The Dreadful Demise of Miss Emma Collins

Chapter 2 (In Which The Necklace Meets An Old Friend)

"Mama, help me!" I was screaming, sitting up straight in bed with my heart skipping jigs in my throat. 

My bedroom door swung open to reveal our lady's maid, Ms. Wright. Her hand went straight to her cheek when she saw me. "Oh dear heavens, another seizure?" 

Without waiting for my answer, which was all for the best considering I was gasping too much to speak, she hastened to draw open the curtains. The morning sun glowed against my face and managed to renew me, if only a little. I breathed in deeply and one last frightened shudder escaped my shoulders.

Slowly my breathing leveled. I looked up at Ms. Wright, who was petting my sweat-dampened hair. Her forehead wrinkled as her brown eyebrows knotted together with worry. She was such a kind woman; so much more familial than most housemaids I knew. It seemed Ms. Wright actually cared about Grandmother and me, that she saw the loneliness in our spirits and wished to fill it with laughter and warmth.

I took her hand and smiled apologetically. "I suppose I was due for one."

Ms. Wright squeezed my hand. She gave a smile that didn't reach her eyes, a warning that she was about to say something I wouldn't like to hear. "Dr. Gibson is back in London. Perhaps —"

I winced at the name. "Is Grandmother awake?"

"Yes, Miss." She dropped my hand and let out a quiet sigh. "She's waiting for you to join her for breakfast."

After a rushed trip to the wash closet, Ms. Wright helped me with my morning ablutions. She refused me anything but cold water in order to "help my circulation." The chill sent goosebumps to my skin, and worse, we couldn't use soap. The stuff wouldn't later without piping hot water, and though I hated the soap's sharp smell, I'd grown rather dependent on the feeling of purity that came after a sound scrubbing. I felt unclean even after Ms. Wright finished the job with a few puffs of rose-scented talcum powder. She helped me into my day dress, a lavender wool number with wide hoops and coffee-colored lace trim. The frock was nearly a year old, but I refused to do away with it just yet. The sight of it always reminded me of Grandmother's beaming face after the seamstress had finished the final alterations. It was as if at that moment, she'd realized I had become a grown woman.

But the memory did little to appease my growing ache as Ms. Wright soaked my nails in lemon water and set to the task of shaping and filing. The ache only grew worse when she patted my face with a washcloth dipped in elderflower water. She muttered something about a stubborn freckle on my right cheek before setting to brushing my hair so gently I hardly felt it -- or perhaps my mind was so otherwise engaged I simply didn't register the tugs and pulls as she set it into a tight bun. When I finally made my way downstairs, the grim realities of the masquerade were thoroughly crashing onto my shoulders. It didn't help that my nose was still stuffed, a poignant reminder of last night's tears.

"Emma, I heard you from down here." Grandmother stood as quickly as she could from her chair. She tried to conceal a grimace of pain, and I tried to hold back a shudder of worry for her. "Come sit down, have some water. Are you feeling better?"

I nodded and sat down. Ms. Wright handed me the glass Grandmother had offered.

"It's been over a year since your last seizure. Did something happen to bring on old pains?" Grandma's blue eyes creased on the edges. She was much too worried for my comfort. Her thoughts should be only of her own health these days.

But weakness of emotion overcame me. I fell into her arms and began sobbing. "I can't—"

"All is well." She began rocking me as my tears fell in harsh globs on her shoulder.