2. Georgina #2
“That was different.” My mother waves a hand, dismissing two decades of arguments with a flutter of her fingers. “You were the eldest. You had responsibilities to the family name. Expectations. Giselle simply wants a pleasant hobby. There is nothing wrong with that.”
Nothing wrong with that? I spent my girlhood sneaking to the stables, hiding my riding from the woman sitting across from me, enduring lectures about propriety and duty every time she caught me smelling of stables.
And now Giselle wants to learn, and suddenly it’s a charming pursuit instead of an embarrassment.
“I see…” I set my teacup down because my hands are starting to shake and I refuse to let either of them notice. “Different rules for different daughters.”
“Different situations entirely.” My mother leans forward, her cup forgotten.
“You were always obsessed, Georgina. Riding consumed you. It was all you wanted, all you talked about, and I spent years trying to help you see that there was more to life than some… horses. Giselle simply wants to try something new. Surely you can appreciate the distinction.”
I can’t, actually. What I can appreciate is that my mother has spent my entire life telling me I loved the wrong thing, and now she’s praising my sister for wanting to love it instead.
“Maximillian could teach her.” My mother turns to me and smiles, apparently expecting my help with the arrangements. “He has all those horses, and surely he could spare an hour here and there. It would give Giselle proper instruction while she’s helping you.”
“Max has a championship season to prepare for.” I reach for the teapot, then set it back down. I’ve already used his schedule to excuse his absence once today. It feels worse the second time.
“An hour won’t derail his entire season.” My mother picks up a biscuit and examines it before setting it back on the plate. “And it would be good for the family, would it not? To have someone carrying on the tradition while you’re unable.”
She keeps saying it, keeps reminding everyone in the room that I’m the broken one, the absent one, the daughter who loved something too much and lost it anyway.
“If you want lessons, ask for lessons.” I turn to Giselle, making myself look at her instead of our mother. “But please don’t make me the reason.”
Her eyes drop to her lap.
For a moment I want to take it back, soften it until she can smile again. I know exactly how to make this easier for everyone.
I leave the words where they are.
***
Max comes in after dark, just as he promised. I hear him in the entry hall, hear the housekeeper telling him we are in the dining room, hear his footsteps approaching. My mother straightens in her chair and adjusts her pearls.
Giselle smooths her hair. I stay exactly where I am, watching the doorway.
He appears in it looking tired but genuinely pleased, and my chest loosens at the sight of him.
His shirt is wrinkled at the collar and there is a smudge on his sleeve, evidence of a day spent in the stables rather than behind a desk.
He finds me first, his eyes warming when they land on my face, and he crosses to me before acknowledging anyone else.
“Hey, princess.” He bends to kiss me, his hand coming up to cup my jaw, and the kiss lingers just long enough to feel like a promise. “Sorry I’m late. The young gray decided today was the day to test every boundary we’ve established.”
“Did he win?” I lean into his touch, taking what comfort I can from this small moment of being chosen first.
“He thinks he did.” Max straightens and turns to greet my mother and sister, his hand sliding down to rest on my shoulder. “Isadora. Giselle. Welcome. I hope the drive wasn’t too tedious.”
“Quite comfortable, thank you.” My mother offers her cheek, and Max bends to kiss it with the practiced ease of a man who has spent years navigating difficult relatives. “Though I do wish you could have been here to greet us properly.”
“Training waits for no one, I’m afraid.” Max pulls out the empty chair beside me and settles into it, his knee finding mine under the table. “Not even family.”
The first course arrives, and for a few minutes the conversation stays on safe ground.
The drive from my mother’s estate. The weather.
The state of the roads. Max serves himself and then reaches across to add more vegetables to my plate, a small gesture he’s done a thousand times that somehow still makes me feel seen.
“Georgina tells me you’re very busy with the season.” My mother cuts her fish into precise bites. “I do hope you’re not neglecting her entirely.”
I see Max’s hand tense where it rests near his glass.
Here it comes. The implication that he’s failing me, delivered with just enough plausible concern to make arguing seem defensive.
“Elle is my priority.” He turns toward her, leaving his wine untouched. “The season demands time, but she knows where she stands.”
“Does she?” My mother sets down her fork. “Because from what I can see, she’s been alone in this enormous house for months, barely leaving, seeing no one. That doesn’t sound like a woman who feels prioritized.”
“Mother.” I put down my fork, my appetite gone. Max turns toward her before I can say anything else.
“Georgina is healing in her own time.” His hand leaves his glass and covers mine on the table, warm and steady.
“She doesn’t need a schedule for it, or an audience, or anyone telling her she’s doing it wrong.
What she needs is patience, and space, and people who trust her to know what she’s ready for. ”
The words land in the quiet dining room, and I feel them settle somewhere in my chest. He’s defending me. Not fixing anything, not promising more than he can give, just telling my mother plainly that she doesn’t get to decide how I recover.
Isadora’s lips thin, but she picks up her fork again without responding.
I turn my hand beneath his and hold on. He glances at me, and I let him see the gratitude on my face. I’ve spent so many years trying to explain myself to my mother that hearing someone tell her to stop feels almost indecent.