Page 39 of Night Falls on Predicament Avenue
He offered a grim smile.
“She sent this to you in London?” She stared at him, ignoring the way the breeze lifted his hair from his forehead.
Anderson took the letter back and tucked it into his coat pocket. “She did. On receiving it, I immediately booked passage to come retrieve her.”
Effie nodded. “Is ‘your songbird’ Isabelle? Is she referring to herself?”
Anderson’s expression instantly darkened. His body tensed, and a muscle in his jaw twitched. Adjusting his grip on the reins, he flicked them against the horse’s back. The carriage jolted forward. “You know enough,” he stated.
Effie sensed Anderson pulling away—perhaps not in body, but in spirit. What little warmth and comradeship that had evolved between them today had been withdrawn under his protection.
Isabelle Addington was dead. She had to be. Effie knew this to be true. Knew the letter in his pocket was his last missive from her. But why had Isabelle left him? And why was he coldly willing to assume her death without demanding proof of her body? Instead, what echoed in Effie’s memory were his words“My wife is dead.”
But was Isabelle Addington the woman Effie and Polly had heard that night? Assumptions had been made, yes, but they were based on reasoning and circumstances.
That Isabelle was dead? Yes. One couldn’t fathom the bloodstains left behind wouldn’t have almost drained a corpse empty.
Effie jolted as the carriage hit a rut in the Oppermans’ driveway. She looked toward the Opperman farmhouse. As she did, a curtain quickly fell back into place, but not before Effie saw the beady stare of Mrs. Opperman, her expression thick with accusation and malice.
14
EZEKIELSPRINTEDdown the steps as Anderson guided their carriage around the circular brick drive of the manor. His hair was mussed, and urgency marked every motion of his body. Effie stiffened in concern. Her hand went absently to her throat, caressing the bruises there. The nightmare of the evening before was fresh as she grabbed for the carriage door before it stopped moving.
“Whoaaaa!” Anderson crooned to the horse, sensing the emergency also.
Ezekiel fell against the carriage, gripping the door. “Polly. It’s Polly. Effie, you need to come quick.”
Without waiting for assistance, Effie flung herself out, tripping on the carriage step and steadying herself on Ezekiel’s outstretched arm. She gave no thought to Anderson as she hiked up her skirts and ran toward the house. Charles met her at the door, his face filled with worry.
“Is she...?” Effie couldn’t say it. Not those words. The words she’d dreaded hearing since Polly had been taken to her bed.
Charles shook his head.
“Oh, Effie darling, you’re here. Where have you been?” Her mother hurried Effie toward Polly’s room.
Effie flew into the bedroom that only the night before had been a place of terror but was now more like an oasis. Afternoon sunlight sparkled across the floor through the open window. The delicate pink roses covering the wallpaper print looked almost real as they stretched their vines around the room. The four-poster bed was piled with white linens and pillows, with Polly supported by what looked like a cloud of soft cotton.
Dr. Reginald stood at the bedside, his stethoscope hanging from his neck, spectacles perched on the end of his nose. The nurse was busy squeezing water from a cloth into the basin.
Polly’s eyes were closed, her skin pale with two pink splotches on her cheeks rivaling the roses on the wall for vividness. Her nightgown was fresh and clean, her hair lying in waves around her shoulders.
“Polly?” Effie’s watery cry of her sister’s name was met with the slow fluttering motion of Polly’s eyelids.
A flood of relief washed over Effie. Her sister hadn’t died! She had regained her senses! Effie’s knees gave way, and she sank onto the bed next to her sister.
Polly smiled weakly. Her light laugh was a ghost of what it had been only weeks before. She reached out and laid her hand on Effie’s. Polly’s skin was cool.
“Oh, Effie, I’ve had a spell.” Her voice was faint and trembled with exhaustion. She coughed, then coughed again. She lifted her handkerchief to her mouth and dabbed. As she pulled it away, Effie saw the spots of red, even though Polly wadded up the cloth in an effort to keep it hidden.
“Doctor?” Effie lifted her worried gaze to Dr. Reginald, who was conversing quietly with their mother now. They both glanced in Effie’s direction.
The exchange of looks between the doctor and her mother dampened Effie’s relief. She grappled for Polly’s hand, holdingher cold fingers as gently as she could, though she wanted to cling tightly.
Dr. Reginald dipped his head in apology. “Miss James, your sister has come around for now, but as we’ve discussed, I’m afraid these episodes—ushered in by shock and trauma—will only increase. Still, there are things we can do to help make your sister comfortable—”
“B-but there are asylums.” Effie cast a desperate look at her mother, whose watery eyes met hers. “Such places have been helpful in treating tuberculosis cases.”
“Euphemia—” her mother struggled to speak—“we’ve been through this already.”
