Splendors and Glooms by Laura Amy Schlitz Read Free Book Online Page A

again. “Mamma —”
    “Your mamma is in bed,” said Dr. Wintermute, “and you must be like her and go to sleep. Miss Cameron.” He raised his head to look across the room, where the governess stood. “I think Clara should have a cup of hot milk with plenty of sugar and a teaspoon of brandy. Will you see to it, please?”
    Miss Cameron answered, “Yes, sir,” and left the room.
    Dr. Wintermute drew a chair beside the bed. He felt his daughter’s forehead. Her skin was clammy, and her pulse was a little too rapid. She curled her fingers around his hand. “Sit up and let me examine you.”
    Clara sat up obediently. Her face twisted as she tried to cry without uttering a sound. Dr. Wintermute bent over so that he could listen to her chest. “Have you any pain?”
    “No, Papa.”
    “Are you dizzy? Thirsty?”
    “No, Papa.”
    “Have you a headache?”
    “No, Papa.”
    Dr. Wintermute reached in his pocket for a handkerchief, only to recall that he had given his handkerchief to his wife. It occurred to him that he had spent the day ministering to female creatures, and all of them had cried. Clara, reading his gesture, dug under her pillow and drew out a handkerchief of her own.
    “My dear, you must stop crying. You behaved badly today, but your mother will forgive you.”
    “She won’t,” said Clara. “She told me so. I went to see her after the party — I wanted to say I was sorry — and she said that — that I insulted their memories and that God was punishing her — and the only child He spared her had a — a h-heart of stone.” A huge sob rose in her throat, making her shoulders jerk. “She said she didn’t think she could ever forgive me. She
said
that.”
    Dr. Wintermute winced. He did not doubt Clara’s word. He knew the kind of thing his wife could say when she was beside herself. He often marveled that Ada, who wept at the sight of a whipped horse or a malnourished child, could be so merciless with her tongue.
    “She only loves the Others,” Clara sobbed. “They c-can’t do anything bad because they’re dead.”
    “Listen to me, Clara.” Dr. Wintermute took his daughter’s hands and squeezed them tightly. “Stop crying and listen. Your mother loves you dearly. She should not have said those things to you.”
    Clara gazed at him with startled eyes. Dr. Wintermute felt a surge of guilt. He had betrayed his wife.
    “But you must remember,” he went on quickly, “we must all remember, how much your mamma has suffered.” He cleared his throat. “Today wasn’t your birthday alone, you know. Your brother Charles Augustus —”
    “I know,” Clara interrupted him. “He would have been twelve years old today. We went to Kensal Green, the way we always do, because it was his birthday, and we went in the mausoleum and cried.” She spoke the last word flatly; crying was an essential part of the outing. “I hate the mausoleum. I hate seeing the caskets and the space on the shelf next to Charles Augustus — I hate looking at it and thinking that I shall have to lie there one day, all dark and dead and cold. And”— her face twisted, making her ugly in her father’s eyes —“my casket will be bigger than his, because I’m older, which isn’t fair, because we’re twins —”
    “Clara,” Dr. Wintermute said, “please.”
    Clara twisted her handkerchief. “I’m sorry,” she said levelly, “but it’s every birthday and every Christmas and every Easter. And Sundays. And after we cry at Kensal Green, we come home and look at their pictures in the photograph album and pray and cry some more. And every birthday Mamma gives me presents from the Others.” She pointed to the table across the room. “The lace collar and cuffs are from Selina and Adelaide. And Quentin always gives me chocolates. The toy theatre is from Charles Augustus.” She drew in a ragged breath. “That was clever, the toy theatre — I
like
it. I miss him. He ought to have been the one who lived —”
    Dr.