Page 33 of Ghostly
“I don’t have time right now.” She tore her hand out of his grasp and continued digging.One more time.Then all the rose bushes would be sorted out, perfectly balanced, and the left side of the house wouldn’t sink into the ground.
“You dug up that bush and planted it in again. You don’t need to do it once more. Ida. Please.”
But she had to. It didn’t make much sense, she knew that—one patch of mismatched soil wouldn’t sink the house—but she also had to do it. She’d done the same with the previous two plants—in, out, in, out, in. She couldn’t leave before taking care of the last one.
Despite her ignoring him, Harry showed no signs of leaving. “Mr. Abrams is waiting for you in the drawing room. Come on.” He grabbed her by the forearm and hoisted her up.
“Harry!”
“He’s showing interest and respect by calling on you. You will show him the same, yes? And behave appropriately.”
“What do you mean?” She knew what he meant, but the way he phrased it—like she was a five-year-old—just begged for her to answer back.
“None of your…” Harry gestured to the rose bushes, “things.”
“Fine.” She dropped the trowel. “No gardening in the drawing room, I promise.” With forcible steps, she headed toward the front of the house, but her smile at outwitting Harry quickly faded. The rose bush—no, it would be fine. Half an hour for the visit, then she’d finish the job.Hold on until then, house.
At least the visitor wasn’t bad. Mr. Abrams was in his early thirties, with a kind round face and a temper to match.
Jacinda was lurking in the hallway. “Do tidy up before you greet him, Ida,” she said, toying with the animal statues.
She’d misaligned them again. Ida clenched her fists.One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three.The most urgent need to fix the statues passed, but it would be back. She gave Jacinda a forcibly pleasant smile and headed upstairs to change clothes and wash. As if Harry wasn’t enough, his wife, too, treated Ida as if she were an incompetent child. Just because she had her issues didn’t mean she didn’t know proper manners.
Maybe you’ll be free of her soon. Maybe Jacinda will soon be with child andthen she can die in childbirth.
Ida whimpered and leaned her forehead on the wall.No, no, I didn’t meanthat. I swear I didn’t mean it.She had to go apologize to Jacinda—oh, but the visitor—the rosebushes—the statues—one, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three.
She didn’t know how much time she’d wasted, but eventually, she counted to three enough times to calm herself. Now, for the visit. Maybe she should go into the drawing room with gloves stained with dirt. Mr. Adams was shopping for a wife and in the very slight, infinitesimal chance she were to become one, she didn’t intend to give up gardening. This way, he’d at least know what was coming.
Still, Ida washed, put on a clean cream-and-brown striped gown, checked that her hair hadn’t escaped from the simple bun, and went to greet her suitor.
“Miss Huxley. What a delight.” Mr. Abrams smiled; a nice, wholesome and honest smile, none of that patronizing nonsense Harry and Jacinda gave her. He gently squeezed her hand, and Ida took her place across from him on the settee. Through the half-open door to the hallway, she spotted Jacinda spying on her, and hid her fists in the folds of her skirt.Don’t think about straightening thestatues. Don’t think about straightening the statues. Don’t think—
“Lovely weather we’re having, isn’t it?” Mr. Abrams began.
“Very pleasant. In fact, I’d just been outside, gardening.”
A crashing noise came from the hallway.
“Is that so.” Mr. Abrams’ smile paled. “Of course, being outside is good for one’s health. As long as not too much time is spent on such hobbies.”
Perhaps she could live with that. Being restricted, being controlled. So he thought ladies shouldn’t garden too much—she’d seen worse. And at least she wouldn’t be an intruder in what was now Jacinda’s household.
But when he looked at her, she felt nothing, and when he’d touched her hand, there was no pleasant sensation, no spark of electricity—no indication whatsoever that she could care for Mr. Abrams beyond a friendship. A feeling told her she’d recognize the right man by the touch of his hand. When Harry had first started hinting she should get married, she’d tried many tricks to get men to accidentally touch her hand. None gave her the right feeling.
Harry didn’t much appreciate her behavior, either.
Mr. Abrams’ visit went as expected. He asked some polite questions, she answered them, and they chatted, and chatted, and chatted some more,until Ida was certain they’d exhausted every mundane topic in existence, and she had to count to three between each answer, to keep the last rosebush from sinking the house. Finally, he said goodbye. Ida waited until he left, then went to retrieve her gardening tools, straightening the hallway statues on the way.
Harry and Jacinda were quarreling again. Ida tossed and turned in her bed, begging herself to fall asleep.They’re not talking about you.It’s probablyabout money, or the maid’s not doing a good enough job, or any of the eighty-oneother problems Jacinda has.
They’re not talking about you.
And yet, she couldn’t help it. She got up, retrieved an empty glass from the washstand, pressed it against the wall, and her ear to it. The sound was still muffled, but thanks to Jacinda’s volume, she understood the words if she concentrated.
“Two suitors in the last month. I don’t know what she’s thinking,” Jacinda said.
“She says she’s not interested in them. You know I can’t force her—”
