Boneseeker (19 page)

All three heads whip to my face. Henry’s hands become vice-like.

“Arabella? What is it?”

I shake my head. I’m mute. I hear their voices. Far off sounds, like murmurs through cotton.

The tones tip my heart, up and down, in and out. Images fill my head. Like someone else’s memory.

The pictures are misted and indistinct, like a dream remembered.

A beautiful woman. Sitting on a stool, the cello propped between her shapely legs. She smiles at me, but doesn’t really see me.
Momma?

My analytical side curls up and dies. Trampled beneath feeling and conviction so strong, I feel my head expanding with the desire. With the abandonment.

“Father, what’s wrong with her?” Henry’s voice, almost hysterical. I’ve never heard it so.

But I can’t come back.

I’m lost in this memory of the beautiful woman
.
My mother
.
Have no memory of her.

The strings have jarred the images loose. I don’t, no—I can’t, let her go.

“John?” Violet, her voice high with concern.

“She looks almost catatonic. Violet, move aside.”

I smell John’s woodsy cologne as he slides beside me. His hand grips the one not clutched by Henry. “Arabella, my dear. Look at me.”

His cool fingers slide to my wrist, checking my pulse.

Henry’s fingers touch my cheeks, desperately wiping the river of tears sluicing down my face.

“Bella? Bella? Where are you?” True fear now in his voice. I’ve never heard that either. “Do something!” He shouts at John.

And I hear the voice. The apparition from my mind opens her mouth, and it comes from her—a throaty, deep alto, resonating to my core.

But it’s too real. I cannot imagine something that incredible. I shake my head.

The sound is coming from the stage. From a breathtakingly beautiful creature on the stage.

My hands grip the carved banister of the box. I fight back a blackness crouching at the edges of my sight.

Fire-red spirals wrap lovingly around the singer’s curvy body. Her voice fills the auditorium to bursting, calling and bewitching every soul. Every eye stares at her face, enraptured by the personification of heaven falling from her lips.

Henry and John’s hands are at my elbows. I’ve stood up at some point.

The tears won’t stop. I choke out a sob.

Several people look up into the balcony, concerned.

I feel John’s grip tighten around my elbow. “Of all the careless—”

Violet gasps. “John. I didn’t know. The tickets were a gift—I didn’t check—How could I have known she would remember? She was so tiny,” Her voice breaks.

Henry, on the other side. “What? For the love of all, what?”

I hear them muttering, conferring behind me. John’s voice rumbles, “The singer is an alto, like Arabella’s mother. So alike, she once starred in the same production as her understudy.”

“What? I don’t understand?” Henry, frantic

“The music must’ve dislodged suppressed memories.”

I hear her voice fill my head, crumpling my heart.

I lose sight of the stage, as pain spreads across the back of my head as it connects with the wooden floor.

“Oh my—”

“Arabella. Bella?”

“Don’t touch her!”

Henry’s hands, strangling my hands.

The light shrinks to a pinprick. Her heavenly voice fades.

###

The Grand Entryway of the Opera House

Bella

“Are you certain you’re alright?” John continues to hover, checking my pulse. More like a father than a doctor.

The sounds of the auditorium are giving me vertigo, but I refuse to say so. Make another scene. I take deep breaths; only a few more minutes and I can drink in the night air.

Henry is as rigid as the marble statues behind him. The voices echoing around the cathedral ceilings raise the hair on my arms. His mouth is set in a grim line. He’s barely said two words since I became lucid again.

“Dr. Watson, if you please?” Dr. Earnest calls from a few feet away. Priscilla stands beside him. She sneaks a glance from behind his considerable bulk.

“What now?” John’s face contracts in irritation, but he quickly fashions it into an approachable expression. “Coming.”

Violet’s eyes dart between Henry and I, and dear that she is, turns to begin speaking with a nearby woman to permit us privacy.

“You see. Do you remember? I told you your other self was strong.”

“Henry, don’t.” I feel the metal gate quiver around my heart. “Don’t speak of it. Any of it. I cannot bear it.”

He nods, but whispers in my ear. “I’ll bet you can play. I’ll bet it’s like breathing.”

Touching you, is like breathing.
I cannot say it.

I feel fragile, like a brittle leaf, ready to crumble to a million, fragmented bits.

“Henry?” John’s voice is sharp.

Henry, Violet and I snap to attention.

“Henry, if you please?” His father motions him over.

Henry walks toward the group and stops, cocking his head to hear over the opera-noise.

Voices roar to my right. I turn to look. The opera singer is fighting off the mob, signing programs and smiling.

My mind replays hazy flashes of what I know to be my mother; her auburn hair, backlit as she pulled the brush through the length of it.

The fear. I sensed, even as a child, she was leaving me.

My stomach clenches.
Please do not vomit
. I flush with the potential mortification. Fear and a dark, black pain and a pressing anxiety hit me like a battering ram.

Violet grasps my elbow.

Henry’s voice, angry and raised, whips my attention back to the gathering.

“What? You cannot be serious!”

John’s expression is tentative, his mouth working to find words.

Priscilla. My eyes fall to her hands. Hands which are cradled under a very small swell of a belly.

“No.” Violet whispers.

The world tilts
. I bite down hard on my lower lip, bloodying it. I welcome the pain.

The world rights
. The metal heart-box slams shut, bolts are thrown, clicking and locking protectively around my soul.

My barrier erupts as a fiery wall in my mind as anger scorches my tears and incinerates my vulnerability.

My shoulders square and I set my jaw.

“If it’s true, Henry, I’m afraid you’ll have to wed quickly. To avoid the scandal. And to avoid losing your position at the Mutter,” Dr. Earnest says, his mutton-chop sideburns working furiously.

“Of course it’s true,” Priscilla smiles sweetly. “Henry is such the charmer. I’m afraid I just can’t tell him no. To anything.”

A searing, white-hot anger burns away my reason. Hatred infects my heart. I feel it rotting in my chest, pounding its last goodbyes to Henry against my ribcage.

“Vi. I have to go.”

Vi’s face is pale and her hands are trembling. “Of course, my darling. I will be over shortly.”

“Don’t trouble. I’d rather be alone.”

“I shall bring the dog.”

I swish past Henry and the group, not seeing anything except the open doors, providing my escape.

I hear the familiar footsteps behind me on the steps, but speed up.

“Arabella!” Henry roars. “Stop this instant.”

I whirl. My fist cocks and I punch, punch, punch his chest, feeling the tears threaten again.

Several people stop and stare. One woman gasps.

“Move along,” Henry threatens. “Bella,” he croons.

“Do not touch me!” I shriek. I hold up my hands in defense. Protecting my heart. My mind.

“I trusted you.
You
are the villain. You make me sick. All the while, playing dress-up with that doll of a girl.”

Henry’s face twists with rage. “All it takes is one accusation and you’ve convicted me? All that I’ve said, all that I’ve done? I asked you to marry me two hours ago.”

“Bigamy is illegal in these United States.”

Henry’s hands clench and unclench and he looks around for something to strike. “I never touched her. I never kissed her. Just believe me. I…will never touch another woman again.”

“Such a sacrifice. Do you think your roving hands will be able to honor your pledge?”

All at once the pleading’s gone from his face as a sharp, black rage rumbles across his brow.

“Bella.” The ice in his voice halts me mid-step. I turn and give a little shudder.

Henry’s lips retract, exposing his teeth. It’s a halting contradiction, the beauty of his face contracted with such utter hatred.

“Your heart.” He swallows. “Your heart is algor mortis.”

His voice rumbles like black thunderclouds.

“My heart is like
cold death?”

“Yes. I thought I’d put it in terms you could understand.”

I’ve wounded him deeply. Possibly beyond repair.

I vacillate. A tiny, younger part of me cries to never hurt Henry. But the jealousy and betrayal silence it.

Anger floods my nose.

He deceived me, he deserves the pain.

“You are right Bella. You aren’t like other girls.”

My stomach contracts like I’ve been punched as he throws my own words back at me.

Henry retreats, backwards up the steps.

“Other girls recognize love when they see it.”

Life Without Color

Bellevue Stratford Hotel

Henry

The glass shatters into a million fragments, raining down and sliding across the polished floor. I seize another vase and hurl it at the wall. It disintegrates and Violet steps out of the way as a stray bit nearly slices her.

“Henry!” father erupts.

That sobers me. That fact it almost sliced her, not his screaming. He’s been screaming for a quarter hour.

My chest still heaving, I manage, “I’m sorry Violet. Would you please give us a moment? I. I’d rather you not see me in such a state.”

Violet nods, and is gone in a flash of green.

A vein bulges in father’s forehead, pulsing and angry like his face. He sits, waiting, fingers steepled in front of his lips as if he’s praying
. Perhaps he is? For the prodigal son, at it again.

“Breaking every piece of furniture will not alter reality. Bring Bella to you. Remove your obligations.”

I bury both hands in my hair, balling my fists, welcoming the pain. I pace in front of him. To sit would be like suffocation. I cannot catch my breath, or control my raging thoughts.

“Henry. Is it yours?”

My head whips to regard him, my lips pulled back from my teeth. My hand shoots out to destroy another vase—but I stay it. It shakes in mid-air. I jam my eyes and fists shut, and drop my head.

“Do you think so little of me?”

Father sighs, a sad sound. “I must ask. Henry, consider your history.”

“You mean my near-expulsion. My carousing? My gambling?” My chest heaves faster and faster.

My eyes fly open, boring down on him. “How long has it been since I caused you shame? Years. Have I not redeemed myself?”

I grind my teeth together. Red rage consumes me, and I see nothing, only feel the urge to destroy something. Anything.

“Henry.”

I keep pacing.

“Henry!” Father’s hands are on my shoulders, stopping me. “Just say the word. I promise to take you at it.”

I shake him off. “Forget that lying she-devil. Tell me; tell me about Arabella’s mother. Please, I must know.”

Arabella’s twisted face tortures me, like a knife driven and embedded in my heart.

I stare at him, waiting.

“Fine. She kept Bella till she was three. She was very poor and frivolous, spent everything as fast as she earned it. Refused to marry a Holmes. It was a tryst—probably the only tryst ever had by a Holmes. Knowledge is their mistress.”

“Forget Holmes. Continue.”

“She couldn’t take Arabella on the traveling circuit. She frankly couldn’t afford her. I believe she loved her, in her way—but she’s a selfish creature. Her own lifestyle, in the end
,
was more important than keeping Arabella.”

It will kill her. Murder any remnant of the little girl, still fighting to stay alive under the cold exterior.

“And now me. What must she think of me?”

“Henry. Your future is at stake. Not only your reputation, but your employ
. Did you bed her?”
He blasts, his careful calm finally exploding.

I shake my head. “No. Priscilla has set her sights on me. Beneath those frills and lace is a conniving predator. Someone else has bedded her, but I must be the more likely husband. Perhaps she knew the job might force me into a false confession.”

Father stares, his eyes searching my face. Apparently finding what he was looking for, he nods. “Then we must tell Dr. Earnest. He’s an honest sort. But the chances are grave you keep the job.”

I nod. “Arabella. Where is she?”

“She refused to see me. She said she will write to Violet.”

My heart feels anesthetized. Numb and weightless. I look around the room. The reds and blues look washed and faded.

If I lose Bella, life will lose its color.

“Father. I know she appears cold, calculating. But under it. She’s as innocent as a child. This will…undo her.”

“I know. Have faith. We must first deal with Priscilla. Then hopefully we will see Arabella back at the steamer. Perhaps you should talk to Priscilla, attempt to dissuade her from her plans?”

I shake my head. “You are much too optimistic…but I shall try. I’ll go tomorrow.”

I nod, staring out at the moon. And try my best to send my thoughts across the night. To tell Bella to hold on.

###

Clark Park

Henry

The morning is unseasonably warm; the Indian summer sun sears Priscilla and I as we walk through the park, past the life-size statue of Charles Dickens. I open my mouth to remark on the girl at the statue’s base, but quickly close it. The girl, Little Nell, was a character from Dicken’s story, The Old Curiosity Shop.

If it were Bella draped on my arm, her eyes would light at the instruction. Though literature was not her love, her mind thrives on every sort of information.

In sharp contrast, I daresay if my conversation veered from the society gossip pages or Paris fashion, I would directly lose Priscilla’s attention. Indeed, her arm is wrapped so tightly through mine that I imagine a Boa Constrictor strangling its prey. I grit my teeth to maintain civility.