The Other Daughter Read Online Free Page A
Author: Lauren Willig
vicarage?
A coal crackled on the hearth, the sound resounding like a shot in the quiet room.
âIâm so sorry,â Alice said again. Her blue eyes looked bruised, ringed with dark shadows.
The stillness of the cottage pressed in on Rachel like the grave. No footsteps upstairs. No crinkle of sheets. Only the crackle of the fire and the nameless darkness of grief.
âDead. You mean sheâs dead.â Not at the vicarage, not in hospital, not popped out to the shops for a bit of butter.
Rachel couldnât wrap her mind around it, that the absence would be more than a temporary one, that she wouldnât hear her motherâs step on the stair, her voice calling down from the landing. Her smell still lingered in the air, dried lavender and strong tea.
Alice gave a very small nod.
âWhen?â asked Rachel, in a voice she didnât recognize as her own.
âOn Friday.â
Four days ago. Four days. When had it been? Had it been while Rachel was giving Amelie her bath? When she was grilling Albertine on the kings of England? While she was doing her hair, darning her stockings, any one of a hundred inconsequential things?
Her mother had died and she hadnât been there.
Alice shifted from one foot to the other, uncomfortable with the silence. âWe did wire you. Neither of us could understand why you hadnâtââ
âI know.â Rachelâs chest was tight; she felt as though she couldnât breathe. âThere was some confusion about the telegram. A delay.â
If only, Rachel thought savagely, she had giggled and tittered when Hector had pinched her. If the telegram had been relayed right away ⦠If she had made the very first train â¦
If, if, if. A whole legion of ifs.
Alice saw the look on Rachelâs face and misinterpreted it. Defensively, she said, âJim did try to ring the Paris house, but there was trouble with the connection.â
âWe werenât in Paris; we were in Normandy.â
They were always in Normandy; if Alice had bothered to read her letters, she would know that. But Alice was of the opinion that France was France; such petty distinctions as city or country eluded her.
Oh, God, she was being ghastly. It wasnât Aliceâs fault. There was only so much that Alice and Jim could do, and she had been away, a Channelâs width away.
Alice was still speaking. âJim did everything he could, but by the time anyone realized she was sick, the disease was so advancedââ
âI know.â Rachelâs eyes felt gritty. She rubbed them with the back of her hand. Smoke from those trains, those endless trains. âHe had other patients to tend to, I know.â
She had to remind herself of that, that there were others ill, other mothers, daughters, husbands, when all she wanted to do was grab Jim by the collar and demand to know why he hadnât tried harder, why he hadnât tried again and again and again, until he might have got someone with the brains enough to ring through to Brillac, who might have told her, who might have given her a chance to make it homeâ
Even now, she couldnât quite comprehend it, that there was nothing she could do. How could there not be any way to go back, to fix it?
âOh, Rachel, you canât imagine!â Aliceâs normally sweet-featured face was drawn; there were circles beneath her eyes and hollows under her cheeks. âThere were so many sick in the village, and no nurses nearer than Kingâs Lynn. All the Trotter boys were down with it, and Mrs. Spicer. Charles had chicken pox, and I was half frantic trying to keep Annabelle out of his room, what with Mrs. Spicer sick, too, and Polly under quarantine. By the time my father mentioned that your mother hadnât been to churchââ
âYou donât need to explain.â Stop, stop, stop, Rachel wanted to say. She didnât want to hear it. And what did it matter,
A coal crackled on the hearth, the sound resounding like a shot in the quiet room.
âIâm so sorry,â Alice said again. Her blue eyes looked bruised, ringed with dark shadows.
The stillness of the cottage pressed in on Rachel like the grave. No footsteps upstairs. No crinkle of sheets. Only the crackle of the fire and the nameless darkness of grief.
âDead. You mean sheâs dead.â Not at the vicarage, not in hospital, not popped out to the shops for a bit of butter.
Rachel couldnât wrap her mind around it, that the absence would be more than a temporary one, that she wouldnât hear her motherâs step on the stair, her voice calling down from the landing. Her smell still lingered in the air, dried lavender and strong tea.
Alice gave a very small nod.
âWhen?â asked Rachel, in a voice she didnât recognize as her own.
âOn Friday.â
Four days ago. Four days. When had it been? Had it been while Rachel was giving Amelie her bath? When she was grilling Albertine on the kings of England? While she was doing her hair, darning her stockings, any one of a hundred inconsequential things?
Her mother had died and she hadnât been there.
Alice shifted from one foot to the other, uncomfortable with the silence. âWe did wire you. Neither of us could understand why you hadnâtââ
âI know.â Rachelâs chest was tight; she felt as though she couldnât breathe. âThere was some confusion about the telegram. A delay.â
If only, Rachel thought savagely, she had giggled and tittered when Hector had pinched her. If the telegram had been relayed right away ⦠If she had made the very first train â¦
If, if, if. A whole legion of ifs.
Alice saw the look on Rachelâs face and misinterpreted it. Defensively, she said, âJim did try to ring the Paris house, but there was trouble with the connection.â
âWe werenât in Paris; we were in Normandy.â
They were always in Normandy; if Alice had bothered to read her letters, she would know that. But Alice was of the opinion that France was France; such petty distinctions as city or country eluded her.
Oh, God, she was being ghastly. It wasnât Aliceâs fault. There was only so much that Alice and Jim could do, and she had been away, a Channelâs width away.
Alice was still speaking. âJim did everything he could, but by the time anyone realized she was sick, the disease was so advancedââ
âI know.â Rachelâs eyes felt gritty. She rubbed them with the back of her hand. Smoke from those trains, those endless trains. âHe had other patients to tend to, I know.â
She had to remind herself of that, that there were others ill, other mothers, daughters, husbands, when all she wanted to do was grab Jim by the collar and demand to know why he hadnât tried harder, why he hadnât tried again and again and again, until he might have got someone with the brains enough to ring through to Brillac, who might have told her, who might have given her a chance to make it homeâ
Even now, she couldnât quite comprehend it, that there was nothing she could do. How could there not be any way to go back, to fix it?
âOh, Rachel, you canât imagine!â Aliceâs normally sweet-featured face was drawn; there were circles beneath her eyes and hollows under her cheeks. âThere were so many sick in the village, and no nurses nearer than Kingâs Lynn. All the Trotter boys were down with it, and Mrs. Spicer. Charles had chicken pox, and I was half frantic trying to keep Annabelle out of his room, what with Mrs. Spicer sick, too, and Polly under quarantine. By the time my father mentioned that your mother hadnât been to churchââ
âYou donât need to explain.â Stop, stop, stop, Rachel wanted to say. She didnât want to hear it. And what did it matter,
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