Page 77 of Strangers She Knows

Friend of the heart.

The date of her death was…three years ago.

Now, for a different reason altogether, Kellen looked around at the rippling grasses, the headstones, the fence, the oak and that absurdly fancy mausoleum.

“Is this Ruby’s Hermione?” Rae asked.

“I think… Yes. Before Harry Potter, it was not a common name in the US. Too hard to spell. Too hard to pronounce. How many Hermiones could have lived on this one little island?”

“Did she live here her whole life?”

“I don’t know. Maybe she came here to die. We don’t actually know what happened to Ruby, either.” Although Kellen was starting to have a few thoughts. “Isla Paraíso is so plain. A few trees, a lot of grasses, cliffs and beaches and ocean and rare birds. One massive house, and many mysteries. When we get back to civilization, I intend to look up Ruby Morgade and her whole life and her whole family.”

“Yes.” Rae, suddenly mature, folded her hands in front of her in an attitude of prayer. “I want to solve all the riddles. I need to know.” She stared at her mother. “We haven’t found Jamie, and I don’t know where else to look. I’m hungry and I’m tired. Let’s go home. Let’s read the rest of Ruby’s story.”

32

The attic was bright, then dim, as clouds raced across the sky. The wind rattled the old house, whistled through the cracks of the windows. The storm was making itself felt.

As if she were cold, Rae huddled into the window seat, the throw wrapped around her shoulders.

Luna, minus her socks and garters and tired from the day’s exertions, lay stretched out flat on her side beside Rae, asleep except for the occasional moments when she lifted her head to look around. Luna was uneasy.

Kellen, as tired as Luna, stretched out on the couch, and read aloud from Ruby’s diary.

It took Hermione to tell me why I was ill. I had no idea that if I was expecting a child, I would throw up every morning, feel terrible all day, and lose weight until my hands look skeletal and my hair breaks off. How can making a baby be such a terrible toil? Hermione assures me it’s not so for every woman. She’s only twenty-two, but she has younger brothers and sisters and nieces and nephews, so she does know. She tells me soon I’ll be fine, but I can see every day she grows more worried. When Mother realized what was wrong, she fled for most of a week. Then she crept back, cowering, as if Father would miraculously appear and punish her. Now she comes up every day and holds my hand and strokes my hair. I’m going to have a baby, and it’s no coincidence that nothing feels so good as my own mother’s touch on my forehead.

It’s been three weeks since Patrick’s last letter. I know I shouldn’t be impatient, for I found a story by him in the Atlantic Monthly, and his ship has sailed from Hawaii. He may write me, but how can he mail the letters? He can’t, of course. Nor can my letters reach him. I wish I could tell him about the baby, but that would be cruel, for him to realize that the beautiful moments we shared has resulted in so much illness and trouble for me.

Should I think like that? No! It’s a baby! Patrick’s child. But I feel so desperately ill, I can’t drink even water and I have no tears to cry.

If only I could take a bath, but although Hermione dragged a small tub up the secret passage, I can’t sit up long enough. I really think I will die. I, or the child, or both of us.

Dear diary, you will not believe the good news! The child is moving in my belly. Kicking at me as if demanding release. I can see a small bump. Despite my constant sickness, the baby is growing, and I am happy. Perhaps we’ll live through this, baby and me.

Father has arrived. He came to the attic door and pounded and shouted at me to stop my silly megrims and obey him. I must marry Alfred. I must do it now, or he’ll break the door down and beat me until I do his bidding. I listened to him, and wondered why he was so frantic. I think I know. I still read his newspapers. He’s losing control. The government gives him war stories, and he has to print them. He doesn’t get to interfere in politics and business as he used to. He can’t ruin people’s lives with a single slash of his pen. He’s lost influence and power. He wants to join with Alfred and become the mogul he was before. For that, he needs me.

He gave me three days to come to my senses.

The three days are up. Father had his men tear down the barricades outside the door. He strode in, his belly thrust out in that bullying way that he has. I was sitting in the chair waiting, and when he stopped and really looked at me, at my gaunt face and lank hair, he said, “You look old. You’ve done this to yourself. Come down, stupid girl, eat from my table and marry the man I’ve picked for you.”

I stood up and let the blanket fall from my lap. I will never forget his expression, or his words. “You’ll have to get an abortion.”

In my worst nightmares, I never imagined that. He delivered his line so coolly, as if killing his own grandchild, his only grandchild, meant nothing to him.

I staggered back. Hermione caught me and guided me to my chair. Father pointed a finger at her and said to me, “If you don’t do as I say, I’ll throw her off Morgade Island without a reference.”

I never expected what happened next. Never imagined it could happen. Neither did Father, by the look on his face. Mother charged from her hiding place at the top of the secret passage, shouting in Japanese. I understood her, because she taught me the language, but I was the only one in the room. Yet everyone caught the gist. She told FatherNo. Not just a littleNo!It was such an emphaticNoto everything he had said. He retreated like a giant flounder before a small, vicious shark. Now, two hours later, I think it’s funny. Wildly, inappropriately, weirdly funny. Mother, attacking Father, making him run away. He didn’t even know what she was saying to him. It was lovely. If I hadn’t been so astonished, I would have cheered.

As an aside, I don’t think anyone has to bring my dinner up the secret passage anymore.

As another aside, I’m not leaving the attic. I don’t trust Father. He’ll recover from his shock, and if I’m anywhere within reach, he’ll grab me and I’ll be hurt in ugly ways. My baby will be torn from my body, and I’ll be given to Alfred. No. I’m safe here.

If only I could receive a letter from Patrick. Do you suppose Father is intercepting his letters? Or General Tempe is? Or…or that Patrick has forgotten me and our love?

Something is not right. My belly is cramping. The baby’s not big enough to be born. Not now. I know this isn’t right. I know when this baby was conceived, right to the very hour. Oh, please. Not yet. I’ve suffered so much, and it’s all I have of Patrick. Please, God.

Dear diary, my little Aileen was born, and she died on the same day. I held her while she breathed her first breath and her last. I named her for Patrick’s mother, who may never know about her darling granddaughter. Mother and Hermione are with me, but I’m empty, and I’m bereft. Please, dear diary, explain to me how it’s possible to be so rich with love seven months ago, and to be so alone now.

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