Free Property (Vintage Contemporaries) by Valerie Martin Page B

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    I HAVE BEEN through a living nightmare.
    At noon I went in to feed Mother some broth. She seemed much improved. She asked to be settled in her chair and was strong enough to get there by holding on to my arm and taking small steps. She wanted various pillows arranged just so, then complained that the soup was not hot, which made me think of my husband. I called Sarah to take it to the kitchen and put it back on the fire. When Sarah came in, Mother gave her a long look, as if she could not think who she was. Then, when she had gone out, Mother said to me, “Why have you brought that one with you?”
    “Why shouldn’t I? She’s mine,” I said.
    “But who is serving your husband?”
    “Rose, I imagine. She’s old enough. I left in such a hurry that was the last thing on my mind.”
    “So you still have no proper butler,” Mother said.
    “My husband does not wish to have one.”
    She was silent a moment, studying me in a way that made me uncomfortable. “Can’t he afford one?” she asked.
    “I don’t know,” I lied. “I’m not privy to his finances.”
    “Why did he choose sugar?” she fretted, more to herself than to me. “There’s no reliable profit in it.”
    “No,” I agreed. “Cotton is more practical.”
    “I keep hearing a baby crying,” she said abruptly. “Is there a baby here?”
    “It’s Sarah’s,” I said. “She’s still suckling.”
    “Why did you bring her here?” she asked again. Her persistence perplexed me, so I gave no answer. Her mind is wandering, I thought, from her illness.
    “Whose baby is it?” she asked again.
    “Sarah’s,” I said.
    “Yes,” she said impatiently. “I know that. But who is the father?”
    “How should I know?” I said. She blinked at me, as if I’d struck her.
    “I thought you would manage better than you have, Manon,” she said. “You neglect your duties and so you have no control in your own house.”
    I could not bear another lecture on my failings as a wife. “How long can it take to warm a bowl of soup?” I said, rising from my seat. Just as I reached the door, Sarah appeared with the tray. “At last,” I said. “What makes you so slow?” I reached out to take the tray, but as I did so I saw that Sarah was looking past me with a grimace of revulsion. She backed away, allowing the tray to slip from her fingers and crash to the floor. Hot soup flew up onto my skirt; a few drops burned my ankles. I shouted, turning away to pull a towel from the washstand, and, as I did, I saw a sight so terrible it will haunt my dreams until I die. Mother was sitting just as she had been, propped on her pillows, her hands folded in her lap, but from her mouth, nose, eyes, and ears, a black fluid gushed forth. I screamed. Sarah ran, calling for Peek. I took up a towel and went to Mother, pressing it to her mouth and nose. She didn’t struggle. Perhaps she was already dead. “My God,” I said, over and over, mopping the viscous fluid away, but to no avail. I took her hand to find even her fingernails blackened and wet, and when I looked down, I saw two stains unfurling like black flowers at the toes of her linen slippers. “Can you hear me?” I said, as the towel turned slippery in my hands. Peek came running in, trailing towels, went straight to the washstand, filled the bowl, and brought it to me. Together we washed Mother’s face and neck as best we could. Soon the water in the bowl was black, and still the liquid seeped from her eyes and mouth. Her skin had turned blue, as if she were suffocating, and the veins in her neck and hands stood out against the flesh like spreading black tentacles. “Mother,” I pleaded. “Please speak to me. Please try to speak to me.” Peek put her hand on my arm and said, “She gone, missus. Nothing more you can do.”
    My legs gave out beneath me and I dropped to my hands and knees on the carpet. “Mother,” I said. A loose strand of my hair fell across my cheek. The tip of it was black and so