Chapter 21
Recovery came in fragments, almost like shards of broken glass being carefully gathered and pieced back together after being shattered.
My body was healing, yes, but so was my spirit, though the latter moved at a slower, more reluctant pace and still felt fragile.
The overwhelming, unbearable grief of losing Father had dulled into a quieter, hollow ache that throbbed but no longer consumed every breath.
I began to mimic Mother and take short walks outside the manor.
The first time, the air came as a shock to my system, carrying the scent of damp earth and tree sap with it.
How had I never noticed how still and musty the air inside was in comparison?
The ground gave softly underfoot, cushioned by pine needles, and the forest chatter welcomed me, from the scolding cries of squirrels to the warble of unseen birds.
Each step loosened the knot inside me. The outdoors was no longer just landscape; it was balm, and I drank it in greedily.
Evenings found me no longer cloistered in my bedroom but curled in the sitting room with Mother and Comfort, firelight painting the walls in flickering gold as Comfort delivered the freshest batch of gossip from town.
Other days, Mother would press a new book into my hands, written in one of the languages I’d studied, and say that Algernon had brought it back from one of his travels.
My heart lifted each time I ran my fingers over the books, and with each passing day, I began to practice reading, writing, and speaking those languages again.
Perhaps my linguistic abilities wouldn’t be completely lost.
Mother sat in her rocker during our evening chats, needles clicking rhythmically, lace spilling delicate and endless from her hands.
Whenever Comfort pressed her for details about the increasing amounts of time she was spending with Algernon, I noticed the faintest bloom of color in Mother’s cheeks.
It was the same blush I remembered from my childhood when Father would tease her.
She spoke of carriage rides through the mountains and picnics by waterfalls, her voice softer than usual.
Then one evening, without preamble, she laid her knitting down and said, “Algernon asked me to marry him.”
She always was so soft-spoken and mild-mannered that this declaration didn’t seem to register at first.
For a breath, there was complete silence. Then Comfort squealed so loudly I jumped. She flung herself at Mother, hugging her so tightly that her needles clattered to the floor. “Oh, Mother, I knew it! I just knew it!” she cried.
I sat stunned. My mind balked at her words.
Algernon had proposed? Mother wanted to get remarried?
I would have a stepfather. It didn’t fit with the memory I’d carefully guarded of Father, solid and steady, as the center of our family.
How had I missed this? I knew Mother and Algernon were friends and had been spending time together, but I had assumed Mother was still grieving Father’s death just as I was.
“What…what did you tell him?” My voice sounded strange, distant to my own ears.
Mother smiled softly. “I told him I would talk with you girls first. We are a family…a package deal.”
Comfort practically vibrated with joy. “Say yes, Mother! Please! We’ll plan the most beautiful wedding. In the garden—oh, Truly, imagine! You and Cynthia and I will all be bridesmaids and we could release doves into the sky at the end… We get another sister!”
Her words blurred into a stream I couldn’t catch, something about guests, invitations, and living arrangements, but it all became a monotonous buzz.
My head pounded. Mother was marrying again.
Another man would step into Father’s place and sit at our table where Father should have been.
Did no one else feel his absence like I did?
Did no one else miss him as fiercely? If we were a package deal as Mother claimed, why hadn’t a word of this been breathed to me before now? Did my opinion count for nothing?
A cruel whisper at the back of my mind stirred. You’re the one who shut yourself away, I told myself. You can’t fault them for moving forward.
I forced my lips into a smile, though it felt brittle. “I want you to be happy, Mother.” I hugged her and escaped the room as quickly as possible, leaving Comfort to go on with wedding preparations talk.
The following weeks became a flurry of preparations.
Cake samples filled the pantry; stacks of envelopes awaited my careful handwriting; bolts of fabric spilled across the sewing table where Mother’s gown began to take shape.
I threw myself into the work, grateful for the busyness.
Grief and resentment had no room to claw at me when my hands were full of lace and ink.
Cynthia and Algernon became nightly fixtures at supper, their laughter seeping under my door even while I refused to join them, but avoiding them was becoming more difficult day by day.
I knew I had to meet them, but the longer I hid, the harder it became to imagine an introduction.
For Mother’s sake, I wanted our first meeting to go well, but my embarrassment about my face kept me paralyzed by fear.
The wedding was only a month away. I knew I needed to greet Cynthia and her father soon. But with each passing day, it felt like it was now too late to meet them. What had Mother and Comfort told them about me?
One evening, as the three of us sat by the fire, painstakingly pressing wax seals on invitations, I finally asked, “What do Cynthia and Algernon know about me?”
Comfort glanced up, candlelight glinting in her eyes. “That you’re brilliant with languages, that you enjoy horseback riding, and that you were very close with Father.”
“That isn’t what I meant,” I whispered.
Mother set down her seal and met my gaze with warm understanding. “Algernon knows what happened in Avivia. He asked when I told him how Cuthbert died. I did ask him not to tell Cynthia, though. I thought that story was yours to share, if ever you wish to.”
Comfort squeezed my knee. “I didn’t say anything to either of them. That is a personal experience and isn’t my story to tell. Besides, it doesn’t matter what someone looks like, but who they are as a person. They will understand that.”
My throat tightened. They had been so gentle with me, carrying me through when I couldn’t carry myself. “Thank you,” I managed, voice trembling.
The next afternoon, after Comfort returned from town, I found a parcel waiting at my door: a velvet bag filled with powders and creams, brushes with carved handles, and a delicate hand mirror. A card was tucked inside, written in Comfort’s bold, looping script:
To help you see the beauty I already see in you. I miss your confidence.
I pressed the mirror to my chest, and for the first time in months, the ache in me felt edged with something else, something dangerously close to hope.