“I remember Luisa Bishop,” said Proctor. “A sweet child. She didn’t look much like her Aunt Jane, but she had the same impish manner. A dead ringer, pardon the pun.”
“Mrs. Childress said that Jane’s sister…” Tipsy pushed her thumb into her temple. “What was her name?”
“Constance.”
“Yes. I got the impression Constance became bitter after Luisa died.”
Proctor folded his arms over his mid-section. His white beard touched his chest, and he gave it a good memory-inducing tug. “A terrible thing, that child’s passing. I was there. Pierre Robinette asked me to come. To pray for healing. I stayed on when it became apparent that Luisa wouldn’t recover. I hoped to offer comfort, but as we all know, such efforts are menial in those circumstances.”
“Hopefully she went peacefully.”
“I’m sorry to say it, but she did not. Constance held her through that last night, while she burned up. Luisa cried out all manner of nonsense in her delirium. Constance begged her for hours, to stay, please stay. Screams echoed throughout the house, all night. Luisa wailing and Constance beseeching her. The child died in her mother’s arms as the sun rose.”
Tipsy shivered. “And to think, nowadays she might have spent a few days in bed and then been back at school.”
Click Follow to receive emails when this author adds content on Bublish
Comment on this Bubble
Your comment and a link to this bubble will also appear in your Facebook feed.