile—how often did one get to say that sentence? “Mr. Bingley, and maybe Grant, plans to meet everyone there.”
“May we change first? I’m covered in dirt, and you have mud on your hem. Try this one.” She pulled out a dark-green dress, then crossed the room to her own wardrobe. “It really is embarrassing to be so disheveled. I once knew a girl who walked three miles in the mud. It covered her dress six inches deep. She wasn’t fit to be seen . . .”
As we dressed, Isabel told story after story of awkward situations and happenings. Most I recognized as from Austen. The ones from Emma she told in the first person. They were more definite, like real memories. The game of “blunder” with Mr. Churchill seemed to have actually happened to her and caused her real embarrassment. There were also a few stories I did not recognize, and I concluded they must have come from the movies, for they all involved the same sets of names.
The stories slowed as Isabel became increasingly agitated over my hairdressing skills. She had already fixed mine. It had fallen out during our ride, so I’d fashioned a ponytail and fastened it with my own electrical wire. She had taken the ponytail, twisted it high, and looped it around itself. Once again, I was amazed and secretly in awe of the transformation.
“Sit still or I won’t get it to stay.” I pulled a bobby pin from my lips and anchored it into her curls.
“Ouch,” Isabel yelped as a section flopped over her eyes.
“It’s too heavy. How do you have so much hair? I don’t know how you get it all piled up.” I needed a new approach. My approach. I reached across the dressing table.
“What are you doing?”
“Securing it with something that will work.” I grabbed an eight-inch length of black electrical wire, wrapped it around the bun, tucked in a few loose strands, wrapped again, and stepped back. “There. See? We could have accomplished that an hour ago—and the wire matches your hair color so you can’t even see it.”
“What is this stuff?”
I watched through the mirror as Isabel rolled another piece of wire around her finger, unrolled it, and rolled it again.
“It’s electrical wire.” I paused to gauge her reaction. I wasn’t sure about the rules . . . Was I to gently remind her of the present? Avoid it at all costs?
Fascinated, she continued to twist the wire. I continued. “My dad used to bring me home spare clippings from jobs. Everything in our house, growing up, revolved around electricity.” I paused again. She said nothing. “You’d like my dad. He gave me this too.” I lifted my necklace in another gentle reminder of who we were and what we knew about each other. I almost expected the usual litany. Of course, Mary. Amber means “electron” in ancient Greek. It’s all about electricity.
Instead she turned it over in her fingers, inspecting every detail. “What’s on the back?”
I resisted the urge to pull it away. We never talked about the back, and most days I forgot about it. “Dad soldered my mom’s Saint Cecilia medallion to the frame. She is the patron saint of music.”
I hadn’t wanted my dad to solder that to the stone. He did it right after my mom died, and rather than a blessing, it felt like an indictment. It reminded me of my push-pull relationship with the piano, which mirrored my relationship with my mom. A never-ending cycle of yearning-delight-fear-distance. How could you love something, invest in it, as you saw it slipping away?
Inches away I could see Isabel’s focus cloud. “I don’t remember my mother.”
I wasn’t sure if this was real or pretend. Emma didn’t remember her mother either. “I know.”
Isabel let the necklace drop. The gold medallion against my skin was now warm from her fingers. Her hand fluttered at her neck. She looked around the room as if searching for something safe and familiar.
“Let’s go for a walk.” My own brightness surprised me.
Her face cleared. “I need to get my boots. Can we go back down to the stables? Grant mentioned another horse that should be back by now. He’s bigger than Tennyson. He was pulling that Mrs. Jennings and Sir Walter around in a gig all morning.”
Isabel sank to the desk chair and pulled on the brown leather boots she’d worn riding. I heard a snap and a sigh as I did the same from across the room.
“I broke the lace and I don’t have another.” She crossed toward the bell pull—again. Clearly she didn’t remember our conversation.
“Don’t. That’s more work for Sonia. She’ll have to come up here, then go back down to find a shoelace. I’ll go find her.”
Isabel stood. “But you are less ready than I am. I will find her and meet you in the drawing room.”
“That’s the Day Room, right?”
“Yes, isn’t that odd? Day Room. That’s what Gertrude called it this morning.” Isabel left the room.
I dropped to the bed and tapped my phone. There was a text from Dad.
Dr. Milton will call you soon. He agrees with keeping her there. He wants to talk with a few colleagues as to timing and next steps. More soon.
I was on my own.
Chapter 15
Fifteen years ago, I had simply watched movies and sat beside Isabel. I knew something was wrong, that was obvious. But I also trusted my parents, and they assured me she needed rest and comfort and she’d be fine.