Chapter 15 #2
Annabelle rested her head against the stern, feeling once again the joy of that spring, of discovering something so wondrous.
“Weeks passed by,” she continued. “And you can guess what happened next.”
“You ate duck eggs with sausage for breakfast?” Hawke suggested.
Annabelle could imagine the teasing smirk on his face. If his shoulder was not still sore, she would have swatted him through the curtain.
“No, they hatched. Nine fuzzy yellow ducklings with feet much too large. I completely adored them.” She sighed and closed her eyes, recalling each precious detail of their little bodies.
“I watched them every day for hours. I would sneak away from my French lessons and quite neglected music practice.”
Hawke chuckled again.
“The ducklings made delightful little cheeping noises, and when it rained, they all crowded beneath their mother’s wings. Sometimes they came near to where I sat, but the parents would call to them, and they would return. They all marched around the garden, following one another in a line.”
She could almost feel the cool grass beneath her, smell the damp scent of the earth.
“When the parents taught them to swim, all of the ducklings jumped straight into the water. Except for one. The poor dear was too nervous. But the others all chirped at him, encouraging him, and finally he jumped in and swam around just like he’d known how to do it all along.
” She sighed, not liking to remember what happened next.
“They grew, of course. And when the ducklings were strong enough, they flew away. One day I went outside, and they were just . . . gone.”
She still felt the grief and remembered the weeks of weeping at their loss. It was silly to care so much about birds. But at the time, they had been the most important thing in her life. Her own secret playmates.
“And did they return the next year?” Hawke asked.
“I don’t know,” she said. “After that, I attended finishing school, and of course I went to sea with Court during the summer. Now the garden is all changed, and the pond is gone.” She shrugged, keeping her voice light to hide any lingering sorrow. “And that is the story. Now it is your turn.”
“Hmm.” Hawke sounded as if he were in deep contemplation. “How can one compete with ducklings in the garden?” He drew circles on the back of her hand with his thumb.
Annabelle waited, hoping her request did not upset him. She prayed he had some happy memories.
“I have no recollection of my father and only a few scattered memories of my mother,” he began.
“They are so faint, almost like I’m looking at them through a warped glass, but some details stand out.
She was a laundress, and her hands were always raw and chapped.
I remember the red cracks on her knuckles and between her fingers.
She would rub them with ointment from a little blue jar.
Mother didn’t work on Sundays, and she held my hand when we walked to and from church.
Her hands were slick from the ointment. Sometimes she would purchase a meat pie from a vendor, and we would share it as we walked. ”
He was quiet for a moment, as if remembering.
Annabelle shifted, settling in to listen.
“One of those days, on our way home from church, there was an accident in the road ahead. I don’t exactly remember what happened, but there was shouting and chaos and the route was blocked, so we turned down a street which was much dirtier and crowded.
We walked carefully, avoiding the worst of it.
And as we wended our way among the muck and rubbish, something caught my eye, and I snatched it up. ”
He cleared his throat and prodded her with his elbow. “Here is where you say, ‘What did you find, Hawke?’”
Annabelle snickered and asked, more dramatically than was necessary, “What did you find, Hawke?”
“It was a carved figure. A fox as small as my thumb. It fit exactly in my palm. There were still bits of paint on it, though most had rubbed or peeled away. Someone must have dropped it, or it fell from a toy merchant’s cart, or perhaps someone had thrown it out, but it was, to me, the most wonderful creation.
I had no toys, you see, and so this little Mr. Fox was a treasure. ”
“Mr. Fox? Was that his name?”
“It was indeed.”
Annabelle imagined Hawke as a boy clutching the figure in his little hand.
“Mother found a box, and we put scraps of cloth inside to make a bed. She even sewed a miniature pillow. I whispered secrets to Mr. Fox at night.” He sighed.
“Mother and I devised endless games: Can you find Mr. Fox? Which hand is holding Mr. Fox? And we told one another stories of grand adventures with the brave Mr. Fox as the hero.” Hawke chuckled fondly.
“She sounds like a remarkable mother,” she said. “And she must have loved you very much.” Annabelle squeezed his hand.
“She was at that,” Hawke replied. “And I agree. Nothing short of love would make a woman, exhausted from a day of scrubbing, hide a toy fox in her shoe or in the tea kettle or in her apron pocket over and over and applaud each time her son discovered it.”
Annabelle could not remember her mother playing any sort of game. Especially one she would have considered to be dull and pointless. It had always been Nanny who had played with her. Jealousy pinched in her chest.
The two sat in a companionable silence, and the darkness felt less ominous. Annabelle realized she didn’t feel frightened anymore. Weariness flowed over her, spreading through her body and making her eyes heavy. She fought it, not wanting the moment to end, but sleep called to her.
“I’m sorry I kept you awake,” she said, yawning.
“I’m not sorry,” Hawke said. His thumb rubbed her knuckles. “Will you be able to sleep, now? I could regale you with a tale of the adventures of the brave Mr. Fox if you’d like.”
She yawned again. “I can sleep now. Good night, Hawke.” She drew away her hand and got to her feet.
“Sleep well, Lady Annabelle.”