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I flushed, fidgeting.
“The professor is in town all afternoon making last-minute preparations for tonight, so don’t bother yourself with going anywhere. Stay in bed.”
I couldn’t stand the idea of sitting in this room. The dinner wasn’t for another seven hours.
“Are you sure Professor Hughes didn’t leave me any work to do while he was gone?”
“What should I know about that?” she snapped, suddenly cranky for reasons I couldn’t fathom. She seemed to realize she’d been too abrupt, and gentled.
“You need to rest.”
Her concern touched me, or what I assumed was concern. It was hard to tell with Ms. Dillard.
“At any rate, it’d be a shame for you to miss the dinner.”
The acridity had returned to her tone, and again I was confounded. Lack of sleep and general unease made me ill-tempered, and I turned in my chair and confronted her directly.
“Ms. Dillard, did I do something to upset you? Or is it my mere presence making you angry with me?”
The woman stopped short, looking not at me but at a distant spot on the wall across the room. Her attention to this area was unsettling enough that I followed her gaze to the bathroom door, firmly shut, though I remembered it being partially open when I’d awoken that morning.
“You shouldn’t be here in this house, Miss Foxboro,” she said after a long silence, jolting me. “It’s a tomb fit only for ghosts and bad memories. Girls like you don’t belong in Willowfield and never have.”
I was speechless.
She came to the table and removed the tray, said she’d be sending the dress, and left. When she was gone, I hurried to the dresser, took the journal, and shoved it back in the drawer, slamming it shut violently, full of insult and dismay and unable to express either to anyone.
I stayed in my room, managing another two hours of sleep before taking a bath and finally indulging in the prettily scented items arranged for me when I’d arrived. I wanted to take my mind off the mess things had turned into, yet there was also a grave need in me to impress the people who were coming, to prove I was good enough to be here at Willowfield, even if Ms. Dillard didn’t think so. Had the death of Mrs. Hughes truly been so terrible that it sullied every memory ever made here? Perhaps there had been no good memories at all, and every shining history told was only from the perspective of those who had never lived within these walls.
As I sat in the bath, rubbing the rose cream through my hair, my thoughts wandered to the elder Mr. and Mrs. Hughes. Callum’s parents. He talked only about his mother, barely, and there were no pictures hanging anywhere of their likenesses. Now that I was considering it, there were no pictures of real people anywhere. No family portraits, no ancestors. Not a single frame with human eyes. I’d never noticed, never once ventured to look. Where were they all?
Chilled by the peculiarity of the realization, I sunk into the bathwater, submerged to my ears, glancing at the ceiling where the plaster filigree weaved in and out, gold leaf flowers dull in the watery light. A storm was rolling in with a temper, and I heard the distant rumble of thunder even underwater; it was darker than it should be at this hour.
As I sat up, a rushing noise filled the room, echoing off the tiles like a wave against an angry shoreline. Rain. Torrential and unforgiving. There was another sound, a rustling beyond the door, which I’d kept open slightly to release the steam of the bath. It grew louder as I listened, someone moving, drawers opening and closing, the tinkle of bottles on the dresser top.
“Hello?” I called out.
There was no answer, but the noises stopped.
“Who’s there?” I demanded, skin rising with gooseflesh.
“It’s only me, miss,” came Felicity’s soft voice. “I’ve brought your dress. I didn’t want to disturb you. Should I leave it on the bed?”
“Oh, please wait. I’m coming out. And call me Millie!”
I climbed from the water and wrapped myself in a robe.
When I left the bathroom, Felicity was arranging my slip, taken from the bureau drawer, on the bed next to a box, glittering gold with a sprig of baby’s breath tucked under a diaphanous black bow.
“It arrived a few moments ago,” she said, cautiously excited, like a schoolgirl waiting for her friend to share the contents of a love letter. If Ms. Dillard had chosen to hate me, Felicity had chosen the opposite, and despite her timid nature, I believed we had somehow become friends. I gave in to the moment, rushing to open the box with Felicity bouncing on the balls of her feet.
In the parcel, nestled in cream tissue paper, was a silk evening dress, the charming shade of rose quartz. I took it at the shoulders and pulled it forth, filled with vague disbelief at the beauty I held. The gown was a modern style, sleeveless and shining with a low waist, tiers of beaded gold scallops making the skirt, which would hang no longer than knee length. It was heavy and sparkled in the light. The box also contained a pair of low-heeled satin slippers in the same blushing shade.
“Oh, Millie, you’ll be lovely,” Felicity breathed.
I didn’t share her positivity. I was an imposter. I felt as though I’d merely intercepted it on its way to the actual owner—an elegant woman who knew how to hold conversations and keep her temper. A woman with no holes in her memory, who didn’t see things that weren’t there.
I dropped the dress back in the box, unsure, only for Felicity to pick up the entire package, shoes and all, and rush me behind the changing screen.
