Interrupted Read online

  Mrs. Dewsbury gulped and for a moment I wondered if she was going to cry. But then her face calmed and she cleared her throat. “It’s time to go.” She spun on her heel and marched back down the stairs. Maybe showing emotion wasn’t something that was listed in her job description.

  I closed the piano and let my arms drop. I scooped up my bag and looked around the room. I’ll be good, Mama. I promise.

  I swallowed hard and wiped my eye. “I love you,” I whispered.

  Then I turned on my heel and shut the door behind me.

  “What do you think of Maine, Alcyone?”

  I looked up, startled. Mrs. Dewsbury raised an eyebrow.

  I turned back to the car window and leaned my cheek against the glass. Rain dribbled down, blurring everything in the distance. “It’s very … green.”

  “Yes, it is.” Mrs. Dewsbury repositioned her purse and leaned forward to say something to the driver.

  I wiped my cheek on my sleeve and fought back a sniffle, focusing on the Maine countryside around me. It was very green. And big. Empty.

  “Here we are!” The taxi skidded to a stop. I lurched forward and grabbed my bag. “Well? What do you think?” Mrs. Dewsbury asked.

  I rolled down the window and stuck my head out, gazing up at the house.

  It was very large, most likely built in the late 1800s, painted white with dozens of windows and red shutters and chimneys and sharp points. I gulped and dropped my eyes.

  “Alcyone Everly, get your head back into this car this very minute! I don’t need you catching cold and meeting your new mother with a red nose!”

  “Mother?” My head shot back into the car so fast I hit it on the roof. “I don’t need another mom.”

  “Nonsense.” Mrs. Dewsbury slammed the door shut and popped open her umbrella, her heels clicking on the driveway. She opened my door and frowned. “Every girl needs a mother.”

  I looked up at her and gulped. “I already have a mother.”

  “No, you don’t.” She raised an eyebrow and whipped around, nearly hitting me with her leather handbag. “Come along. I’m getting drenched.”

  She clicked on up the driveway with her umbrella, leaving me alone to shiver in the rain with my things.

  We paused at the top of the steps while Mrs. Dewsbury rang the doorbell. I could hear it sounding deep inside the house. A deep, scary sound. I clutched my carpetbag close and wished I had Daphne.

  The door slowly creaked opened until the woman of the house stood before us. “Yes?”

  “Mrs. Dewsbury, ma’am. With your new daughter.” Mrs. Dewsbury poked me in the back, forcing me to fall into a curtsy.

  “Alcyone,” I muttered.

  “What an interesting name,” the woman said. I dared to look up, only to see her eyes staring into mine. Her voice held a soft lilt, like she was singing. I glanced back down.

  “Her mother chose it, Miss Beatrice.” Mrs. Dewsbury looked almost nervous.

  “I see. Well, she might as well come in.” The woman held the door open for me and I slipped under her arm. She flashed me a quick smile that was left unrequited.

  “Very good. Now, I —” Mrs. Dewsbury stopped and looked up.

  Miss Beatrice held her arm up, barring the door, and smiled. “Thank you very much, Mrs. Dewsbury, but you don’t have to stay. If you could send me the paperwork in the mail, I’d appreciate it.” With that, Miss Beatrice shut the door and turned to me.

  I stood shivering in the foyer, half-blinded by fear.

  Miss Beatrice looked me up and down. Was her gaze friendly or judging? I couldn’t tell.

  She gave me a brief smile and turned on her heel. “Well, come along, Alcyone. I’m so happy to have you here! This house needs some cheering up.”

  When I didn’t move, her face dimmed a little. The sight of me standing there, dressed in black and trembling at the knees, must not have been very cheering. Neither was the glare fixed on my face.

  A slight sigh escaped her lips. “Well, you might as well get to bed. There will be plenty of time for introductions and tours in the morning. It’s nearly eleven o’clock already!” She cleared her throat “It’s like I always say, ‘Often late to bed makes a girl unfit to wed.’ ” She sounded a little nervous, her voice getting that sing-song quality again.

  What does that have to do with anything? I kept my head down to block my tears as I followed her up the staircase and down a corridor. Miss Beatrice halted in front of a door at the end of the hall and reached into her pocket to pull out a key. With the swipe of a lock, the door was open and beckoning me to enter.

  I walked in before her and placed my bags on the floor.

  Miss Beatrice clicked her heels and smiled. Lighting an old-fashioned oil lamp, she sighed and said, “Yes, this will do. No one’s slept in here for ages! This used to be my daughter Irene’s bedroom, but she moved out a few years ago.” She glanced at me. “There are dry pajamas on the back of the chair. Breakfast is served at seven fifteen. Do you like oatmeal?” I didn’t respond, but she continued talking anyway, her words running together. “I’ve always said that punctuality is the key to vitality. I do hope you have a good night.” With that, Miss Beatrice turned and walked out of the room. She paused in the doorway only a brief moment—not even long enough for me to understand the look on her face. Was it happiness? Sadness? Hope?

  And then she was gone and I could hear her shoes clicking down the hallway and see the lights being turned off.

  I sighed and turned around to look at the room. What could I say? It looked like a lovely space, but it felt like a lonely one. There was a little four-poster bed, a cabinet for clothing, and a sturdy, old, wooden nightstand with a rusty oil lamp on it. The only bright spot in the room was the little window in the corner, with an old-fashioned lace curtain and an attached window seat. And even that area seemed dark and foreboding, with rain dripping down the glass pane.

  I gulped and wiped my nose before undressing. As I climbed into bed and blew out the lamp, I thought of poor little Daphne meowing all alone in our abandoned home with no one to feed her. And of Mama’s cold, empty bedroom with no one to play her piano.

  “You’re a nasty, nasty world,” I whispered to the dark.

  Then I rolled over and sniffed, refusing to cry myself to sleep.

  Chapter 5

  A word is dead

  When it is said,

  Some say.

  I say it just

  Begins to live

  That day.

  — Emily Dickinson

  I rolled onto my back and rubbed my face. This wasn’t my bed. Where …

  I peeked open a single eye, then squealed, diving back under the covers. Where am I? Was I kidnapped during the night? Where’s …

  Oh. I pulled my head out of the covers and sighed. Maine.

  I rolled around. Hanging on the wall was a clock I hadn’t seen the night before. A clock that read 7:10.

  Breakfast! Miss Beatrice’s words from the night before rushed through my head as I jumped out of bed and rushed over to my carpetbag.

  Throwing open the bag and rummaging through it, I pulled out a faded blue feedsack dress and matching hair ribbon, then fumbled with the buttons on my nightgown while glancing at the clock.

  I stumbled around the room as I pulled on the dress, running into the bed. I fell to the floor with a thud. Ugh …

  Presentable, I opened up the door and ventured into the hallway. Last night had been such a shock I hadn’t bothered to look around, and my eyes widened at how big and grand the house was. I wandered down an impressive hallway toward the smell of food.

  Miss Beatrice was waiting at the head of a long table when I reached the dining room. I froze in the doorway before giving a clumsy curtsey. “Morning,” I muttered.

  Miss Beatrice’s mouth twitched. “Good morning, Alcyone. Though such formalities won’t be necessary. This is your home now too.”

  “Allie,” I said out of habit. My face flushed and I looked down. “U
m, I like to be called Allie,” I whispered, twisting my hands. And this will never be my home.

  “It suits you,” Miss Beatrice said as a small smile threatened to appear. “Now eat your breakfast before it gets cold.” Her voice sounded slightly less peppy than it had the night before. I wondered if she was regretting bringing me here or if she was just tired.

  “Okay.” I made my way toward the table, mindful of my footsteps against the floor. I slid into the chair closest to Miss Beatrice. It was wooden, and so polished with age I nearly slid back off. I pressed my back up against it and used my toes to hold myself up as I blew on my oatmeal.

  I could feel Miss Beatrice’s eyes on me as I slurped. “Do you like the breakfast, Allie?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said through a mouthful of food.

  Miss Beatrice nodded and looked back down at her own bowl. She was a middle-aged woman — fifty or so, perhaps — tall and very skinny, with graying hair, high cheekbones, and blue eyes covered by steel gray reading glasses. Around her mouth were small, faint laugh wrinkles. I could not tell if she smiled often, or if she had smiled often at one time.

  Today she was dressed in a pale-green day dress, with white gloves and a straw hat by her place. She must have been very pretty. When she was young.

  “Well, that should be enough. Good thing you have a healthy appetite.” Miss Beatrice took off her glasses and looked at me. “Well, stand up.”

  Slowly, I put down my spoon and stood. I squirmed as her critical eye looked me over. “How old are you?” she asked.

  “Fourteen last month.”

  “Fourteen. The awkward age.” Miss Beatrice actually smiled. “And you’ve been through a lot.”

  That was an understatement. I looked at the floor. My body still felt numb, like everything I’d been through was a dream. It wasn’t.

  “Well, come along.” Miss Beatrice stood and brushed off her dress, grabbing her gloves and hat. “We’ve a tour of the house to complete.”

  I walked alongside her in silence as she showed me the rooms. The foyer with its paintings of the Maine countryside, the kitchen with its cupboards of fine china, the parlor with its antique lamps. The whole house belonged in the nineteenth century, really.

  “And this is the library,” Miss Beatrice directed, leading me into the last room on the main level.

  I stood back and stared. The library was not expansive enough a description for the thousands of leather-bound books all collected in one place, with maps and ladders and shelves. I found my hand brushing spines nearby, as if the fingers couldn’t help but reach out.

  “The Lovell family has always been proud of its library,” Miss Beatrice was saying, “There are some particularly old artifacts in this room.”

  “Excuse me,” I squeaked. She stopped to look at me. “Am I allowed to read these books?”

  “Of course. That’s what the library is for.”

  I looked around in wonder, biting back any outward show of joy.

  “Do you enjoy reading, Allie?”

  “Oh, very much so.”

  “Hmm.” Miss Beatrice put her hands behind her back and raised an eyebrow. “Reading in a young girl is very rare these days. I can’t say that I’m not glad to hear it. You know I always say that a healthy appetite for books leads to a girl with more than looks.”

  No, I don’t know that. It was so clichéd. I held back a smirk and fidgeted instead. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And now, the gardens.” Miss Beatrice opened up the glass door connecting to the library and stretched out her hand for me to see.

  The gardens were as beautiful as Mama’s — well, they were what Mama would have had if we’d had the money. There were mostly roses: red, pink, yellow, and white, faded from the summer heat, as well as lilacs and foxgloves. The blooms and greenery at the back of the house ended at a cliff that overlooked the rocky seashore below. The smell of seawater drifted toward me, and I thought of the pictures in the old album I’d left in Tennessee.

  “Maine is a fine coastal area,” Miss Beatrice remarked, looking down at the waves crashing on the rocks. “Do you swim?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Why not?”

  “My … my father drowned, ma’am,” I lied. I lowered my eyes and stepped away from the edge.

  “Pish-posh. There’s no reason for you not to swim.”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “Oh, well then.” She pulled on her hat. “Go and get something proper to cover your head. We’re going out.”

  What? “Where?”

  Miss Beatrice snapped her gloves on and looked up. “To the store, of course. To get you some new clothes.” She began to walk back toward the house.

  I hurried to catch up with her as she strode in the direction of a shiny coupe. “New clothes? But mine are fine. Mama made me this dress.”

  “Pish-posh. Those clothes look as if they’re about to fall apart! That dress is much too small.” Miss Beatrice opened the car door and stopped to look me over. “And that is certainly not quality made.”

  I gasped. “But Mama made me this!”

  “Then you may simply put it away.” Miss Beatrice waved her arm as if shooing away the thought and slid into the driver’s seat, beckoning for me to climb in after her.

  “Was she a seamstress? Your mother, I mean?” Miss Beatrice looked behind her as she pulled out of the driveway, then shifted the car’s gears and looked at me.

  I didn’t want to talk about Mama. Not with her, not with anyone. Other people didn’t understand her, and they never would. “I don’t want to talk about it,” I mumbled.

  Silence. I shifted. The air felt oppressive.

  Miss Beatrice raised an eyebrow. “Alcyone. What an interesting name. After the Greek nymph, I suppose?”

  I looked at her out of the corner of my eye. “Yes. It’s also a star.”

  “Tragic story.” Miss Beatrice’s gaze didn’t leave the road.

  “You read Greek mythology?” I can’t say I didn’t ask it with a bit of attitude.

  “You read Greek mythology?” Miss Beatrice asked, examining at me and raising her eyebrow again.

  I silenced myself and looked out the window. Dozens of perfect little Victorian houses whizzed past as children played in the yard, enjoying the summer afternoon.

  “You and I have something in common,” Beatrice declared. “We both have creative mothers.”

  “Beatrice isn’t a creative name.”

  “Isn’t it?” Miss Beatrice waved at someone in a posh car. I inched away from the stranger’s wondering stare. “I must assume you’ve never read Shakespeare’s Much Ado About Nothing, then, Alcyone.”

  “Oh. ‘Beatrice and Benedict’ Beatrice.”

  “The one and only.”

  “Interesting,” I muttered.

  “Well, here we are.” Miss Beatrice pulled up in front of Brown’s Department Store. “After you, Allie.”

  I slid out of the car and crossed my arms as Miss Beatrice locked the doors.

  “Miss Lovell,” the store clerk gushed as we entered the store. I looked around and gulped. Brown’s was certainly the poshist store I’d ever been in. The mannequins were dressed in Lanvin and lace, things I’d only thought existed in fashion magazines and movie reels. It all felt rather extravagant and rich for a time when most people could barely afford to eat.

  Words cannot adequately describe how awkward I felt as the store clerk led me toward the children’s department. I could feel my dirty hair, see my grubby clothes. “She needs new everything,” Miss Beatrice directed, looking around. “A church dress, a party dress, six or seven school dresses, underthings, nightgowns, hats, gloves, and, of course, footwear.” They both eyed my clunky brown shoes. I bit my lip and looked down. “I believe she can wait on a coat and winter gloves a few more months. What do you think, Isla?”

  “Definitely.” Isla smiled as she took my measurements. Her powder blue dress was definitely too tight.

  “And what do y
ou think for her coloring?” Miss Beatrice asked. “I was debating between pale green — for her eyes — royal blue, and lavender. And of course girls always look good in pink.” She sighed. “I’ve always said that pink embodies the wink of girlhood.”

  “I don’t like pink.” I wrinkled my nose.

  “No pink!” Isla chirped, disappearing into the back of the store.

  “White is always a good choice too,” Miss Beatrice murmured to herself. “For girls.”

  “How are these?” Isla asked — happily — as she returned with a pile of clothes.

  “Perfect,” Miss Beatrice said, delighted with the frothy things Isla had fetched.

  Ugh.

  In the end, we left the store with a white church dress, an emerald green party dress, assorted school clothes in gray, brown, and red, three checkered rompers, two nightgowns, as well as half a dozen underthings, hats, and white gloves.

  I climbed into the car in a new peach dress Isla had proclaimed perfect for my skin tone, half exhausted, just as my stomach let out a loud grumble.

  Miss Beatrice looked at me. I could tell she was fighting back a smile. “Hungry, Allie?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I mumbled.

  “Thought so. Might as well go to Goodey’s.” She started the engine and pulled out of the department store. I thought I saw the overly perky sales clerk waving from a window and shuddered.

  “You’ll like Goodey’s,” Miss Beatrice continued. “It’s one of the most comfortable joints in town.”

  Maine looked so much different in the dry daylight. It was sort of cute — all the buildings so small and quaint. We passed by the grocers, the post office, the cinemas, and dozens of little stores before we got to what I had to assume was the comfortable joint in question.

  We pulled up in the parking lot beside a little pink automobile. I couldn’t help it — my eyebrows raised and I reached out for Miss Beatrice. She turned in alarm. “What is it?”

  I pointed. “That car is pink!” Who ever thought of such a thing?

  Miss Beatrice smiled as if I were some flighty child. “Yes, that’s Irene Goodey’s car. She’s an … interesting young woman.” She began to open the door, then turned to look at me. “You’ll see plenty of that pink car in the future, Allie. Come on.”