“I hope you don’t mind. Samuel said you needed rest, and that’s what aunties are for, isn’t it? Giving sweets without permission!”
From the last time—the only time—I saw Clara Fitzwilliam, I retain only a vague recollection that her face was drawn and pale, and her voice was somber. But that was years ago, when her parents lay dying. Now she’s transformed. It must be the absence of grief, or maybe the Florida sun has touched some seam of gold inside her; who knows? Her skin is luminous, her dark hair bobbed and cheerful. She’s wearing a sundress of polka-dotted periwinkle blue, the hem of which flutters around the middle of her dainty calves. Beneath it, her stockings are white and extremely fine. She gazes on my bare shoulders without the slightest shred of embarrassment.
“Of course I don’t mind. How are you, Clara?”
A banal, inadequate question at such a moment, as if we’re the ordinary kind of sisters-in-law, meeting again after a month or two abroad. But if she finds me awkward, she doesn’t take any notice.
“Hot and sunburnt! I’ve spent the day at the beach. I can’t seem to soak it in enough, after all those years in the English rain.”
“But you’ve lived here for years, haven’t you? You and Samuel.”
“Years? Dear me, no. Samuel came over all by himself, the rotter, the year after Simon left England. Leaving me all alone and friendless in soggy old Blighty. I only arrived last winter, after Simon died. Samuel cabled me. Simply ghastly. Have you slept enough? Your daughter’s charming. What a delicious surprise. We had no idea. A real live niece! Like finding a shilling in the pocket of one’s winter coat.” She goes to the window, throws open the curtains to their farthest possible extent, and closes her eyes like a goddess summoning the sun. (Or maybe sending it over the horizon—the quality of the light suggests sunset.) She adds, without opening her eyes, “You look well, by the way. Quite stunning. Far better than I imagined you would, after all you’ve been through.”
Evelyn wriggles out of my arms and slides from the bed to join her aunt.
“Thank you. What time is it? I suppose I should be dressing for dinner.”
“Only seven o’clock. But—”
“Seven o’clock! But Evelyn goes to bed in half an hour!”
Clara turns and smiles. “I’ve already given her tea. That should suffice, shouldn’t it? But you needn’t wear anything particular. I’ll ring down and order us a supper. They do a frightfully nice supper, you know. And the best thing is, you don’t have to pay. Because it’s already yours!”
“I suppose that’s true.”
“Of course, I expect you’re used to being rich. But it’s all been rather novel for Samuel and yours truly. I say, I do hope you don’t mind that we’ve been living here like parasites, waiting for you to arrive? Or rather, I’m the parasite. Samuel works like a bee. No, not like a bee. Like a beast! A beast in harness, poor dear. But I’m simply useless. Just lying about in the sun, trying to warm my poor English blood, and then coming home to all this”—she waves her hand—“and drinking all your champagne.”
I can’t help smiling. “You do know you’re not supposed to be drinking champagne in America?”
“It’s awfully bad of me. But I promise, not a penny’s changed hands. So we’re quite in the clear, legally speaking, at least according to Samuel.”
“Yes. Samuel.”
She steps forward to sit on the edge of the bed, and Evelyn, who has been peering out the window behind her, sidles up to grab her knees. Without looking down, Clara covers Evelyn’s tiny fingers with her own, a gesture of unconscious affection that ought to disturb me, I suppose, since I hardly know Clara at all. She’s Simon’s sister, she’s almost a stranger. Instead the touch of hands warms me. I don’t know why. A craving for Sophie, maybe, who is so different and yet so strangely like this newfound Clara—full of energy and enthusiasm and a boundless capacity for love. A never-ending faith in tomorrow’s joys.
“Samuel is such a rock,” she says. “I never knew what a rock he could be, until all this.”
“Do you mean what happened to Simon?”
She caresses Evelyn’s fingers, and her voice turns kind. “You say it so calmly. You’re not grieved at all?”
“I’ve already grieved.”
“Oh, you’re that sort, then.”
“What sort?”
“The practical sort, the kind who puts things behind them and moves on. How I envy you. I think about Simon every day. It consumes me. Wondering what I might have done differently, if I might have changed him somehow. How I might have saved things. If only I’d—” She glances at Evelyn. “Well, never mind. I suppose we’ll speak about it eventually. In the meantime, you must dress, and I’ll put our wee darling here in her bath.”
“Oh, but I should do that.”
“Dearest, it’s no bother. I adore children. And you must rest, you really must.”
“But she’s only two—”
“I promise, I shall keep my most beady of beadiest eyes on her well-being. You’re not to worry about a thing, do you understand? She’s my only niece, after all. I shall worship her idolatrously. My darling only niece.”
I lean back against the pillows. “Yes. Of course. She’s your niece.”
“There we are. Is there anything I can get for you?”
“No, thank you. I believe my trunks are already unpacked.”
“Yes, they are. I saw to it personally. Such fun, to be ordering maids about in your service. I do hope everything’s comfortable. I do so want you to be comfortable, after everything you’ve endured. Now that we’ve found you at last. Our sister.” She reaches forward and squeezes my hand.
I thank her, and she hoists Evelyn onto her hip and carries her out of the room, like any adoring auntie, leaving the smell of roses behind her—a scent I hadn’t noticed until now, in the draft of her leaving.
As she passes through the doorway, she pauses and says over her shoulder, “Oh! I’ve forgot. I’m meant to tell you that Samuel has gone to the docks to supervise some shipment or another. He won’t be back until late, so we’re not to wait up.”
At the sound of the clicking latch, I gather up my knees in my arms. The sheets are soft and fine, and I realize this must have been Simon’s bedroom. Simon’s bed. Something about the size of the room, and the windows overlooking the river, and the white-painted door in the corner that leads, I suspect, to a private bathroom. Simon’s bathroom. Simon slept on these soft sheets and gazed at this ceiling and bathed behind that door. As I concentrate my mind, as I tread my gaze carefully along the pale walls and the draperies, the few pieces of dark, elegant furniture, this intuition grows into a certainty. This is Simon’s room. Simon was here.
Simon is still here.