The Marriage of Opposites
Page 91
“But perhaps I will in what I say.” Sophie treaded carefully.
“Oh, say what you will,” Lydia responded, still puzzled by the intensity of this surprise visit. “I can’t imagine I’d be offended.”
“I’m glad you feel that way. I can’t imagine it would matter now, with Elise gone. And when you asked about the color of your eyes, I felt I might be free to speak to you. Before that, I wasn’t certain you knew.”
“As I said, between my mother and myself, things were simple. She called me her great and wonderful gift.”
“So you were aware that she couldn’t have children.” Sophie appeared relieved. “But of course she would have told you.”
Lydia did not move, for fear she would betray herself. She knew nothing of this. Her heart was twisted inside her chest. The maid, already wearing her cape, brought almond cakes with sugar frosting. She had bundled up the children, who followed at her heels. It was unseasonably cold, but the park awaited. The girls were ushered from the house. The tea was poured. Jasmine tea was from Japan, deliciously fragrant with a woodsy, floral scent and a pale green color in the bone china cups. Lydia felt as though something was stuck in her throat; she found she couldn’t even swallow a sip of tea.
“She wanted you desperately,” Lydia’s visitor went on, “and was so delighted when you entered her life. You were indeed a treasure and a gift. As long as you know that.”
“How did that entrance occur?” When Aunt Sophie looked puzzled by the question, posed by one who supposedly knew her own history, Lydia added, “I can never remember the details.”
She was cold as she poured more tea for her guest, despite the fire in the grate. She heard the nightingale in the yard. It was a large garden, but the bird always perched in the same tree. The one outside her window.
“Who can remember details?” Sophie shrugged. “Some days I can barely remember my own name!”
“Was I a foundling?”
“No. Of course not. You are your father’s child—I believe from a marriage before he wed your mother. It seems your mother kept some details to herself.”
“She did.” Lydia nodded.
“I know she wanted to tell you more about the situation. I remember discussing it with her. But when do you tell a daughter that another woman gave birth to her? I suppose you were grown up when she informed you.”
Lydia tried to straighten out her thoughts, but the fact that her mother, who had been her biggest champion and the person closest to her in the world, was not a blood relation or her birth mother was staggering. “No. It was only recently,” she lied. The lie was like a block of ice, and yet Sophie seemed to believe her.
“Well, she worried over what to say for years. She never told me the details, or I would tell you now myself. Only that she had given you a far better life than the one you would have had. I assume there was some scandal involved. But scandal is everywhere, isn’t it?”
The news about her parentage changed things in a way Lydia didn’t understand. She felt angry at herself, for taking everything at face value, and angry with her mother for dying without telling her the truth.
That night she held her daughters close, and swore she would never betray them. She wanted to ask her father to reveal who her true mother had been, but when she went to visit him, Marie, the nurse, said he was too ill for company and turned her away. She stood outside the house of white stone where she’d grown up, where the vines wound up the walls to the chamber in which she’d slept as a child, and she felt a stranger.
“Would you ever lie to me?” she asked Henri later on.
“What would I lie about?” he responded.
The weather was chill, but they were in the garden, looking at stars. The nightingale fluttered from branch to branch, but didn’t sing a note. Henri was kindhearted, a truly good man, and her mother had been his champion. “I think he’s the one for you,” Lydia recalled her saying. “He won’t break your heart.”
Henri dreamed of constellations, he’d told her, and of her.
Her own dreams were unreachable, dissolving into mist before she could reach them in her waking state. I don’t dream, she insisted when he questioned her, yet the statement felt like a lie. There were birds she couldn’t quite see. Voices she couldn’t quite hear. The sound of the sea.
Henri tried to show her Neptune, but she couldn’t spy it through the telescope. Just a blue whirl beside some hot white specks. She thought about her mother not being her mother, and everything that had happened between them. Now when she looked back, the tiniest nod or glance took on new meaning. I love you anyway. I love you more. You’re mine. I’m yours.
“Oh, say what you will,” Lydia responded, still puzzled by the intensity of this surprise visit. “I can’t imagine I’d be offended.”
“I’m glad you feel that way. I can’t imagine it would matter now, with Elise gone. And when you asked about the color of your eyes, I felt I might be free to speak to you. Before that, I wasn’t certain you knew.”
“As I said, between my mother and myself, things were simple. She called me her great and wonderful gift.”
“So you were aware that she couldn’t have children.” Sophie appeared relieved. “But of course she would have told you.”
Lydia did not move, for fear she would betray herself. She knew nothing of this. Her heart was twisted inside her chest. The maid, already wearing her cape, brought almond cakes with sugar frosting. She had bundled up the children, who followed at her heels. It was unseasonably cold, but the park awaited. The girls were ushered from the house. The tea was poured. Jasmine tea was from Japan, deliciously fragrant with a woodsy, floral scent and a pale green color in the bone china cups. Lydia felt as though something was stuck in her throat; she found she couldn’t even swallow a sip of tea.
“She wanted you desperately,” Lydia’s visitor went on, “and was so delighted when you entered her life. You were indeed a treasure and a gift. As long as you know that.”
“How did that entrance occur?” When Aunt Sophie looked puzzled by the question, posed by one who supposedly knew her own history, Lydia added, “I can never remember the details.”
She was cold as she poured more tea for her guest, despite the fire in the grate. She heard the nightingale in the yard. It was a large garden, but the bird always perched in the same tree. The one outside her window.
“Who can remember details?” Sophie shrugged. “Some days I can barely remember my own name!”
“Was I a foundling?”
“No. Of course not. You are your father’s child—I believe from a marriage before he wed your mother. It seems your mother kept some details to herself.”
“She did.” Lydia nodded.
“I know she wanted to tell you more about the situation. I remember discussing it with her. But when do you tell a daughter that another woman gave birth to her? I suppose you were grown up when she informed you.”
Lydia tried to straighten out her thoughts, but the fact that her mother, who had been her biggest champion and the person closest to her in the world, was not a blood relation or her birth mother was staggering. “No. It was only recently,” she lied. The lie was like a block of ice, and yet Sophie seemed to believe her.
“Well, she worried over what to say for years. She never told me the details, or I would tell you now myself. Only that she had given you a far better life than the one you would have had. I assume there was some scandal involved. But scandal is everywhere, isn’t it?”
The news about her parentage changed things in a way Lydia didn’t understand. She felt angry at herself, for taking everything at face value, and angry with her mother for dying without telling her the truth.
That night she held her daughters close, and swore she would never betray them. She wanted to ask her father to reveal who her true mother had been, but when she went to visit him, Marie, the nurse, said he was too ill for company and turned her away. She stood outside the house of white stone where she’d grown up, where the vines wound up the walls to the chamber in which she’d slept as a child, and she felt a stranger.
“Would you ever lie to me?” she asked Henri later on.
“What would I lie about?” he responded.
The weather was chill, but they were in the garden, looking at stars. The nightingale fluttered from branch to branch, but didn’t sing a note. Henri was kindhearted, a truly good man, and her mother had been his champion. “I think he’s the one for you,” Lydia recalled her saying. “He won’t break your heart.”
Henri dreamed of constellations, he’d told her, and of her.
Her own dreams were unreachable, dissolving into mist before she could reach them in her waking state. I don’t dream, she insisted when he questioned her, yet the statement felt like a lie. There were birds she couldn’t quite see. Voices she couldn’t quite hear. The sound of the sea.
Henri tried to show her Neptune, but she couldn’t spy it through the telescope. Just a blue whirl beside some hot white specks. She thought about her mother not being her mother, and everything that had happened between them. Now when she looked back, the tiniest nod or glance took on new meaning. I love you anyway. I love you more. You’re mine. I’m yours.
