Script that was
once beautiful now flowed raggedly across the stationery,
veering off into a sharp decline from the page to
the desk blotter. Ink trailed across the floor to
where the pen had come to rest. My wife lay crumpled
between the desk and the arm of her chair, her hand
pointing to the fallen pen.
I picked it up.
“Shouldn’t you leave that?” Miss
Carruthers was standing at the door as if afraid
to come in. Did she think death was catching?
“Why?”
“Won’t they examine the death
scene?”
“My wife has been sick. She’s
finally at peace.” I pushed the stopper back into
the bottle of ink. “A tragedy, but purely natural.”
“But... I just...”
I studied her in the fading
light. She was a striking young woman. Too pretty,
really, to be tending children for the rest of her
life. Just as I was too handsome to mourn my beloved,
sick wife forever.
My beloved--very rich--wife
who’d never been sick a day in her life until she
met me.
“Miss Carruthers, would you
have Stanton fetch the doctor?”
She stared at my wife, hands
clenched on her modest gown, wrinkling the fabric.
“Miss Caruthers?” Such formality.
I should have to call her Emily very soon. No more
Miss Carruthers.
She still didn’t move.
I lowered my voice, let it caress
her. “Miss Carruthers, please?”
“What? Oh...yes, yes of course
sir.” She cast a pitying glance at my wife, then
fled.
#
I looked over at Emily, napping
in the chair by the bed. She’d left the window open
again.
“See to that, will you?” I asked
Stanton.
She roused as he shut the window,
and glanced over at me. “Darling, what is it?”
“Nothing, Emmie. Go back to
sleep.”
Looking at the window, she frowned. “I
know how you hate it when I leave it open.”
“I merely worry, my dearest,
that you’ll take a chill.”
“Is that what you worry about?”
“Why ever else would I get cross
with you?”
She leaned back into the chair,
and Stanton went to fetch her tea cup from the little
table by her side.
