Chapter 6
Beresford visits me briefly the next evening, bringing with him a pair of beautifully carved crutches, an ankle brace with leather straps, and a huge basket full of food and wine.
Mama and Anne are astounded by the bounty, but I’m most touched by the quiet way in which he explains the function of the ankle brace and adjusts the straps to suit my needs.
He purchased both the crutches and the brace from a carpenter in Mulhouse who specializes in crafting mobility aids.
After he left me at home, he must have traveled all night to reach the city and procure the items.
“I’m having another dinner party tomorrow night,” he says. “Of course I understand if you can’t make it, but I would love to see you there. Every accommodation will be made for you, Sybil,” he adds, with a warm smile.
When he departs, my mother and sister clamor his praises. They heat a pot of soup they found in the basket, and we all partake of that and a bottle of excellent red wine.
The wine loosens my tongue and my emotions. In addition to feeling suddenly very affectionate and grateful for my family, I begin to despise the notion of hiding things from them.
“I had a terrible time in the woods yesterday,” I tell Anne and Mama. “I saw things—monsters. It was frightening.”
“They’re just the harmless little demons you’ve summoned,” Anne assures me, her own cheeks pink from the wine.
“Not this thing.” I shake my head sagely. “This was different. Perhaps I summoned it, but I don’t think it’s harmless. I’ve seen it twice, both times not far from the Barrow. Speaking of the Barrow—Mama, didn’t you tell us a tale about it once?”
“I don’t recall any such thing.” Mama grabs the wine bottle and pours herself a bit more.
“You did, though!” Anne puts in. “I remember.”
My mother gulps her wine. Her face looks a shade whiter than it did a moment ago.
“Yes,” Anne continues pensively. “You’d had three glasses of wine before we even went to bed, which was odd. Whenever you drank in front of us, it was only half a glass at dinner. But that night you had three full ones. Papa was out. I think I was maybe eight years old—”
“Seven,” says Mama tonelessly.
“Which would make Sybil five at the time. You started telling us a story about the Barrow, about a man at the Barrow, a man who wanted a son. He had a daughter already, but he wanted a son, and he had heard that wishes made upon the Barrow sometimes came true. I don’t remember the rest of it, because Papa came home, and the two of you started to argue, so I took Sybil upstairs. ”
Mama is still pale, but she is calm, so very calm. “That was the week I found out your father was cheating. When he cheated the first time, that is. There were other times.”
“I thought the tinsmith—” I begin, but she cuts me off.
“The tinsmith was the last in a line of affairs.”
“I’m so sorry,” I murmur.
“I stayed with him, because what choice did I have?” Her lips wobble as she smiles. “I couldn’t see a way out, not without hurting you children even worse. I didn’t know where else to go. At least here they didn’t—they wouldn’t—” Her eyes find mine, and she bites her lip.
“Here, in this village, they were kinder about me and my oddities,” I finish.
“Yes. I was afraid that if I took you elsewhere, you’d be in more danger.”
I don’t know how to reply, or how to cope with the fact that I was one of the main reasons she stayed with an unfaithful man.
Mama rises, still wearing that shaky smile, her eyes wet. “I think I’ll go to bed now.”
Anne and I listen to the creak of her footsteps mounting the stairs.
“I hate our father for treating her that way,” I murmur. “I hate him for leaving us, and for hardly ever being around when he did live here. I was around twelve when he left, but I don’t have many vivid memories of him. Do you?”
Anne leans back in her chair. “I have some. Probably more than you do. He was different when I was little. More fun. I remember him joking, laughing, playing music, and telling stories. He was a bard, you know, and a very popular one. That’s why he traveled so much.
He performed stories and songs for many rich and powerful people, and he lived very well while doing it.
That piano we used to have was a gift from the queen. ”
“I remember Mama saying that when we sold it. The money paid for the roof repairs.”
“So it did. His lyre paid for the broken window, and the jeweled vest took care of the broken pipe in the kitchen.”
“He did leave that chest of coins for us, too,” I muse.
“All his savings from years of performances,” Anne agrees. “If he had to run off with another woman, at least he provided something for us to live on. It was oddly unselfish of him, if you ask me. But maybe it was his way of proving that he did love us, even if he couldn’t love us enough to stay.”
“Rotten bastard,” I say, and we both giggle, even though it isn’t funny.
“I’m going to bed, too,” my sister announces. “Do you want me to help you upstairs?”
“You’re a bit tipsy and so am I. That, along with my injured ankle, makes going upstairs a very bad idea.”
“You’re probably right. You’ll sleep down here then?”
“Yes. I’m quite comfortable.”
“See you in the morning.” She drapes another blanket over me and blows out the candle before going upstairs. I pull the blanket close to my chin and ponder some of her last words.
Oddly unselfish of him, if you ask me.
Why would a careless man like my father, one who adored rich living, leave his money behind and run off with a woman like the tinsmith?
My mother once described her to us as an “impoverished little fool with a cheap kind of prettiness.” If the tinsmith had no money, wouldn’t Papa have needed his savings in order to start a new life with her?
And why leave behind the piano gifted to him by the queen herself?
Why not at least send someone to fetch it once he got settled in his next home?
Why abandon his lyre, his notebooks, and most of his wardrobe?
By my mother’s account, he left home with his leather travel bag, a few clothes and necessities, and his favorite pipe. Nothing else.
Over the years, Mama has sold or given away everything that belonged to him… almost as if he were dead.
Wine and weariness overcome me before I can take that line of thought very far. When I wake the next morning, the evening’s conversation is an unpleasant smudge in the back of my mind.
That afternoon, with Anne’s help and the support of the crutches and the brace, I manage to wash up, dress for the dinner party, and do my hair.
“You should stay home and rest,” Mama advises. “Otherwise you’ll be in pain most of the night.”
“Pain doesn’t matter if I can see him,” I tell her.
Her eyebrows lift. “Oh.”
I avoid her gaze, busying myself by weaving ribbons into the ankle brace to make it slightly more attractive.
“Sybil, I know he’s very charming and wealthy,” Mama ventures. “But we barely know anything about him.”
“We know that he’s kind and strong and clever,” I retort. “He wants to take care of me, and I intend to let him.”
“Does he know?” she says pointedly.
“About the summoning issue? No, he doesn’t.”
“You should tell him. If you don’t, you’ll be entering the relationship on false pretenses.”
“Secrets can be safeguards,” I tell her.
Mama shakes her head, but instead of replying, she heads upstairs to do her hair before the carriage arrives.
We’re all wearing the same dresses we wore to the last dinner.
There’s no use pretending we’re wealthy enough to purchase whole new ones, but we’ve changed the trimmings a bit, and my sister and I fashioned autumn leaves out of cloth scraps and added them in colorful swirls to the waists, busts, and skirts of the gowns.
The effect is quite lovely, and it makes the dresses look different enough that we won’t be too embarrassed to wear them twice.
This week, the dinner tables are set up in the very barn where the orgy occurred, but it’s unrecognizable as the same place. Gauzy gold curtains and sparkling strings of beads cloak the walls, and crystals drip from the rustic ceiling.
Over the original flooring, new boards have been laid—but they aren’t simply boards, they’re paintings.
Beresford has carpeted the entire floor of the barn with paintings of flowers, leaves, faeries, caverns, and waterfalls.
We are literally walking—or in my case, hobbling—over works of art.
I don’t know where the art came from, whether he painted the pieces himself or purchased them.
They seem to be protected by a hard coating so they won’t be damaged by the impact of shoes and boots.
Still, it feels strange, almost disrespectful, to walk upon such beauty.
I was carried to the barn by a brawny footman, but I insisted on using my crutches and entering the barn myself. Beresford spots me immediately, and we have a silent, distant conversation despite the crowd of guests between us.
He raises an eyebrow and gives me a rebuking look because I didn’t let the footman carry me in.
I tilt my head saucily, setting my jaw. I like to do things myself when I can.
He rolls his eyes a little, the corner of his beard twitching as he gives me a smile that’s half indulgent, half admiring.
Then he nods toward the head of the central table, where there are two large chairs draped in white fur flecked with ebony.
One of the chairs has a blue cushion, and the other a scarlet one.
With a questioning look, I jerk my head toward the scarlet seat, and he nods in confirmation.
That’s my chair. I’ll be sitting at the head of the main table, right beside him. By placing me there, he’s making a statement. Other women can continue to vie for his attention if they wish, but he has made his choice, and it’s me.