The Rebel Wife Read Online Free PDF

to be fine.” He sighs softly and closes his eyes.
    “Miss Gus,” Rachel shouts from my bedroom in the most exasperating way. “Miss Gus, the undertaker’s here.” She comes to the nursery door and leans her head in. “And Mr. Judge Heppert is here to see you, too. I put Mr. Heppert in the front parlor and the boneman in the music room.”
    Rachel has finally used her head. She knows well enough to keep Judge and Mr. Weems apart. I suppose I must take that as a sign of progress, although she would know as well as anyone what happened during the war.
    I’ll bring Weems upstairs quickly. Then I can see Judge. He must have heard Little John’s bell. Hopefully, he will not stay long.
    Not that Judge and Weems were ever at each other’s throats. Everyone behaves so cordially now. You might never know by looking, but those old hatreds are there. I could see them with every one of Judge’s frowns or Eli’s silences. With so much that we all lost, how could there not be anger?
    All of that is past, anyway. Dead and buried with it. I don’t have to think about it anymore. It is their burden, not mine.
    My hands are so wet from sweating. This relentless heat. The parlor door is closed. Mr. Weems is standing nervously in the music room, rolling his hat over his fingers. He is painfully thin and wears gold-rimmed spectacles perched at the tip of his nose. He looks like a blue heron in a black suit.
    “Thank you for coming, Mr. Weems,” I say. “Mr. Branson is upstairs.”
    “Mrs. Branson,” he begins. “I want to extend my most sincere condolences.” He follows me to the stairs. If only we could get out of the hall. The door to the front parlor is shut tight. My hand is on the banister. Weems looks at me, expectant. He was a friend of Eli’s, after all.
    “Yes, Mr. Weems.” I cast my eyes down. “It is a terrible loss for us all. Let me take you upstairs.”
    Weems follows me up the stairs to Eli’s bedroom door.
    “If I may ask, Mrs. Branson,” he says. I nod to him and turn the handle, slowly swinging the door wide. “How did Mr. Branson meet his end?” The bed is freshly dressed with white linen. Eli lies on the cooling board in his shirtsleeves and pants. His eyes are closed. A coat and other clothes lie folded neatly on the edge of the bed. His face has lost its ruddiness. It is the wan color of dried putty.
    I answer slowly. “Dr. Greer said that it was a sanguinary disorder brought on by the heat. A summer complaint.”
    “A summer complaint?” He remains at the threshold. The cooling board is laid across two chairs. Simon must have brought up ice to put in the long box under the board. A fine mist rises from its edges.
    “Well, that is how Dr. Greer described it,” I say, perfectly innocent. It sounds like an excuse.
    “Yes, I spoke with the doctor. He seemed, well, baffled, Mrs. Branson.” He cranes his head on his long neck, peering into the room. He surveys Eli’s body from head to toe.
    “I can assure you, Mr. Weems, there is no sickness in the house.”
    He steps into the room cautiously. “Of course, Mrs. Branson. Of course not. I understood there was a great deal of fluid lost.” Eli is almost too large for the board. His feet hang over the edge and rest against the back of one chair.
    “Yes, he did lose a great deal of—he perspired a great deal.” Eli’s face is gray and the skin seems to slide against the bone in sharp edges. His cheeks and eyesockets are hollowed out. A thick knot catches in my throat. He is dead and wasted.
    “That will help, then,” Mr. Weems says. “There will be less fluid. I have a boy bringing the materials over in a cart. We will begin as soon as he gets here. Do you have a key to the door? We prefer to keep the door locked when we are working, if that’s possible.”
    “Yes.” My throat closes. My hand gropes in the pocket of my dress for my handkerchief. The floor seems to move under my feet. “I will give you the key.”
    “You will see after