Hidden Huntress
Page 14
The room seemed to shrink, sucked in and made small by the silence.
“Is that what you think?” she whispered. “Is that what he told you?”
The truth was, my father never spoke much of it at all. It was Gran who’d told us the story of how we’d come to be in the Hollow, but I knew as well as I knew the back of my own hands that my grandmother was no liar. It was my turn to lift my chin. “Are you saying it happened differently?”
She rose abruptly to her feet, tripping on the hem of her skirt as she walked swiftly over to the sideboard. I heard the clink of glass and a splash of liquid. “I should have expected that you’d believe his side of the story.”
My heart skipped a little. Was there more to it than what Gran had told us? When I was a child, I’d daydreamed that my mother had only allowed us to be separated by necessity – that secretly, she’d always wanted us to stay together as a family. Time and much evidence to the contrary had beaten those dreams out of me, but what if my child-self had been right? “It’s the only side that’s ever been told to me,” I said, trying to keep my greed for the truth out of my voice. “But if there’s more to hear, I’ll listen.”
“What’s the point?” she asked. “I told your brother, and look how well it served me.”
Fred knew? And hadn’t told me? “I’m not my brother,” I said, irritated that he’d be so petty.
“No,” she agreed, her voice soft. “You’ve always been the most loyal of my children. My favorite.”
I watched her elbow move as she lifted the glass to her mouth, but the only sound was the crackling of the fire. I felt tense with anticipation, perhaps more than the situation warranted. What would she say? Would her story paint a different picture of our lives? Would it change the way I felt about her?
“I was sixteen and a fool when I met your father.” She set the glass down but didn’t remove her hand from it. “He’d left Goshawk’s Hollow, gone to the continent for a time, then returned to Trianon.” She turned around, and I did not fail to notice the streaks of damp on her face or the redness of her cheeks. “He was looking for a bit of excitement.” She gestured at herself, flicking her hand up and down. “He found it at the opera house.”
I winced, discomforted about thinking of my parents that way.
“I was certain I was in love. Thought the sun rose and set on him, and that we’d be together forever.” She drained her glass. “My mother warned me otherwise, but I wouldn’t listen. And by seventeen, I was married and pregnant with your brother.” Her lip trembled, and she bit it furiously, trying to keep her emotions under control.
“It was fine, at first. Your father worked in the city, and I worked for the opera company when I wasn’t too big with child.” Her shoulders twitched. “He knew how much I loved singing onstage, and he promised never to keep me from my passion.” One fat tear ran down her face.
“But after your sister arrived, we received word that your grandfather was ill. Your father went back to be with him when he died, and when he returned, everything was different. All he talked about, all he cared about, was that farm. What I wanted wasn’t important anymore.” She shook her head sharply. “He insisted we move to the Hollow, but I refused. I’d grown up in the city. Everyone I knew and cared about was in the city. The thought of leaving made me miserable. I thought he’d come around, that he loved me enough to stay.” She drew in a ragged breath. “I was wrong.”
She was crying now. My mother, who never cried, was snuffling and sobbing. “I wanted to keep you three, but he wouldn’t let me. He convinced me that I couldn’t do it, that we’d be destitute, that my babies would starve.” The words came out between gulps of air, and she wiped a hand under her nose. “My own mother went missing when this was all happening, and everything was madness and misery, and I… I let him take you.”
An oppressive weariness fell upon me, and my mind struggled with how the same story could paint an entirely different picture when told from another point of view. She wasn’t denying that she’d chosen herself and her career over being with us, but now I could see it from her perspective. Could understand how difficult it had been for her.
“It was so hard after you left. My heart was broken, and I had no money. I could barely afford to feed myself, and eventually, I came to believe your father was right. I couldn’t take care of my babies, and you three were better off with him. Better off without me.” A fresh swell of tears stormed down her cheeks. “I’m sorry, Cécile. You deserved a better mother.” Her eyes met mine. “I do love you, and I always have. I hope you know that.”
I wasn’t blind: I knew she was selfish, but no one was perfect. Everyone had flaws. She’d been put in a situation where there were no easy choices. I well knew how that felt. What it was like knowing there would be horrible consequences no matter what path I took.
“I love you too, Mama.” Rising, I swayed wearily, my feet feeling like lead as I walked over to wrap my arms around her. I was so tired. She guided me back to the settee, and I settled down, feet tucked up and my head on her lap. Her hands gently stroked my hair, and she sang, her voice hitching and catching a bit from crying.
My head was fuzzy and numb, my tongue thick in my mouth. So tired, so tired.
“Where were you, Cécile?” Her voice was soft. “Where were you all those months?”
“Is that what you think?” she whispered. “Is that what he told you?”
The truth was, my father never spoke much of it at all. It was Gran who’d told us the story of how we’d come to be in the Hollow, but I knew as well as I knew the back of my own hands that my grandmother was no liar. It was my turn to lift my chin. “Are you saying it happened differently?”
She rose abruptly to her feet, tripping on the hem of her skirt as she walked swiftly over to the sideboard. I heard the clink of glass and a splash of liquid. “I should have expected that you’d believe his side of the story.”
My heart skipped a little. Was there more to it than what Gran had told us? When I was a child, I’d daydreamed that my mother had only allowed us to be separated by necessity – that secretly, she’d always wanted us to stay together as a family. Time and much evidence to the contrary had beaten those dreams out of me, but what if my child-self had been right? “It’s the only side that’s ever been told to me,” I said, trying to keep my greed for the truth out of my voice. “But if there’s more to hear, I’ll listen.”
“What’s the point?” she asked. “I told your brother, and look how well it served me.”
Fred knew? And hadn’t told me? “I’m not my brother,” I said, irritated that he’d be so petty.
“No,” she agreed, her voice soft. “You’ve always been the most loyal of my children. My favorite.”
I watched her elbow move as she lifted the glass to her mouth, but the only sound was the crackling of the fire. I felt tense with anticipation, perhaps more than the situation warranted. What would she say? Would her story paint a different picture of our lives? Would it change the way I felt about her?
“I was sixteen and a fool when I met your father.” She set the glass down but didn’t remove her hand from it. “He’d left Goshawk’s Hollow, gone to the continent for a time, then returned to Trianon.” She turned around, and I did not fail to notice the streaks of damp on her face or the redness of her cheeks. “He was looking for a bit of excitement.” She gestured at herself, flicking her hand up and down. “He found it at the opera house.”
I winced, discomforted about thinking of my parents that way.
“I was certain I was in love. Thought the sun rose and set on him, and that we’d be together forever.” She drained her glass. “My mother warned me otherwise, but I wouldn’t listen. And by seventeen, I was married and pregnant with your brother.” Her lip trembled, and she bit it furiously, trying to keep her emotions under control.
“It was fine, at first. Your father worked in the city, and I worked for the opera company when I wasn’t too big with child.” Her shoulders twitched. “He knew how much I loved singing onstage, and he promised never to keep me from my passion.” One fat tear ran down her face.
“But after your sister arrived, we received word that your grandfather was ill. Your father went back to be with him when he died, and when he returned, everything was different. All he talked about, all he cared about, was that farm. What I wanted wasn’t important anymore.” She shook her head sharply. “He insisted we move to the Hollow, but I refused. I’d grown up in the city. Everyone I knew and cared about was in the city. The thought of leaving made me miserable. I thought he’d come around, that he loved me enough to stay.” She drew in a ragged breath. “I was wrong.”
She was crying now. My mother, who never cried, was snuffling and sobbing. “I wanted to keep you three, but he wouldn’t let me. He convinced me that I couldn’t do it, that we’d be destitute, that my babies would starve.” The words came out between gulps of air, and she wiped a hand under her nose. “My own mother went missing when this was all happening, and everything was madness and misery, and I… I let him take you.”
An oppressive weariness fell upon me, and my mind struggled with how the same story could paint an entirely different picture when told from another point of view. She wasn’t denying that she’d chosen herself and her career over being with us, but now I could see it from her perspective. Could understand how difficult it had been for her.
“It was so hard after you left. My heart was broken, and I had no money. I could barely afford to feed myself, and eventually, I came to believe your father was right. I couldn’t take care of my babies, and you three were better off with him. Better off without me.” A fresh swell of tears stormed down her cheeks. “I’m sorry, Cécile. You deserved a better mother.” Her eyes met mine. “I do love you, and I always have. I hope you know that.”
I wasn’t blind: I knew she was selfish, but no one was perfect. Everyone had flaws. She’d been put in a situation where there were no easy choices. I well knew how that felt. What it was like knowing there would be horrible consequences no matter what path I took.
“I love you too, Mama.” Rising, I swayed wearily, my feet feeling like lead as I walked over to wrap my arms around her. I was so tired. She guided me back to the settee, and I settled down, feet tucked up and my head on her lap. Her hands gently stroked my hair, and she sang, her voice hitching and catching a bit from crying.
My head was fuzzy and numb, my tongue thick in my mouth. So tired, so tired.
“Where were you, Cécile?” Her voice was soft. “Where were you all those months?”
