Chapter 11
Lady Perdita, wife of the Earl of Hythe, sat at her dressing table in the firelight, for evening had long since come in.
Her hedgehog scuttled across the floor, picked an apple piece from a painted blue porcelain plate, and shoved it into its mouth.
The dear little creature chewed quite delicately but with great pleasure.
It was but one of the creatures Phoebe’s mother was always saving. Animals loved her mother. Often, the house was full of woodland birds, foxes, moles, and cats.
Phoebe smiled from her seated place on the sumptuous canopied bed at the center of the beautifully decorated bedchamber, with its great crackling fire, glowing candles, and the scent of juniper berries wafting from the bows tucked over the windows. How could she not?
Her mother was the most beautiful of souls, and as her mother sat before the dressing table, taking up bits of mistletoe and decorating them with red ribbon, turning the pieces into balls so that they could hang them from every foreseeable doorway, Phoebe ached to ask her mother the most important of questions.
She ached for her mother to tell her that all would be all right, but she did not.
Perdita sat with the candlelight dancing against her pitch-black hair and was silent, still, working with nimble fingers.
The hedgehog scuttled towards her, and her mother smiled, bent down, picked up the little creature, and put it into her lap. “Happy now?” she whispered.
Happy, Phoebe thought.
Was anyone ever truly happy? Could they be?
Of course, it was really a ridiculous thing to think.
Happiness was like any emotion; it came and went.
Her family had taught her well enough. But what if it eluded her in the future?
She’d been happy so many times, but what if this Christmas was the first of a range of disappointments and what if, because of this disappointment, happiness escaped her?
“I can feel it, you know,” her mother said at last.
“What, Mama?” she asked, leaning back on the soft bed.
“Your distress.”
She let out a half laugh.
She wasn’t at all surprised. Her mother didn’t need words to understand people.
Her mother simply drank it all in. She could simply sense a person’s state.
And people and animals adored her. Phoebe had always felt herself to be incredibly lucky to be Perdita’s daughter because from the time that she was little, she had always felt totally safe, totally protected, and full of wonder.
Her mother had taken her by her hand and slipped out into the woods and showed her a world awaiting them that most would never see: the little bugs that scurried through the dirt and wound their ways up the bark of the ancient trees, the birds that sang quietly in the branches, the squirrels that lived within the trunks, and, of course, the foxes, which darted through the snow of winter looking for food.
Her mother was one with the natural world. It was a rare gift, and she had inherited some of it. Animals loved her. She’d befriended many a horse, dog, and cat.
But she did not quite have the same intensity as her mama. Her family protected Perdita, not because there was anything wrong with her or because she was weak, but because she was so unusual, and they wanted her to be free.
“Phoebe,” her mother prompted, “out with it.”
“I think I might have made a terrible mistake.”
“Oh, those don’t exist, my dear,” Perdita said, turning slowly in her chair, stroking the hedgehog ever so slightly, and then letting him go back down to the floor.
Her current cat, Marigold, darted into the room, took one look at the hedgehog, and then rolled onto her back, offering up her fluffy yellow belly to nest in.
The hedgehog let out a peep of delight, crossed to it, and burrowed into the cat’s fluffy fur. Animals, which should have been natural enemies in Perdita’s presence, somehow were always friends.
Phoebe wondered if she brought her mother downstairs whether she might be able to soften the duke. It was an odd thought, but he needed softening, and she didn’t think it was the softening of a lover.
Something had gone terribly wrong with his parents, something that wasn’t obvious.
Her throat tightened. She hated to have to say what she had come to say, but she knew her mother wouldn’t judge her.
“Mama, I’ve given my heart to someone who doesn’t actually want it.”
Her mother studied her for a moment. “Have you already given it, my dear?”
“Yes,” she whispered, tears filling her eyes, stunned by her sudden emotion. “I didn’t mean to. Marriage and love was my plan. I knew someone was coming and that when he did, I would give him my heart. He came and I have… And it is not at all like I thought it would be.”
“Just as all us Briarwoods learn, my dear. Each of us must go through it, the finding of the one, the realizing it is a path full of challenges and pain,” her mother assured gently, crossing to her and sitting on the bed.
She took Pheobe’s hand in hers, cradling it like she had when she was a little girl.
Then she said, “You must not say you’ve made a terrible mistake.
You are like me, like all Briarwoods. We know our mate when we see them because we don’t try to deny the obvious like most people do.
People like to dress everything up with too many words.
They lie with words, but we know the truth.
Our bodies can’t lie to us, and our hearts can’t lie to us; only our tongues dare do that.
If you felt he was the one for you, then there is no mistake. And you must not give up.”
She nodded, savoring her mother’s gentle touch, yet still feeling at a loss. “He’s not like us, Mama, at least not outwardly.”
“How wonderful,” her mother exclaimed. “Would you really want to marry someone exactly like you?”
“No, Mama, but what if he doesn’t…?”
“What?” her mother urged.
She looked away, more tears threatening. “What if he can’t…?”
Her mother stroked her cheek and cradled her face with her palm. “My darling Phoebe, speak your fear.”
“What if he can’t love me?”
Her mother stared deep into her eyes, an old wisdom there, a deeper understanding. “Love takes many forms, my darling. Have you ever thought about that? Are you afraid that he won’t be able to love you the way you wish to be loved? Because that doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you.”
Her mother lowered her hand back to the bed and waited.
She frowned, contemplating her mother’s words. “Perhaps, but isn’t that the point? To be loved in the way we need?”
Her mother laughed softly. “I don’t think that’s the point at all.
I think the point is to be the ones who love.
Now, I don’t think that we should allow ourselves to be taken advantage of or to be hurt, but we often forget love is an action.
All you can control, my dear, is how you act.
You can control nothing about him, you know.
You can tell him what you like, you can tell him what you don’t, and see what he does with that.
And I’m not telling you that you should love him unconditionally; that is a road that leads to great danger.
But if you like him so very well, you should not talk like this.
You should not be afraid that he won’t be able to be what you want.
He will never be that. He will be himself, just as you know.
The questions is… Is that what you truly want? ”
“But I don’t think he even knows who he is.”
“Do you know who he is?” her mother asked softly.
She swallowed. “Yes, I think I do.”
“And who is that?” her mother queried, a smile playing at her lips.
Phoebe sucked in a breath as Oliver came to mind, and her heart danced. “His spirit is beautiful. Inside of him, his heart, it is so, so wounded, and I wish I could heal that wound.”
Her mother shook her head. “Only he can do that. It is something that we are all taught. Your grandmother’s very clear about that.
But let me explain something to you, my dear.
There are wounds that are very deep. I’ve seen it happen many times with animals.
They are hurt by other animals or by humans, and then they never trust again.
They look at everything around them and all they see are enemies.
They cannot ever give themself over to care again because they are far too afraid of being hurt once more.
If the man you love is like that, you’re right; it will be very hard and you may be very disappointed.
But I would urge you to do this one thing. ”
“What?” she asked.
“Do not anticipate him being wounded and unable to heal because he will then likely do what you anticipate.” Her mother sat a little straighter and looked over at her hedgehog, who was happily eating another piece of apple as if he was the luckiest fellow in the world.
“You see, when an animal comes to me and it’s been hurt, I never ever try to make it let me help it.
It is the worst possible thing I can do.
For it will thrash and wear itself out. Wait and see if he comes to you, my dear, to be helped, and then you will know what exactly lies ahead of you. Joy or pain.”
It was not the answer that she wanted from her mother the few days before Christmas, but it would have to do.
Her mother smiled at her again. “Here, take this.” She handed her the mistletoe. “Perhaps it will come in handy. And if he’s too troublesome, of course, your cousins and your brother will know what to do.”
Phoebe took the mistletoe and let out a laugh, even as her eyes stung with tears.
Her mother pulled her into an embrace and whispered, “Do not be afraid of the tears, my dear, because often on the other side of pain, oh, my love, is the most glorious of things.”
And then her mother stood, crossed to Marigold, picked the cat up, and went to look out the window, to look out at the stars, to look out, as Phoebe often thought, at the wild world that her soul had come from and that her soul would one day return to.
Phoebe slipped away, leaving her mother to her thoughts, and she hoped that her mother was right, that on the other side of this pain would be a beauty beyond compare.