Mother and the Doctor died on the way back home from the Park not one hour ago. Their carriage tipped into a deep gorge and if it had not been for the servant who had struggled and then escaped from the scene of the accident to alert the Knowltons, Anna knew she would have remained in the agony of ignorance for quite some time. Edwin's anguish, then, became her own. Together they sat in the dark for a half-hour. "You will have to plan," Edwin said, "there must be somewhere you can go, and quickly. It is foolishness to attempt to stay alone."
For any other casualty Anna might have resisted this, but she knew Edwin was right. There was no way that thought was possible in this instance, and if she sat here too much longer she and the chair would be one, a fixed instrument. Mother was not an affectionate woman but she loved her daughter, and Anna's three-and-twenty years of sensible youth was a testament to that love. The lack of that striking, irrepressible woman was too much for Anna to bear even thinking about it and she felt the coldness that was necessary for her to function. The fine cream muslin gown she wore for the party felt stilted and she ached for the ability to find something less constricting. Yes, that was what she would do, except changing would not be enough. She would have to find a thousand layers of hot water and fat soap and terry cloth to rub her skin off into infinitesimal pieces, until her in life and in death could no longer be distinguished, that she could ever reconcile herself to those damning two seconds.
And when she shed tears it was not a solitary or silent gesture. She pressed against Edwin, who had before not even acknowledged her existence but was there now to absorb her grief and she cried until she felt he was saturated with it.
"Anna," he said, grasping her hands with such force that she stood up, but he never completed the statement, instead leaving her name to hang between them. She stood up and went to pack her things into her trunk, taking care not to make it heavy. The servant then took her things to the carriage but she felt too weak to follow him; she remembered that Edwin dragged her back and that she was in the carriage to the Knowltons once more, a place she wanted wholeheartedly to avoid with such a passion she felt its distant echo through her grief.
The Knowltons were all sympathy. They offered her the best of their guest-rooms and had someone send up a solicitous tea. Edwin did not come to visit and Chase, Martin, and their mother prevailed upon her once each -- Chase even read from Bereaved, and his light voice was cast with such a dark tone Anna was properly chilled and captivated at the reading. She wanted to beg for more verses because the sound kept her tethered to the bed, but it was too late and grief was such a solitary exercise. The sadness was uniform and absolute. There was no immunity to this reaction nor was there respite to be found once acted upon. Her pillow remained wet throughout the night and the memories of a slightly neglectful Mother and Stepfather became suddenly beloved. She remembered the instance where Mother took her to Capital so that she might watch the traveling Slav Dance Company or that next day when she was showered with a hundred flavors of creamed ice in the parlour at the Doctor's insistence. Then there were the other innumerable luxuries her mother shared with her; a love of literature, of writing and even of landscape-sketching beyond the usual constraints on feminine virtuosity. When she woke up in the morning she made to write to her father, whose estate was not ten miles from Capital. Once fresh paper was sent up she sat at an ancient desk to begin writing.
Sir,
No doubt you must have heard the distressing news about Mama. I do not want to be the bearer of bad news but you have borne her first death, and now we both must endure her second.
But this was not a letter she could readily send. She tore it up to try again, but any coherent statement lay beyond her ability and her head ached too much to continue. She joined the rest of the Park for breakfast and found that Edwin was again missing; woefully she understood that her emotions were a contagion and he therefore made himself scarce.
Mrs. Knowlton, however, called her into the sitting room after the noon dinner and asked her to sit down across from her on the spare sofa. The curves of her neck and the black mourning dress she wore made her feel oppressively statuesque,
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