Chapter 34
“Family meeting,” Comfort’s voice rang sharp through the door. “Get down to the drawing room now.”
Her tone had that no-nonsense edge I’d come to associate with dreadful news.
I dragged myself down the stairs, my slippers whispering against the worn carpet, and found Cynthia curled into an armchair.
She looked impossibly small, knees pulled to her chest, her face red and blotchy from crying.
It was as if grief had hollowed her out and left only a few broken fragments behind.
I knew that look. I’d worn it myself after Father died, when it felt like breathing itself was impossible.
But for Cynthia, it had to be far worse.
At least when my father died, I’d still had Mother and Comfort with me to remember him.
Cynthia had no family besides us left now, and we hadn’t known her all that long.
She had to feel worse than I ever had. The thought twisted painfully in my chest.
I slipped into the kitchen, poured a steaming cup of tea, and carried it back to the drawing room.
I set it on the side table beside Cynthia, but she didn’t stir.
Either she hadn’t noticed, or she was too buried in sorrow to care.
I didn’t push. I remembered all too well how, in grief, even kindness could feel unbearable.
Comfort returned with Mother in tow, practically marching her into the room. Mother sank onto the settee, almost as pale and fragile as Cynthia, her eyes darting nervously around as Comfort planted herself before the fire, arms crossed like a general before her troops.
“We’re out of money,” Comfort declared. There was no preamble or cushioning to soften the blow. Just heavy words that struck us one after another like physical blows.
Mother flinched, her lips parting in a soundless gasp. Cynthia didn’t react at all. She didn’t even blink. She was still somewhere else, lost in her grief.
“Is everything gone?” My own voice surprised me, small but steady.
“Almost everything,” Comfort replied, her tone steely and unyielding.
“Algernon’s funeral and settling his debts drained us.
Paying the doctor, the priest, the innkeeper—everything is gone now.
And without an income, our savings have evaporated.
I dismissed the housekeeper this morning.
We can’t afford her anymore. If we want to survive, we must earn money. ”
“Us? Find work?” Mother echoed, as if she was testing out the sound of the words.
“Yes.” Comfort answered harshly. I was jolted back to our other family meeting she had called, when Comfort had told us we had no choice but to leave the castle and begin again.
I remembered how terrifying it had been then.
This moment felt very similar. The ground may as well have opened beneath us, and Comfort was the only one brave enough to map a way forward.
Her gaze landed on me. “Truly, you’re the only one bringing in income now. Can you expand your translating work?”
I hesitated. “Perhaps. Merchants in town don’t pay much, but…I can try.”
“Something is better than nothing.” She pivoted. “Mother? Your ideas?”
Mother faltered, shaking her head. “I don’t know. I’ve never worked a job.”
My mind scrambled. What could Mother do? She was talented, but not in things that were profitable. She could dance, sing, and do calligraphy. She was incredible at hosting grand parties no one here could afford. Useless—unless…
“Wait.” The answer suddenly seemed obvious, as if my mind had been working over the problem for the last several weeks, even since Comfort had confided in me that our finances were becoming critically low. “Mother, you and Comfort could open a finishing school.”
Comfort’s eyes lit up immediately. “Yes! Brilliant.”
“Teach?” Mother mused, her voice tinged with curiosity. “It’s certainly a good suggestion. But is there a market for it here?”
“Think about it,” Comfort said enthusiastically. “Village girls here are desperate for advantageous marriages, but they don’t know etiquette from elbow grease. We could teach them. Fashion, manners, dancing, music. It’s perfect.”
Images flashed in my mind, from the garish dresses at Mother and Algernon’s engagement party to the tailor’s window filled with horrors stitched in fabric. “You could help them sew, style hair, and host parties to showcase their progress.”
Mother’s lips parted, slow wonder dawning. “I think I could do that.”
Comfort was already planning aloud. “We can put together different classes and families can pay monthly. We can give lessons in calligraphy, dance, etiquette, and a hundred other things. We’ll host recitals and showcase dinners—”
She turned suddenly toward Cynthia. “And you? What will you contribute?”
The words sliced through the air. Cynthia jerked her head up, her face streaked and eyes glassy with grief. “What will I do?” she echoed, voice barely a whisper.
“Yes,” Comfort said firmly. “We each have to carry weight. There’s no other way.”
Cynthia curled deeper into the armchair, pulling her blanket up to her chin. “I don’t know. I don’t have any skills.”
“Comfort, dear,” Mother interjected gently. “Cynthia doesn’t need to do anything right now. Give her time.”
“Time won’t put food on the table,” Comfort snapped. “We have enough to survive maybe three weeks. After that, nothing. Do you want to starve?”
The room went cold and silent.
“Cynthia doesn’t have to find a job,” I blurted, desperate to shield her. She was drowning already; how could Comfort demand that she do any more than survive? “She could…keep house for us.” I held my breath, praying she would agree.
To my relief, Comfort appeared to consider, tapping her chin. “It’s a possibility.”
“It’s more than possible,” I pressed, anxious to keep Comfort thinking positively about any option that would keep Cynthia protected from the world a little while longer.
“No matter what we do, we’ll still have to eat and rooms still need to be cleaned.
Cynthia is a marvelous cook and she kept house for her father for years.
She’d free us up to focus on lessons and teaching and translating. ”
Silence stretched. Comfort tilted her head from side to side. “But financially…”
“It makes good financial sense,” I cut in. “Those jobs need done anyway, and if Cynthia doesn’t do it, we will have to hire someone or else survive off your cooking for the time being. How are your baking skills?”
That did it. Comfort nodded. “Cynthia can do the cooking and cleaning instead of finding a job.”
Mother smiled faintly. “Cynthia, dear? What do you think?”
Cynthia just shrugged, hollow and wordless.
“I’ll take that as agreement,” Comfort said briskly, already turning back to Mother. “We have no time to lose.”
Apparently, our dire straits and her desire to care for us and for Algernon’s daughter made her snap out of her all-consuming grief. She and Comfort swept from the room, talking quickly and already brainstorming lessons for the upcoming school and discussing ways to attract students.
I stayed behind with Cynthia.
She was still in the chair, shoulders trembling and her face twisted in misery.
My heart cracked. When I translated, it was like I was holding on to a bit of Father, a piece of the happy life we had had together.
I hoped it would be similar for Cynthia when she cooked again.
Would she find joy in continuing the hobby she had developed with her father when he was alive?
Or was it too soon? Undoubtedly so, but there seemed to be no other option.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I was only trying to make it easier for you. I remember when my father died. I know how you feel.”
“You have no idea how I feel,” she said shakily, her voice edged with venom.
“And you won’t be alone. I’ll help,” I offered softly. “If you teach me to cook, I’ll do it with you whenever I can. You won’t have to do any more than you absolutely have to, okay?”
Her head snapped up, eyes blazing wet. “I don’t need your pity.”
The words stung, but I let them slide past me. Grief spoke in daggers. I knew from experience.
“Just…let me know how I can help.”
“I don’t need your help either!” she flared, voice breaking. “I can manage fine on my own.”
I ignored that as well.
Once, when Comfort and I were young, we had found a puppy, trapped in a thorn bush. It had snarled and snapped when we tried to free it, too afraid and in too much pain to see that we meant no harm. Cynthia was that puppy now. She was hurting, furious at the world, and unready for help.
Everyone grieved in their own time and in their own way. I rose quietly, leaving her to the privacy of her tears. Behind me, her sobs filled the hollow silence of the room.