The Room Beyond by Stephanie Elmas Page B

journey back. Her hand felt
small and limp and she rested against me in the bus like a wilting flower, so
vulnerable that I clung on to protect her from being crushed. But by the time
we got to Marguerite Avenue her hand began to respond to my grasp again. It
felt warmer, more full of blood too. When we were just a few houses away, she
released herself altogether and galloped past the last few houses to her own.
    ‘Number 30!’ she squealed back at me.
    ‘Well done, you are good at reading your door numbers.’
    ‘32!’
    ‘Even better! How did you get to be so clever?’
    ‘34!’
    The ribbon in her hair had untied itself so that the two ends
streamed behind her like tails on a kite.
    ‘No Beth! There isn’t a 34, it’s missing. You’re nearly right, but
your house is actually...’
    ‘36! Yes I know that!’
    She was still running, the ribbons skirmishing behind her in the
breeze. She must have made a mistake although my feet began to move faster
nonetheless. Number 30, yes. Then 32. And after that... only one house left, 36.
    Beth swung herself to a stop on the last corner railing of the terrace,
the ribbons finally deflating. The extreme paleness had gone from her face and
there was now the faintest blush of rosiness again across each small cheek.
    ‘We’re home now,’ she gasped. ‘Let’s go in, I’m thirsty!’

 
    1892
     
    The brougham clattered to a halt outside the railings and a
tatty-looking boy hopped down. Jane’s cases were already waiting at the bottom
of the stairs.
    ‘Jane, your carriage is here!’
    ‘I’m coming.’
    Miranda crossed her arms and then uncrossed them again. Her foot
tapped with a life of its own against the floor tiles.
    ‘I think I’ve got everything,’ said Jane, clutching a handkerchief
to the side of her face as she descended the stairs shakily. ‘Ah it still
hurts; my whole face feels as if it’s been trampled on.’
    She did look a little wan and her hair had been tied back rather
shoddily, but her eyes glimmered brightly enough.
    ‘Well then perhaps you shouldn’t travel. Not yet anyway,’ said
Miranda.
    ‘No no, I’ve overstayed my welcome with this illness as it is. You
must be keen to get rid of me.’
    ‘Don’t be silly. I’ll call the boy in to get your bags.’
    ‘Yes do, but before I leave I’d rather like to have a word with you
please.’
    Jane swept her eyes from one end of the hallway to the other as if
in search of spies and then craned her neck towards her.
    ‘Now, as our own mother is dead I feel it my obligation as a woman,
and of course as your sister, to talk about what happened at that dinner party
last week. As you know I’ve been far too ill to discuss this with you until
now.’
    The handkerchief had disappeared and suddenly Jane was looking
awfully healthy.
    ‘Yes,’ Miranda replied. ‘It’s quite extraordinary how quickly your
cold came on after that night...’
    ‘But you have been at the forefront of my mind and I have to tell
you that I’m extremely concerned.’
    ‘Concerned? About what?’
    Jane pulled a pair of grey gloves out of her pocket and carefully
drew them over her fingers.
    ‘I think that Mr Whitestone, your husband, enjoyed Mrs Eden’s dining
room antics a little too much the other evening.’
    ‘What are you suggesting?’
    ‘I’m not suggesting anything. I’m telling you that Tristan has a
roving eye and I think that as his wife you need to learn how to rein him in a
little better. There, I’ve said it. Now come on! Help me with my things.’
    Miranda clenched her fists so tightly that her fingernails dug into
the palms of her hands.
    ‘No.’
    Her voice felt dry and husky. Jane paused and turned back round.
    ‘I’m sorry dear? Come, surely you’re not upset. I’ve given you my
opinion, that’s all I have to say on the subject.’
    ‘Yes and that is all you will say on this subject and on any other
for that matter.’
    ‘Are you alright my dear?’
    ‘Not really. I’m afraid I