Chapter Eight #3
Each time I tried to get close, she bated, an awful eruption of feathers, and then would end up upside down.
I felt like a monster in her eyes. I wanted her to trust me so badly.
I was exhausted. She was exhausted. But at some point past midnight on the first day, I got her to eat some raw meat off my fist.
Let me just say this: A hawk knows. I had spent years flying birds with Henry, and, by his side, had already trained two.
The falcons understand everything you’re thinking.
And to train a hawk, you must keep your thoughts neutral.
Blank. Wooing my mind again and again into a state of unconsciousness in that dark room was the most soothing thing I could do for myself.
Mathilde, and Rosie, too, would come and sit with me.
Mathilde brought me food. Rosie would lay her head in my lap.
Live, live, live, live, live, the darkness told me.
It was what we had needed all along during those early weeks of mourning: to disappear.
Lucy, slowly, learned to trust me. On the second day, she accepted some raw liver.
On the third, she let me take her out for a walk.
And on the fourth, she willingly hopped onto my glove.
I stared at the tiny, downy feathers on the bridge of her nose.
In that hop, there was life. Hers, mine, all of ours.
For it is only in being gone that you are able to determine you have something to come back to.
We—the bird, my daughters, and I—continued to reside for a short time on the leased estate Henry’s family paid for.
There was, ultimately, a question of what to do with us: the burden of a daughter-in-law they had never wanted; the future of two fatherless grandchildren; the expense of keeping us well shod and well fed.
By this time, the Tremaines’ fortunes had begun to shift.
They’d slowly lost favor at court, and with it the contracts and arrangements that had once overfilled their coffers.
About seven months after Henry died, Henry’s father came to the house.
He did not visit often, and I dutifully lined the girls up so their grandfather could inspect them.
But he avoided their eyes and motioned for me to follow him into my own drawing room.
I gave Mathilde a reassuring nod and squeezed Rosie’s hand and sent them upstairs.
Errol had positioned himself in an upholstered chair in front of the fire, which was lit, though it burned low. I had an ominous feeling about the conversation he intended to have, so I took my time adding a log to the hearth.
He did not wait for me to settle into the opposite chair to begin speaking, and so I was still wiping the bark from my hands when he said: “I’ve arranged for the children to be married.”
I stopped and stared at him, astonished. “To whom?”
He cleared his throat and looked into the fire. “As their guardian, it is my job to see them taken care of, and we cannot support you three forever.”
I blinked. Were we nothing more than a drain on resources?
Could he not manage to see his own flesh and blood in the granddaughters who looked so much like his son?
Finally, I managed: “Henry has not been dead a year. They are seven and eight years old!” My voice was ratcheting up, and I lowered it, suddenly nervous the girls would hear. I repeated: “To whom?”
Still, he stared into the fire. “A pair of brothers.”
“Brothers,” I echoed, feeling weak.
“Your girls will be close to one another. They’re not of marrying age yet, but they will be soon enough.”
Both had had birthdays since Henry passed. Both were still children. “They are seven and eight years old,” I repeated, in a hiss. I could feel my body tightening, the muscles that wrapped my ribs so tense I began to ache.
Finally, Errol turned to me, looking not apologetic, but withdrawn. Certain. “They will move soon—so they can get used to the new locale.”
“New—” I sputtered. “You cannot—”
“They’ll leave in the spring, when the ice has melted and the ship can make its way. I’ve made all the arrangements.”
“They?” I repeated.
Errol looked at me plainly, answering the question I hadn’t been able to put into words. “The girls’ marriage settlements do not provide for you.”
“I am their mother!”
“Your father did not negotiate a jointure when you married—and is not here to support you in your widowhood. Dower rights might entitle you to land, but you well know the only land Henry had was the land I leased to him. There is no one to provide for you if you go with the girls—and they’re quite lucky we were able to negotiate any marriage given the circumstances.
I’ve provided the dowries, but they are not enough to include a stray mother.
You’ll remain here.” He looked around. “Under my roof.”
I was completely powerless, with little in my arsenal to contradict such bleak facts. “Sir, please.” I felt my eyes fill with tears and willed them away, to no avail. “Could we not wait until they are a little older?”
“You should be grateful.” Errol stood, signaling the conversation was over. However he felt, whatever he thought, the deal, to him, was as good as done. “I do not believe the brothers are keen to wait.”
“Sir!” I cried out, and then clapped a hand over my mouth, both to quiet myself and in horror.
My daughters would need to marry, but I couldn’t stomach it at their age, couldn’t stomach the thought of the distance.
Rosie still made up songs that she sang under her breath.
Mathilde slept with a wooden animal she’d carried around for years.
I wanted to tell Errol about all these little facts, but he stared at the fire impassively.
Unflinchingly. The flames had grown high, and I could feel their heat on my face.
It took but an instant: I resolved to remarry. It was the only way to protect them.