Chapter 30
For weeks, Cynthia had made herself scarce and mostly kept to herself so we rarely crossed paths.
But today, the day of the wedding, duty had rooted her in place, and she busied herself alongside Comfort and me as we arranged flowers, draped linens over tables, and set out chairs.
She was different this morning—sweeter, almost determinedly so.
“That dress looks lovely on you,” she told me, her voice just a touch too bright. To Comfort, she added, “And your hair suits you perfectly.”
The forced compliments felt as stiff as pressed parchment, but I accepted them with gratitude. She was making an effort, and I could appreciate that.
Mother and Algernon’s wedding was to take place atop the hill just beyond our garden, where the stone steps wound upward like a stairway to the heavens.
We girls lifted our skirts and climbed carefully, breath puffing in the cool air.
It was then that I noticed Cynthia’s shoe peeking out from beneath her gown.
“Your feet are so tiny!” I exclaimed, stopping on the steps.
Her slippers looked like they’d been made for a child. They were just as dainty and impossibly delicate as the rest of Cynthia.
“Father always said small feet are a blessing,” she replied, an edge of pride creeping into her voice. “A clumsy partner may trample the floor, but he’ll never trample you.”
I resumed climbing the steps, even as I let out a quick laugh and thought of Curtis and the countless times he had flattened my toes mid-dance, and heat crept into my cheeks.
My feet, in their comfortable, wide-toed leather shoes, suddenly felt enormous in comparison.
I dropped my skirts quickly at the top of the stairs to conceal my own foot size.
The ceremony itself was just as Mother had claimed that she wanted.
It was quiet, simple, and beautiful. There was no grand procession and were almost no guests.
The priest gave a short speech about love and unity and until death do they part, and they were pronounced husband and wife.
Having never been to a wedding before, I had imagined it would be hours of speeches and a lengthy ceremony, but it felt like it passed quickly and with no fuss at all.
When Mother and Algernon exchanged rings, the sun caught the bands, making them sparkle, and the small audience broke into applause.
I clapped along with everyone else, heart squeezing at the sight of Mother’s smile, so radiant it seemed to erase years of sorrow from her face.
The reception immediately afterward was likewise very small.
Algernon and Cynthia didn’t have any family left, though a few friends and work colleagues had come.
I mingled among them, weaving between clusters of neighbors and well-wishers.
One guest caught my attention immediately: a woman so ancient she seemed carved from parchment, her powdered hair trembling with each step.
When we were introduced, she took my hand in both of hers, her skin cool and thin, and told me that she used to watch Algernon when he was young.
“You must tell me,” I asked her, “what was Algernon like as a boy?”
Her laugh was like a creak of old timbers. “Oh, an adventurous lad, forever into mischief. I was always turning frogs and snakes out of his pockets.”
I laughed, imagining young Algernon with wind-swept hair, a toad squirming in his coat as he raced down the lane. It sounded like something Curtis would have done.
Then her gaze shifted to me, sharp despite her age. “And your father? How long has it been since his passing?”
“A little more than a year,” I said softly.
Her ancient eyes studied me, searching. “You miss him very much.”
“Very much.”
She squeezed my hand. “Then live in a way that would make him proud.”
Her words struck like a bell in my chest. Comfort and Mother had told me before that Father would want us to go on living, but hearing it from this stranger—someone who had seen so many lives come and go—felt different.
Would Father be proud of me now? Would he be proud of the girl who spent her days hiding in her room, shutting herself away from laughter and light?
No. He wouldn’t. And neither would I.
“I will,” I promised her.
As the day wound down, Mother and Algernon prepared to leave for their week-long honeymoon.
We showered them with handfuls of white rice as they dashed to their carriage, laughing as the grains pattered against their clothes and hair.
“Goodbye! Goodbye!” we called, waving until the white carriage rolled out of sight.
Once the last guest had left, Comfort, Cynthia, and I cleared the garden. We stacked chairs, tucked away linens, plucked stray petals from the grass, and—naturally—finished off the leftover cake.
At one point, Comfort and I found ourselves alone in the storage room, balancing tables against the wall.
“Comfort?” I asked, brushing dust from my hands.
“Mm?”
“You told me once that it doesn’t matter what people look like. Do you really believe that?”
“Of course I do,” she said at once. “There are plenty of examples.”
“Like what?”
She frowned in thought, then snapped her fingers. “Bernard!”
I blinked. “Bernard?”
“The bard’s apprentice. Bernard the Bard, as we called him. Don’t you remember?”
The memory bloomed instantly. How could I have forgotten? Bernard had a booming laugh and endless wit. “I remember! He was hilarious and always knew how to make people feel good. I think he knew more jokes than Curtis and Father combined.”
“Exactly. And what did he look like?”
I hesitated. In truth, Bernard’s nose was too large, his teeth were a crooked jumble, his ears stuck out like shutters, and those warts…well, they were difficult to ignore. “He was…short, dark-haired, thin.”
“Not handsome,” Comfort supplied bluntly.
I shook my head.
“But who would you rather spend an evening with? Bernard or Hubert?”
That was no contest. “Bernard, of course.”
“Even though he was uglier than Hubert?”
“Yes.”
Comfort grinned triumphantly. “Exactly. Hubert is very tall and handsome, with his gleaming teeth and perfect hair, but he’s absolutely insufferable. He is a tedious, self-absorbed bore. People can’t bear being around him for more than five minutes.”
“Don’t hold back,” I teased. “Tell me what you really think.”
She laughed. “But everyone adored Bard. Once you knew him, you never paid much attention to his looks. He was just… Bernard. He is living proof that it isn’t appearances that matter. It’s who you are on the inside.”
That night, as I lay in bed, her words and the old woman’s echoed together in my mind, flowing over each other and wrapping around my heart, and I felt something change inside me. I didn’t want to keep hiding. I wanted to live, to laugh, to move forward.
And with that resolve burning in me, I closed my eyes. No longer would I hide away from the world. I would embrace it. I wanted to live my life in a way that would make Father proud.