Before I begin, let me inform you of one very important fact: I am dead and I am a ghost. Yes, that is essential to know. How do I know that I am dead and a ghost? Well, I can walk through walls, I can float across the room without my feet touching the floor, and when I peer into the looking glass, I am transparent. But above all, when I look out the window of our apartment, I can see my body lying contorted on the sidewalk below, blood gurgling out of my mouth and my hazel eyes gazing heavenwards.
How did I die? For some reason, I can’t remember a single solitary thing.
My last clear memory was of my daughter, Rosemary, and I having an argument in our apartment in The Palace. The evening before, at a late supper in the dining room, the eligible and wealthy Mr. Boswell, a member of Old Money New York, made an offer of marriage via yours truly, to Rosemary. Naturally, I accepted on her behalf, assuring the gentleman she would be happy to be his wife. He intended to make a formal proposal after he secured his grandmother’s ring. I waited until this morning to tell her the news. To my astonishment, my daughter broke down in hysterics.
I stood before her, utterly ashamed that she would put on such a display as our maid, West, was in the room. West was always hovering about, like a bothersome gnat, and she was more trouble than she was worth. But she came cheap. Even so, we had to take care. Servants talked amongst themselves; we were lucky that West hadn’t shared our secrets with others.
Rosemary sank into the sofa, hugging a thick book close to her, convulsive sobs overtaking her. “Please, I don’t want to marry Mr. Boswell.” She wailed, her eyes and nose swelling. “I don’t love him!”
“What does love have to do with marriage?” I released a sigh and regretted allowing her the freedom to read novels. They poisoned my daughter’s sensibilities, deluding herself into believing a love match was essential to her happiness. Love was no guarantee of happiness, I knew this from personal experience. Despite what she believed, that I was cruel and enjoyed her sufferings, I did have her best interests at heart. “I didn’t love your father when I married him.”
Her lower lip trembled at the mention of her dead father. “I think—” She started to say.
“I don’t ask you to think, I will do the thinking.” I seized her chin and forced her to look at me. “All that I ask of you is to obey.”
Defiance filled her dark depths. Another young lady would be ecstatic to receive a proposal from Mr. Boswell. My daughter was the greatest simpleton in the world; preferring books and riding horses to prospective suitors. Many a time she turned away suitable callers, in favor of frivolous pursuits. Not conventionally pretty, she took after my dearly departed husband. Her raven hair and irises so dark they appeared black, alongside her dusky complexion, made her look exotic. Especially when she wore blue, green, or red frocks.
I released her and took a step back. “Marriage is the only opportunity ladies have to elevate themselves in society and secure their futures. And you must marry now, before the bloom is off the rose,” I explained, with a dainty lift of my hand. If I had married my first love, my life would have been ruined. No, I bided my time and when Mr. Oliphant proposed to me, I accepted and with my management, our union was a success. Not only did we have a place in New York amongst the Four Hundred, he flourished in his career and I was one of the reigning queens of society. “It makes us respectable.”
“I could work as a companion, governess, or teacher.” Rosemary suggested.
“Don’t be ridiculous!” I exclaimed a degree too loud, and moderated my tone. The residents of The Palace gossiped about us enough. Let it not be said they heard us yelling at one another. “Ladies do not have occupations. That would be a degradation.”
My gaze fell on the book, the cause of Rosemary’s misguided notions. The Bostonians, by Henry Someone. A romance or an adventure, who knows? Who cares? I pried it out of my daughter’s arms, stormed over to the fireplace, and cast it into the blaze. She sobbed even harder, sounding more like a babe than a girl of seventeen.
I waited until the tome was fully destroyed, before turning and making my way back to her. To my disgust, West’s arms were wrapped around my daughter and was holding her close.
“Are you all right, Miss Oliphant?” The maid whispered.
“How can I be?” Rosemary whimpered, rudely pointing at me.
They both cowered, as though I might strike them. I never slapped anyone in my life; why those two thought I would was beyond my imagination. Yes, I had given Rosemary a tap or two on the cheek before, to reign her in, but that was not the same as a slap.
“You will accept Mr. Boswell’s offer, and you will marry him,” I insisted coolly. Showing them there was no reason to fear me. I cupped my daughter’s cheek, stroking it. I did have to address our current situation; that despite economizing, we could not continue to live in our apartment. Her marriage was the only way out of our troubles, and if Rosemary would use a little logic, she would see that too. “Otherwise, we will end up on the streets, or in a workhouse. Do you want that? Do you want to struggle, and watch me suffer as well?” I withdrew from her and waited for her to acquiesce.
Rosemary grabbed one of the pillows off of the sofa and threw it at me. “I hate you; I wish you were dead!” she hissed. The pillow missed my head and landed on the other side of the room.
“Oh, hush,” I said, tired of this business.
There was a knock on the door and I signaled for West to answer it. She reluctantly left my daughter and answered it, bringing a missive back to me. Mrs. Cora Oliphant was scrawled across it, in an unfamiliar hand.
I read the note’s contents and my heart palpitated. Were I the fainting kind, I would have fainted. “Do pardon me.” I took up my purse where I had left it on the end table and slipped the message inside. “Mr. Boswell wishes to discuss your upcoming nuptials.”
I took my leave, not knowing what awaited me.
Falling, falling…I now recall falling. Clawing at the air, kicking my legs, a shrill scream rattling out of my throat as I went down, down, down. Hitting the sidewalk, I didn’t feel the impact. At least I don’t remember feeling it.
I backed away from the window and by thought alone, I transported myself to where my broken body lay. I attempted to return inside of it, to resurrect myself. But it was no use and I soon climbed out. My purse was still on my corpse’s arm; it was a miracle I had held onto it the whole time.
No one in the crowd notices my ghostly presence, they’re too fascinated by my corpse. Those I considered my dearest friends, residents of The Palace, and those passing by cried, shook their heads, and took out their smelling salts. Mr. Boswell, Rosemary’s suitor was there; as was Miss Susan May, one of the more illustrious residents. West, my maid, was also in the midst of the onlookers. Despite appearances, they weren’t really mourning my passing. They were glad that I was dead. Oh, they may miss me, but my death would give them something to discuss for weeks and months. A delicious piece of gossip was far more valuable than a human life.
Rosemary emerged from the apartment building, seemingly unaware that I was the reason for the crowd. She hastened over and upon seeing me, she let out a wounded cry.
“Mother!” She dropped to her knees and threw herself across my body. I rolled my eyes. Not an hour ago she wished me dead. “What happened? Was she assaulted?”
“She fell from the roof.” A gentleman explained, gesturing to the top of The Palace.
“Fell?” Mr. Boswell broke in, squinting his eyes. He had crow’s-feet and a couple of wrinkles, but for his age, he was distinguished. Why Rosemary was repulsed by him, I couldn’t fathom. He raised his walking stick and pointed upwards. “Sir, she was pushed. I saw someone up there with her.”
I craned my neck and pondered how he was able to see anything, from the distance and glare of the sun, and how fast everything must have happened. Why was I up there? I had never been on the roof before. Why now? But the gentlemen had to be correct; for such a fall to occur, I had to be on the roof. Who would have pushed me? To claim I had no enemies would have been a lie. It would be easier to list those who did not have a vendetta against me. Popularity and power come with a heavy price.
Rosemary sat back on her heels, wiping a few tears away. “Mr. Boswell, she was to meet you for an appointment. You sent a note earlier this morning,” she said, addressing her suitor in an imperious manner.
“I did no such thing.” Mr. Boswell looked pleased that she spoke to him, but befuddled by her accusation. “I don’t know what you mean.”
The police chose that moment to arrive and approached. They took photographs of my body, and scribbled down notes, mingled amongst the crowd, and asked questions. One of the officers, a rotund man close to Mr. Boswell’s age, introduced himself as Officer Doyle and offered my daughter his hand, and assisted her to her feet.
Rosemary sought out West, grasping the maid’s shoulder. “West,” She desperately beseeched the servant. Officer Doyle edged closer, intrigued by their conversation. “Mother received a note from Mr. Boswell, did she not?”
“Yes, miss, she did.” West nodded in agreement. I looked closer; the maid was a reddish creature; her hair was that color and she was covered with freckles. But her eyes seemed red; as though she had been recently crying. “A bell boy delivered it and I brought it to her myself.”
“And Mother said that it was from you.” Rosemary declared, turning back to her suitor.
“I didn’t send Mrs. Oliphant a note.” He insisted. “I last spoke to her last night, on the matter of our engagement.”
The misunderstanding was my fault and I felt a small pang of guilt, but it didn’t last long. I had my reasons for claiming the note was from him. The truth might be unearthed through a little investigation, and other than my murder, that was what currently caused me the most distress. I was dead, but I didn’t want my memory to be besmirched. I attempted to retrieve my purse, to hide it and when I was able, to destroy the note inside. My fingers slipped through it and I had to come up with a new plan on getting the purse away from them.
“We are not engaged, sir,” Rosemary said. She narrowed her eyes at him and her upper lip curled in disdain. Sensing if he didn’t stop, he would soon by lying dead next to me, he retreated from and fell silent. It should have been a sign to her that Mr. Boswell would be the ideal husband; she could easily manage him as I managed her father. “I told my mother as much this morning.”
Officer Doyle arched a brow. “Miss Oliphant, few of the residents have reported they heard yelling in your apartment earlier.” His tone had a foreign lilt to it, indicating he was one of the Irish, who were currently overrunning our fair country. When my daughter blushed and lowered her head, he chose not to press it. He eyed our maid and observing her pensiveness, he went to her side. “West? What do you have to say on the matter? Come, come, don’t be shy.”
Keep your mouth shut, you foolish girl! I snapped, but of course, she couldn’t hear me.
West stole a furtive glance at my body, then at Rosemary, and back to me again. “This morning Mrs. and Miss Oliphant had an argument. Miss Oliphant said…” She was loathed to continue, preferring not to cause my daughter pain. “Well, she said she hated and wished her mother dead. But sir, I don’t think she meant it.”
“Is that so, Miss Oliphant?” Officer Doyle crossed his arms over his protruding stomach. Were I living, I wouldn’t have let him within an inch of my daughter. Perhaps because of his origins, I believed he resented people of our class. “Please state your whereabouts in the last hour.”
All eyes were upon her, including mine. A minute elapsed before she attempted an explanation.
“I was in the building,” Rosemary chewed her lower lip, despite how I lectured her about the habit in the past. “I was—”
Miss Susan May pushed her way over to my daughter. “Miss Oliphant was with me, drinking tea in my apartment.” The tall, golden-haired woman informed the police officer. She wasn’t pretty, but handsome rather.
“Yes, I was with Miss May,” Rosemary stated, sending the lady a grateful smile.
“We were discussing books,” Miss May continued, “She told me all about Henry James’s book, The Bostonians, and we planned to go out to the bookshop so that I could buy a copy.”
I was gaping at both my daughter and this woman. It was obvious they were telling falsehoods. Miss May was outside when I hit the ground and had been amongst the first to gaze upon my body. My daughter came out minutes later. Besides, I had given Rosemary strict instructions to never associate with Miss May. Miss May was from Massachusetts, she had a prosperous mill, ergo she was New Money. Old Money does not mingle with New Money. She visited New York often, usually with her paid companion. However, she was currently companionless, and apparently on the hunt for a new one. The residents of The Palace talked of her, in a different manner than how they talked of other ladies.
“I see,” Officer Doyle harrumphed. He obviously believed my daughter was guilty and intended to focus on her as a suspect. It would save him the trouble of truly investigating my death. “Well, we may need to speak with you both later. Miss Oliphant, you are free to go.”
“May I have my mother’s purse?” Rosemary asked, clasping her hands together. She had recalled that I had hid the note in there. Interestingly, she had not told the police officer, nor did she show it to Mr. Boswell, who was still lurking eagerly in the background. “As a memento?”
A capable police officer would have refused her request. After all, the contents of my purse could be useful to his investigation. He wasn’t aware of the note, but if he kept the purse, he would eventually discover it.
“As you wish.” To my exasperation, Officer Doyle disengaged the purse from my arm and handed it over to my daughter.
Rosemary slipped the purse on her wrist. She and Miss May traipsed into the building, and West trailed after them like a pathetic dog.
The police finally covered my body with a sheet, giving me the dignity that I deserved, and prepared to take me away. Rather than accompany my body, I hastened back into The Palace, and followed my daughter and her new friend.
I hovered by Rosemary and her new friend, while West fluttered around the room, serving tea and fussing over the Petit Fours that I ordered the previous day. I watched both my daughter and Miss May carefully and didn’t like what I saw. A familiarity existed between them and that was disconcerting. It simply wasn’t that Miss May was New Money. The Palace was rife with rumors about her; that her aim in life was to never marry, but to remain a spinster and live independently. Her ambitions could rub off on Rosemary, and ruin my daughter’s chances at making a good match with Mr. Boswell. Yes, while I was dead, my daughter would marry her suitor, if it is the last thing I do.
“Why did you lie for me?” Rosemary asked, after placing her cup on the end table. She was sitting where we had our argument, although she was composed. My purse lay in her lap.
Mischievousness filled Miss May’s face. “I didn’t lie. We were together, weren’t we? In a sense. You were watching me.” She, too, put her cup on the end table and let out a lighthearted laugh. “I heard this building had secret passageways. Perhaps you can show them to me later.”
What do you mean, ‘secret passageways?’ I demanded and rested my hand on Rosemary’s shoulder. Or rather tried to. My fingers bled through her and she shivered. Whenever we had a discussion that wasn’t to her liking, my daughter would disappear. I assumed she was paying calls or at the library. But somewhere in The Palace, there was a secret passageway, one that connected to Miss Susan May’s quarters. The Palace was the first residential hotel of its kind on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. Others followed suit after it opened, but none of the others could rival it. Built only a few years ago and considered utterly too-too, fortune smiled upon us after my husband’s death, when I claimed our apartment on the twelfth floor. Our humble abode was generally white, trimmed in gold, and it was the only one in the building to possess gilded edging around the framework and windows. This was the first I had heard of secret passageways though.
“Of course.” Rosemary had the good graces to blush, but now shared her new friend’s mischievous look. “I’m sorry I was watching you.”
“It’s not the first time someone has spied on me. Are you all right?” Miss May tilted her head, seeking my daughter’s gaze. “About your mother I mean?”
I waited for the dam to burst, as it did when she threw herself upon my body. But she remained dry-eyed and oddly calm for someone who lost her only living parent.
“I don’t know.” Rosemary shrugged her shoulders and wrapped her arms around herself. “It is wrong of me, but I sometimes did hate my mother, and wished her dead instead of my father. When my father died, I lost the only person who was on my side. But I never would have harmed my mother.”
Ungrateful girl! My shouts fell on deaf ears and I balled my fists. Everything I did was for her. Where we lived, the connections we made, the clothing, our place in society—it was all for Rosemary. Since her father’s death, I have lived and breathed for her alone! If I could have, I would have arranged a marriage for her to a duke or a lord, and she could have been a Dollar Princess, and lived like royalty in England. And the thanks I get is her speaking ill of me the same day as my death.
“How did Mr. Oliphant die?” Miss May inquired; her brow furrowed.
“You may go now, West.” Rosemary dismissed the maid, who I had completely forgotten about. The maid pouted and scurried off to my daughter’s bedroom. My daughter leaned forward on the edge of the sofa, in case West was still listening, and she whispered to her friend. “We have tried to keep it quiet, but I know everyone discusses it behind closed doors. My father took his life. We were of the Four Hundred, mother and father both descended from the early Dutch families. My mother was a scion of society. We had a house on Park Fifth Avenue and a house in Newport. However, because of her ‘Keeping up with the Joneses’ so to speak, we lived beyond our means and we were in debt.” She sniffed and covered her mouth, the dam crumbling over a man who had been dead and gone, and forgotten by most. “My father speculated, using what little we had left, and it was a mistake. He lost it all—the houses, the furniture, the everyday delights we enjoyed. Father shot himself in his office. I was away at school at the time; I didn’t arrive home in time to attend his funeral. We have lived on what his life insurance policy supplied, taking up residence here. But Mother’s extravagance continues and our savings are dwindling.”
“My God, I’m so sorry!” Miss May gasped. She reached across the space that divided them and squeezed my daughter’s fingers.
I would have strangled Rosemary if I could. That was my daughter’s truth but not the whole truth. Mr. Oliphant ruined our girl; he spoiled her needlessly, coddled her, constantly praised her. From the time she was small, she was his daughter, not mine. She sought him out, sat on his knee while he worked, cried out for him when she was sick or sad, shared all her joys with him. The gifts he lavished on her—the horses, the dresses, the parties. He would have rather spent time with a child than advance himself in the world. Therefore, I took up the responsibility of our family and did what I had to because he would not. I receive all of the blame for our troubles, yet none of the thanks.
“Mother believed our only way out of our financial woes was for me to marry Mr. Boswell. We would be restored to our former glory in society.” Rosemary opened the purse she had taken from my dead body. “He sent this note this morning. That’s why I wanted her purse.”
I would have drawn in a breath, if I had any breath. Please, no! I begged. Death was not my undoing, but that note certainly would be.
Rosemary opened the note and bewilderment clouded her features.
“What is it?” Miss May asked.
“‘I know about your daughter and the truth about Mr. Oliphant. Meet me on the roof.’” My daughter read aloud and passed the missive to her new friend. “What could Mr. Boswell mean by this? What could he know about me and my father that would require a meeting on the roof?”
“We should go to the roof and find out.” Miss May suggested, smiling.
“Would you like a tour of the secret passageways now?” Rosemary stood and held out her elbow.
Miss May took her arm and Rosemary led the way to her room. What did her bedroom have to do with a secret passageway? I hurried after then and expected to find West in there, tending to her work. But the maid was nowhere to be found. It was like she had vanished.
Miss May and I stood a few feet back as Rosemary tugged on a shelf in her bookcase. The bookcase sprang open, like a door, revealing the secret passageway itself. How long has this been here and why did it even exist? The architect, Mr. Lewis, himself lived in the building and never said a word about it. I looked around and was drawn to a little hole in the wall, on the other side of the bookcase and deduced that Mr. Lewis likely traversed the passageways. And perhaps others, like Rosemary, utilized it.
West! She must have used it to leave the apartment without us noticing.
The ladies joined hands once more and ran in. The bookcase snapped back into place, shutting me out from their adventure. This would not do. I straightened my shoulders and swept through the wall with no effort at all, and quickly caught up. We disappeared into the dizzying labyrinth of the building, full of twists and turns, dead ends, and spider webbing that stretched from the ceiling to the floor. Rosemary and Miss May’s bawdy laughter filled the tunnels. If any of the residents heard, they’d certainly believe The Palace was haunted.
Then the ladies climbed, while I ascended a few flights of stairs. Like most apartment buildings, The Palace didn’t have a 13th floor, and we skipped to the fourteenth. Rosemary pointed out the little hole where she crudely peeped in on Miss May earlier.
Another set of stairs and then a trap door leading to the roof, was pushed open. Low hanging clouds were situated like a canopy in the sky, catching the heat from the sun. The wide-open space of the roof, far above the world below, trifled with my equilibrium. Were I not dead, I’d certainly have fallen over the side. Heights of this kind never troubled me before this. Mr. Boswell had been right; only being pushed off of The Palace roof could have created this fear inside of me.
The ladies surveyed the vicinity, not at all disturbed that this is where I met my fate.
“Nothing appears out of the ordinary,” Miss May observed, walking from one end to the other. “Mr. Boswell could have removed anything that pointed to him though.”
Rosemary nodded and turning, her gaze settled upon a figure crouched down in the corner. “West? What are you doing up here?” she queried.
West was hugging her knees to her chest, her snivels getting on my nerves. “I shouldn’t have done it.” She wiped the back of her hand against her damp cheeks.
I touched my brow. This is it. There was no stopping any of them from discovering the truth. A lifetime’s worth of secrets, would be strewn about in the world, like refuse.
“Done what?” Miss May extracted a hanky from her sleeve, and going to the maid, she handed it to her.
“You sent the letter, threatening Mother. Why? I don’t understand.” Rosemary stood over West, one hand on her hip. I could sense the rage radiating off of her lithe frame. “Explain yourself.”
“I just wanted to talk to Mrs. Oliphant, in private.” West only cried harder and began to wheeze. She buried her face in the handkerchief for a handful of seconds, before raising her head. “I…I’m her daughter. Her first born. Before she married Mr. Oliphant, our mother had a romance with a wealthy boy and he abandoned her. I came along and she sent me to an orphanage, and it would have stayed a secret, I’m sure. When I entered service, one of the matrons let it slip that Mrs. Oliphant, one of the Four Hundred, was my mother. When I learned she needed a lady’s maid, I put myself forward and I was hired. In time, I thought she would know me. I dropped hints. She had to know; the matron said I looked like my father.”
I never hated West more. She always was a terrible maid, but this…this was not to be borne. For her to say such a thing about me, to my daughter, I wouldn’t let it stand. Once I learned how to haunt someone properly, I vowed I would go after her first. To think such an ugly, freckled thing was my daughter was laughable. I did have a daughter out of wedlock when I was sixteen and my parents put her in an orphanage. Marry well, rise in society, that was my best chance. I never looked back, I don’t believe in regrets, I believe in opportunities. From all reports, the child did take after her father, my first love, but word had reached me she died young. Which was for the best; after all she would have been poor and struggled to survive, and she could have ruined my life.
West was just a schemer; she discovered my secret and chose to use it to her advantage. I didn’t even know her Christian name, nor did I care to know.
“I had no idea,” Rosemary replied, but didn’t appear touched by this servant claiming to be her step-sister. Her demeanor was cold, forbidding. She, too, doubted West’s tale. “What did you mean about my father?”
West’s face crumbled again; she always had a penchant for tears. “Mr. Oliphant didn’t kill himself. Mrs. Oliphant killed him, she shot him. When he admitted to losing the remainder of his fortune, she threw a fit.” The maid pushed herself up, her limbs trembling—one swift wind and she would certainly go over the side. If only…
“The gun he had in his desk, she took it and shot him. Mrs. Oliphant claimed she was downstairs when it all took place and went up after hearing the noise, and found him.”
Rosemary wrapped her arms around herself and bending over, she let out a heart-wrenching shout. “I hate you, Mother, I hate you!” were her garbled sobs.
I sniffed, but still couldn’t feel any remorse. My stupid husband—he nearly cost me everything. He had decided that we would have to sell our houses and all of our fine furniture and clothing, and take a little cottage in a small town. He wouldn’t listen to reason—that I couldn’t live in a backwoods hamlet.
Well, for once in my life, Cora, I’m putting my foot down. We are selling out!
The fool always kept the revolver in his desk loaded. So, I did what I had to. I took it out, disregarded his pleadings, and shot him in the temple. Mr. Oliphant dropped to the floor and I placed the weapon in his hand. We still had to sell out, however, I knew his life insurance policy would provide for us to move into The Palace, and keep us comfortable until Rosemary married. It was all for the best, and if I could have told her my side of it, my daughter would have understood.
Miss May held my daughter, smoothing back her hair. “How can you be certain of this?” she asked.
“I overheard the argument and the shot itself. I thought if I helped Mrs. Oliphant cover it up, she would finally accept me. The three of us moved here and when she arranged for you to marry Mr. Boswell, I thought it was my chance!” West reached for Rosemary, but my daughter swatted the maid’s hand away. The servant didn’t seem hurt by my daughter’s rejection; her expression was soft. She deluded herself into thinking that she and Rosemary could be sisters. “If Mrs. Oliphant would acknowledge me, I’d marry Mr. Boswell and take care of you and her. We could be a family. When she met me here, I told her who I was. She laughed in my face; she said I was no more than a mangy street dog and said that I didn’t have the pedigree to be a lady, let alone marry Mr. Boswell. I was upset, I pushed her and she fell.”
I remembered it, I remembered falling on the floor of the roof. West didn’t finish her story of my death; she didn’t have to. This was enough of an admission.
There was a whine behind us, the grating of hinges, as the door of the stairwell opened. We turned and saw Officer Doyle step out of the shadows and saunter to the maid.
“Officer? How?” Rosemary shook her head in disbelief.
Officer Doyle smirked, amused by my daughter’s question. “I came up to look for clues and I hoped the one behind Mrs. Oliphant’s murder would return. Sometimes culprits do.” He grabbed the maid’s arm and twisting it back, he cuffed one wrist and then the other. “West, come with me.”
“But I didn’t do it! I swear!” West’s screams filled the air as he escorted her off of the roof and back into the building. “I’m innocent!”
Rosemary mumbled her thanks to Miss May, and rather than retrace their steps back through the secret passageway, they followed the police officer and West.
To save myself time, I transported myself back to our apartment. I went to the window, where I had first noticed my corpse on the sidewalk. The commotion regarding my death this morning had been forgotten; the streets were once more teeming with life and motion. New York never stopped for long.
My funeral was three days later and then the day after that, Rosemary went through her belongings and started to pack. Where do you think you’re going? I poked her in the shoulder; she shivered each time I did it, but had no inkling I was the cause of it. She shrugged it off as a cold draft. My daughter displayed little to no emotion, which wounded me deeply. After all of my sacrifices, she was going to throw her life away and go off to God knows where? It occurred to me that I could follow her, and haunt her all of her days. I left her briefly, to test whether or not I could leave The Palace and soon learned I could go no further than the sidewalk where my body had lain.
My daughter simply had to stay! We hadn’t been apart since the day she was born. She never appreciated me before, but by God she would now! I would find a way to keep her here.
When I returned to our apartment, the gilded edging I loved suddenly reminded me of the bars on a cage. The gilded cage.
I was crestfallen to find Miss May with my daughter in her room. The golden-haired lady observed my daughter as she folded her selected dresses and placed them one by one in a trunk.
“Do you have to leave The Palace?” Miss May’s mouth was drawn into a displeased pout.
“I must. I can’t afford to stay, nor do I really want to live here.” Rosemary shut the lid of the trunk and buckled its straps. “It is time for me to have an adventure of my own.”
“What of Mr. Boswell?” Miss May wryly pointed out. “He may still be interested.”
Rosemary made a face. “He may be, but I never was. I would rather teach than marry a man…”
She paused, blushing prettily, and then corrected herself. “Then marry someone I don’t love.
“I see.” Miss May traipsed to the other side of the room, and clasping her hands in front of her, she spun around, grinning. “Well, if your heart is set on educating the young minds of the world, I suppose an invitation to be my paid companion is of no interest to you. Concord, Massachusetts isn’t New York, but it is charming and we could have adventures. I like to travel and I imagine you’d like to as well. And if we travel to England, I could perhaps arrange a meeting with Henry James.”
“The Henry James?” Rosemary replied, beaming, “Well, then, that changes everything.”
Miss May embraced my daughter, planting a kiss on her cheek. She quit the apartment, saying she would find someone to see about the trunk and they could leave within a couple of hours.
I shouted myself hoarse, begging both Rosemary and God Himself to let me be heard. I attempted to slap my daughter, grab her shoulder, take her by the ear, pull her hair, strangle her neck… But my hands swiped through her and she was no longer shivering.
Rosemary traipsed into the sitting room and I ran after her. She stood before the mirror, checking her appearance. I stood at her elbow, gazing into the reflection. A smile tugged at the corners of her full lips and the truth dawned on me and my memories returned to me!
West had been speaking the truth—she hadn’t killed me.
Rosemary had.
She had come out onto the roof not long after West had fled. I was on the floor of the roof. She helped me up and I was enraged, and insisted she had to wed Mr. Boswell as soon as possible, before West went public with her sordid tale.
In one swift movement, my daughter dragged me to the edge of the roof and pitched me over the side.
She was going to get away with my murder and there was nothing I could do about it.
THE END
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Veronica Leigh has been published in several non-fiction anthologies and her essays have been featured in a variety of journals. Her fiction has been published in The Saturday Evening Post, Black Cat Weekly, Black Cat Mystery Magazine, and Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine. She has recently published her first novel.
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