her between them, but there was nothing they could do about the expression on her face, or rather the lack of it.
Her pretty mouth was slack, as if she couldn’t remember to close her lips. Velma had fallen into the habit of holding a handkerchief ready to dab at the little rivulet of saliva that so often dripped down Frances’s chin. Frances’s bright eyes had turned muddy. Her cheeks were hollow, as she ate only what Velma could get into her mouth and persuade her to swallow. Velma had proved to be very good at this, coaxing Frances to take nourishment as if she were a recalcitrant infant.
Papa’s countenance was rigid as a stone sculpture by the time the three of them reached him, but not before Annis recognized his look of horror at the sight of his wife.
She had become used to that look as they sailed from Liverpool to New York. She and Velma had all their meals brought to the stateroom to avoid the curious stares and the fuss of trying to manage the dining saloon, but even that didn’t protect them. The stewards gaped at Mrs. Allington’s blank features and slumped posture. A ship’s officer came by once, resplendent in his white dress uniform, to invite them to sit with the captain at dinner. He took one look at Frances and backed out, bowing and apologizing. The porters who managed their luggage in the train stations and at the docks were just as disturbed, although they did their best to hide it, and to avoid looking at Frances whenever possible.
Annis had written to her father, trying to warn him, but the cold reality was a shock. Frances had left New York a chic, self-possessed, bright woman. She had returned barely human.
There had been a moment, though, on board the ship. Annis was helping Velma with Frances’s nightdress when a feeling of shame filled her, making her heart flutter and her stomach sink. It wasn’t her own feeling, Annis knew. It was Frances’s emotion, one she had no way to express. Annis had put a sympathetic hand on her stepmother’s shoulder. It was heartbreaking to think there was no way to undo what had been done.
They had docked under a burning August sun. The air of New York felt heavy and sluggish, almost too thick to breathe, as Annis steered her charge down the ramp, then left Velma to support Frances while she went to embrace her father. Their eyes met, but they didn’t speak. There was nothing to say.
Not until they were in the carriage, with Robbie on the driver’s seat and the boxes and valises piled in the back, did George say anything beyond giving orders. “It’s worse than your letter said, Annis.”
“I’m sorry, Papa. I didn’t know how to describe it. One day she was fine, and the next she was so ill we thought she might die. I hoped she might improve during the crossing, but now—well, now you see.”
“Better she had died,” he said.
Annis cast him a horrified look. “Papa! You can’t possibly mean that!”
His features were still stony, showing no emotion at all. “Look at her,” he said in a low tone. “She’s as good as dead, isn’t she? Can’t speak. Can’t walk on her own. Doesn’t recognize me, or anything, as far as I can tell.”
Annis could hardly breathe for the cruelty of it. She looked across at Velma, seated on the opposite side of the carriage, trying to keep Frances from slumping to one side. Velma looked no more anxious than she usually did. Perhaps she didn’t understand George’s comments. Perhaps she thought he didn’t mean them. Annis wished she could convince herself of that.
Her father had not spoken his wife’s name, not once. He hadn’t touched her, either, but allowed Robbie and Velma to assist her into the carriage and settle her on the plush seat. Now he stared out the window as the carriage made its way through the city streets, as if he couldn’t bear the sight of his stricken wife.
Annis turned her head in the opposite direction, watching the grand hotels and sprawling department stores flow by on the other side of the road. What would become of the ruin that was Frances Allington? Her stepmother had done this to herself, provoking Harriet into the battle that destroyed her, but that didn’t ease the pity Annis felt. She didn’t want what was left of Frances to suffer.