Widow in White

Chapter Thirteen: Raining Indoors

Richard shrugged. "I suppose she didn't feel like company."

She didn't seem to feel like company the next day either. But Neil must have had a word with her about it, for the next afternoon and every one thereafter she came down to Richard's room and sat with him for a little while. Her conversation was desultory and tinged with bitterness. Often they were left sitting in an uncomfortable silence. If Neil was there too, there was certain to be conversation, and Laura was certain not to participate in it. It made Richard uncomfortable to see her watching and listening silently, and it was always a relief to him when she got up and left.

Richard took to inventing errands to keep her running up and down the stairs, or asking her to read to him, so they would be spared the burden of silence. It was twice the burden for him, for in the silence he found himself looking at her, and trying not to be caught looking. Even in faded cotton day dresses, even in bitter silence, even without trying, she tantalized him. Once, when she was leaning over him to arrange his pillows, he found his head almost at her breast, his forehead brushing her shoulder. The scent of her hair, freshly washed with rose oil, clouded around him. It took his every effort of will not to wrap his arms around her and pull her closer.

Neil, even if he would not let her ignore them completely, did not like having her in the house. He annoyed Richard by constantly suggesting other places Laura might go: to their sister Elizabeth's house; to be a companion for Miss Dalrymple; to Laura's cousin in Ireland; to their friend Prothero in France, who needed a governess. They were having an argument about it one morning when the sound of piano music floated up from the drawing-room below. Richard broke off mid-sentence.

"It must be Laura," he said.

For a moment, they listened without speaking. It was a sonata, full of brassy notes, but quickly, lightly played.

"I'll have to get the piano tuned," Richard said. "It's been years since anyone's played it."

"Jane's letter will come in a few weeks," Neil said. "Laura might be gone as quickly. Is it worth the bother?"

Richard hesitated. "Jane might not agree to take her. She might not agree to go."

"And then she must go somewhere else." Neil narrowed his eyes. "You can't let her stay forever. It simply isn't done. Every paper in town is reporting that she's your live-in mistress."

Richard was silent. On the one hand, he knew Neil was right. On the other, he hadn't yet dared bring up the matter with Laura yet. He had realized through their brief conversations that she was under the impression that this was a permanent arrangement. He did not know how to explain to her that he was already looking for a way to safely get rid of her. Not that she was happy to be here; there was unhappiness in her every motion, every word, every glance. But he had a suspicion she would be even less happy when she was told she had to leave.

"Richard?" Neil pressed.

"The piano needs tuning anyway," he dodged.

Neil frowned and said nothing. That night, however, as Richard was lying in bed after dinner, he heard the footsteps creak in the bedroom above and the murmur of voices: Laura's and Neil's. He sat up to listen, but they were too indistinct for him to make out any words, except for once when Laura cried out, "No, no, no!"

A moment later, Neil came back down the stairs and went into his own room. Richard waited for a while, thinking that Laura might come down and speak with him, but there was no further motion or sound, and soon he fell asleep.

The next morning, Richard was getting dressed when his door opened suddenly. Richard turned to see Laura standing in the doorway, hand on the knob, staring at him, her eyes wide and face pale. He looked at the mirror, saw his own form, which he had never liked, covered in a rainbow of fading bruises, which did not improve it. Even two weeks after the accident, he was still more bruise than flesh.