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My father was up and about the next morning, but Kitty and Mary remained ill for several more days and I was banned from the nursery. Kitty had always been small for her age and had been sick several times already in her two and a half years of life, and my parents were most worried about her.
Mary was of a stouter constitution, but my mother worried the scars would mar her beauty. Mary and Jane were both possessed of large blue eyes, rosebud mouths, and dainty little noses. I had heard my mother say several times that Jane and Mary had gotten their looks from her and she hoped Lydia would have them as well. I took that to mean Kitty and I did not look like our mother, but I could see no great difference between me and my sisters.
By the end of another week, Kitty and Mary had recovered, but my mother’s fears had come true. Mary appeared very scarred indeed. The apothecary said the scars would likely fade in time, and promised she was still a lovely girl—he was kind like that—but my mother bemoaned the loss of Mary’s perfection like it was her death.
Mary herself did not seem to fully understand, but my mother’s tears upset her.
Two months later, I was playing in the garden with Millie, one of the wealthier tenants’ children. She fell and hit her head and it bled horribly, all down her face and over the front of her clothes. I instinctively grabbed the handkerchief from my pocket and covered the wound, and my mother came running over. She had been having tea on the terrace with Mrs. Goulding and had seen the entire thing.
Mother pushed me out of the way and gently lifted the handkerchief, apologizing to Millie for any pain she might cause. Millie screwed her eyes tight and my mother used the cloth to gently wipe away the blood to see the wound.
“Was she bleeding from her hair, Lizzy?”
“No Mama, it was her forehead.”
“Hmm.”
I looked over her shoulder and saw what she was staring at. The place where Millie’s skin had split open, where blood had been flowing from quite readily, was a thin pink line, like a faded scar.
“That is odd,” said my mother.
It was odd. I had seen the cut myself. I had seen the blood. Even now, wet, red spots covered the side of Millie’s face and splattered across her frock.
My mother sent her to Hill and had her wrap a bandage around her head, then had the stableboy walk her home. I did not understand why she wrapped a bandage around a wound that was already closed, but that evening, my mother came to my room.
“Elizabeth,” she said strangely.
“Yes, Mama?”
“Did you say anything in particular to Millie today? When she hit her head?”
I looked at her in confusion. “I asked her if she was all right.”
“Yes, but did you say anything else? Perhaps a prayer? Or did you wish she might heal quickly?”
“No.”
“Hmm.” She looked at me strangely and continued to watch me until I felt like one of the bugs on a pin in my father’s bookroom.
“What is it, Mama?”
She shook her head. “I do not know. When you held Lydia when she was ill, did you pray for her?”
“Of course!”
She smiled conciliatorily. “Yes, but did you say anything specific?”
Why was she talking in riddles? “I only sang her a few songs. The ones Nanny sings to us.”
She nodded. “And when you went to see Jane, did you sing to her?”
“No, there was no time. I was only there a minute.”
“Do you remember what happened?”
I shrugged. “I snuck into the nursery and Janie was rolling about in her bed. I stroked her arm and shushed her, told her to get well soon, and I left. Why?”
Her eyes took on a strange light. “You touched her?”
