viii. Monday

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It had been a week, a day, and around five hours since Beatrice had seen Henry. A week, a day, and around five hours since she last spoke to him or was near him or looked at him.

It was a week, a day, and around five hours since he had attempted to talk to her.

That, however, hadn't stopped her from thinking about what he had done. The article, now displayed prominently in the parlour of every house of Winthrop's Hollow, stirred restless imaginations. The words were nevertheless enshrined into the public consciousness. As Beatrice wandered around town with errands, she could feel the eyes of her neighbours on her, the clerk at the general store, even the children who abruptly stopped their games of hopscotch when she passed by. "Completely unfazed, when she found out," she heard Mrs. Yates whisper not very subtly to her sister in-law.

"Do you suppose it was the parents? Seems a little strange the Youngs refused an autopsy," Beatrice overheard someone whisper conspiratorially.

"You shouldn't be reading that yellow journalism. Though the Grace girl was there when Howard Hafner had his accident too, you know," his conversation partner replied.

Whereas it seemed, even for only a brief blissful reprieve, that Beatrice was accepted, even admired when she ran and laughed with her friends, the hostile tension that greeted her upon her first arrival was back.

She wasn't the one to blame for what happened to any one of them.

But the more and more she repeated it to herself, it seemed more like a prayer than reassurance.

She wasn't so sure anymore.

Beatrice had visited Annie immediately after the article's syndication, feeling foolish and on the verge of tears. The Youngs lived in a large Tudor house in the affluent part of town, a brick and wood affair surrounded by overpowering mass of dead greenery. It had remained virtually unchanged since Evelyn's death. Mrs. Young no doubt still meticulously tended to the garden every day despite her general distaste for dirt and from the state of the house, Mr. Young still paid neighbourhood boys to repaint the frames and retile the roof. As Beatrice had brambled over the wilted peonies and roses, she was more glad than ever for Annie's constant, reassuring friendship.

She had waited patiently as Mrs. Young, the tiniest wisp of a woman, slowly opened the door. Her hair, more Edwardian than vogue, stuck out in little straw like wisps, almost white in the pale winter lighting. Her face was sunken and emaciated and her skin nearly translucent, making her appear as if she were not quite there. It rather hard to believe that Evelyn, with her strong dark looks, was related to her, though Annie had clearly taken after her. While always prim and delicate looking, it had been immediately obvious that her spirit had deteriorated since her daughter's death.

Beatrice had remembered when her aunt had first started working for their family, seven months after her own arrival into Winthrop's Hollow. Mr. Young had been paying Aunt Edith to clean around the household, as well as manage the neurosis of his wife. It was on one of those afternoons, stuck in a musty sitting room that reeked of rose scented perfume and enamel polish, when Beatrice had first encountered Annie.

The little blonde girl, her hair a crown of fine ringlets, had stood at the doorway of the room, peering at Beatrice with those watery doe like eyes. Neither of them spoke to the other that day. Or any of the days after that. Over a period of weeks, the girls had developed some sort of mutual, silent, understanding, as they gathered in the same spot every day, feeling overlooked and bored.

Then one spring morning, when the larks began singing again, Annie introduced herself with a tiny china rabbit stolen from her mother's display cabinet. "I'm Lilian," she said, her voice as musical and soft as the birds behind the thick glass panes, "but everyone calls me Annie."

"My name is Beatrice. I don't have a pet name."

"I'm sure I'll think of something to call you."

"Beatrice, how wonderful to see you. Lilian will be down in a moment," Mrs. Young had said, drawing Beatrice out of her reverie.

When Annie walked down their grand staircase, dressed in a peach taffeta robe with rollers in her hair, she had appeared troubled. "Oh Jinx," she had said. "I didn't know I was expecting you today."

"Have you read today's paper?" Beatrice had asked too abruptly, on edge and unwilling to engage in any sort of formality.

"The Hollow Gazette front page article?"

"Yes."

Annie's rosy face had turned dark, her eyes widening ever so inconspicuously. "I suppose I perused through it," she admitted shortly.

"What did you think?"

"I don't know. What did you think?"

"Too many things at once, Annie. For one, I'm furious at Henry that he would write a piece like this. And that he had the gall not to warn me and then insinuated I had something to do with it. I'm also terrified. Terrified of becoming a pariah again because of these awful rumours. And I'm frightened."

"Oh Beatrice," Annie had said, her expression softening palpably. "I'm so sorry about all of this. I know how awful it was. After you left I was swarmed and the things that were said didn't belong in the mouth of God fearing people. And Henry? Henry Morgan? Scott's brother? I supposed I'm furious at him too for dredging all of this up."

"I was so stupid Annie. I thought he was fascinated by me. I talked to him about Evelyn. I brought him to the graveyard."

"You've talked to him?" Annie paused for a moment. "Well, I supposed that's evident give your quotes in the article."

"I'm really sorry Annie. It's my fault for enabling this... this disaster."

"Yes. But it's forgivable, you couldn't have known," she had said softly, but her reassuring smile seemed not to reach her eyes.

"I should have known something was wrong when he lied about his name."

"I'm sorry?" Annie had asked, looking utterly confused.

Realizing that she hadn't spoken to her friend about any of the events in the past few days, Beatrice explained. "Remember the Benjamin Compson I told you about? The one I met outside the bank? It was Henry Morgan using a false name. I found out when I met him at Frances's dinner party."

"And I'm to assume you two became fast friends?"

"I thought we were becoming better acquainted. But I must have been wrong. If only I could have known who he was sooner. Then you could have warned me," Beatrice said bitterly.

"I doubt it. I don't know him at all. None of the people in Winthrop's Hollow do. He sticks to his upper crust crowd."

"Really?" Beatrice was surprised to hear it, remembering the friendly manner he had adopted with her. "He seemed rather charming."

Annie had given a ghost of a sad smile. "All the girls hoped he would be when he first arrived. Half the town went into mourning the day Frances and Scott got married. I think they all assumed he was their second and last chance to marry a Morgan. They were all disappointed though. He doesn't have an interest in anyone in town. He didn't even have flings like Scott did."

Beatrice felt an odd rush of pleasure at that, despite her anger at Henry. "What about you? Were you enamoured with him?"

Annie's lips curved upwards in an expression of disgust. "Goodness no. After what happened with the Evelyn and Scott I wouldn't even think for a second to like a Morgan brother.

"If only I had your sensibility. I thought I was special indeed. Turns out I was the only girl close enough and willing enough to talk about Evelyn," Beatrice had noted dryly.

"I suppose."

"Does it bother you though?"

"Does what bother me?"

"The article. I know in my heart that the majority of it is nothing but vile lies, yet there's a part of me that keeps wondering if some of its true?"

"Oh. Which part?" Annie had asked hesitantly, as if she were afraid of the answer.

"The part about her possibly being dead before she hit the water. I was there with Henry when Father Carey told us and I took it quite lightly at first, but the more it settles in my brain the more I'm hesitant to take it lightly."

"Why?"

"Because maybe why I didn't believe him is because part of me doesn't want to. Maybe because I couldn't stand the idea of poor Evelyn meeting her death like that. What reason does he have to lie, Annie? What if she was killed? What if she wasn't alone that night?"

Annie's face had turned pale at the thought and her eyes darted down, staring far past Beatrice, past the mahogany floorboards of her home, and to somewhere beyond. "I think you should leave. I- I have something to do."

Her lie had been immediately obvious, but Beatrice could do nothing but part her mouth in concern and give a nod. "I'm sorry for having bothered you then."

Annie remained utterly silent as she watched her friend leave. It was strange. Annie was usually so patient and temperate, and as Beatrice had traversed down the same cobblestone path she came from, her footprints still fresh in the snow, she felt uneasy.

In the days following, she felt increasingly compelled to talk to Frances, sharp calculating Frances. Her shrewdness was the balance to Evelyn's recklessness and Annie's passivity. Whenever their escapades were discovered or they were caught after dark, it would be Frances, face calm, who would coolly and easily lie. "We were simply helping old widow Wilson find her lost kitten, you see," she would say, mouth twisted into that sharp, saccharine smile of hers.

She would know exactly what to do.

Beatrice remembered the time Bessie Miller became caught Frances smoking at the back of the schoolhouse. "Just think of how your father is going to react when he sees this," Bessie had taunted, her snub nosed face alight with glee. "I think he would be even more displeased with you than he already is."

Evelyn had made a snarling expression, clutching her silvery necklace in frustration. In contrast, Frances remained passive, though through the tautness of her features, Beatrice had known that the mention of her father was still a sore spot. Very calmly, Frances spoke. "If my father so much as hears a whisper about this then I'd be very sorry to tell your mother about what you and Billy Atkins have been doing together when you claim to be looking after his little sister."

Bessie had turned beetroot red and rather like a frightened squirrel, she scampered off without another word.

She and Annie had laughed, delighted, but through the harsh glint in Frances's eyes, it was clear she treated it not as a game, but as war.

She knew what Frances would do in this situation as well. She would probably accost her brother-in-law and march straight down to the Hollow Gazette editor's office, demanding for an official apology to be issued, using whatever was necessary in her arsenal of tools.

But it had been days since the article was published, smearing Frances almost as much as it had her.

And Frances did nothing.

Perhaps she didn't care enough to.

Or maybe she didn't want to.

Still, Beatrice would have gone down to their manor in a heartbeat if it wasn't for one glaring oversight.

The fact that Henry was there.

Instead, she spent the rest of the week in a monotonous, yet tension filled routine, running errands and doing household chore, trying desperately to ignore intrusive thoughts about Evelyn. Or Henry. Or any of the number of unfortunate people she had had the pleasure of being associated with over the years.

"Beatrice, if you're going to simply dawdle around the kitchen for the entire day, at least make me a cup of tea," Aunt Edith commented, gazing up from her knitting at her grandniece. "Of course Aunt Edith," Beatrice said primly, setting the kettle on the stove.

"Good girl. A letter came for you while you were out buying milk this morning," Aunt Edith commented. "Now that you've made me tea I would think you'd like to read it?"

"A letter?" Beatrice's mind flashed to an apology note from Henry for a moment. Then, remembering the letter she had sent to the bank over a week ago, requesting that the funds from Johnny's inheritance be transferred to her account in Winthrop's Hollow, she took a deep breath as she took in the neat typewriter print on the envelope.

As she tore it open, she realized it contained only a single sheet of paper with a few pertinent lines of text.

Dear Mrs. Downing,

We regret to inform you that the transaction could not be completed as there were no funds within the account to withdraw. Please speak with your local bank.

Best Regards,

Thomas Gateaux

New York American Union Bank Manager

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