Her cry brings Mamma into the hall. At the sight of her tremulous smile, I feel happy and sad all at the same time. After a moment's hesitation, she hugs me and I hug her back. I'm overwhelmed. I can't remember her ever showing me such affection.
I sent a telegram to warn them of my arrival, but of course Mamma thinks I've come from the Woodvilles. She asks anxiously, "Is anything wrong that you've come away so suddenly?"
"No, Mamma, not at all." I don't want to blurt everything out at once. I want to find out how she is, first.
In the parlour, I'm introduced to her companion, Mrs. Grey, a pleasant-faced woman—a widow, I guess, as she's wearing the slate-grey silk of half-mourning. Tactfully she withdraws after a while, leaving us alone.
I try to fend Mamma off but it's no good. She asks so many questions, in the end I have to tell her where I've been for the last eight months, trying to keep my account brief and sparing her the worst details. When it comes to Eliza, I just refer to her "kindness" and hope my face isn't giving too much away.
I can't avoid telling Mamma that Aunt Phyllis was responsible. Mamma's shocked, of course, but not as much as I was. As if it just confirms the low opinion she has of her sister-in-law...
The worst thing is telling her about Tom.
She turns pale and stares at me. "Are you sure? Tom did that?"
I feel very sorry for her. It must be so hard for her to accept the truth about her "darling boy."
When I tell her about Uncle Bertram's allowance, she just shakes her head.
"You don't seem very surprised, Mamma."
"Oh, my dear, your brother and money..." She sighs. "Ever since he went away to London ... he doesn't often write, as you know, but he always asks for more. I don't know what he does with it all."
I know, but of course I don't tell her.
"It's not as if we didn't give him a generous allowance, and then of course, when Edward died..." She trails off.
"Yes?" I prompt her.
"Why, he left Tom all that money."
A stab of jealousy takes my breath away. Papa left Tom money? I'm desperate to know more about this. How much money? Why didn't Tom tell me? But Mamma is obviously lost in her thoughts. It doesn't seem the best moment to press her.
She sighs again. "But to think that he would do that to you. And all that business with the Woodvilles. What an elaborate pretence. I wrote to you there, you know."
"Tom must have made some arrangement with them. Didn't you wonder when you didn't receive a reply?"
"I was saddened, but I thought ... we parted on such bad terms..."
Remembering how I refused to speak to her, I feel ashamed. "I'm sorry for that, Mamma, but what you said hurt me."
"What I said?"
I frown. "Yes, you complained to Tom that I'd been neglecting you. I thought it was—unfair."
Putting her hand to her forehead, she says, "My dear, I never said that. I was grateful to you for looking after me so well when I was afraid I was a burden to you."
I stare at her. Another of Tom's lies! How could he let me misjudge Mamma and think so badly of her? And all along she was grateful...
Looking at her worn face, I'm moved to a new, unexpected tenderness. Perhaps I've always misjudged her. Perhaps she knew how hard it can be if you're not as others expect you to be. Maybe, what I took as criticism was her doing her best for me...
She regards me sadly. "I wasn't surprised when Tom said you were weary of it and wanted to go away."
I feel even more ashamed. That, at least, was true. But when I was desperate, I turned to her. I want her to know that.
"I did write to you from Wildthorn Hall. I wanted you to come and rescue me. I wanted to come home."
"Did you?" A fleeting smile lights up her face, but then the shadow returns. "I never received it."
"Tom must have intercepted it."
"No doubt." She lapses into silence, looking drawn, and right now I can't think of anything to distract her from her sorrowful thoughts.
***
After the Shaws' cottage, our house seems stuffy, too full of things. I've tried to take up my old activities again, but I can't seem to get interested in them. I prefer to go out, finding it incredible still that I'm free to open the door and leave, that no one tries to stop me. I take long walks, thinking of Eliza and wondering what she's doing. When I'm in, I wander round the house or spend hours gazing out of the window, and all the time there's a pain round my heart that won't go away.
I keep having nightmares, one in particular. I'm back in the Fifth, unable to move, or cry out, knowing that I'll never see Eliza again ... and I wake, trembling, with Scratton's laughter ringing in my ears.
At least Mamma seems better than she used to, less anxious, though not a day goes by without her saying, "I still can't believe it of Tom."
As we go about our chores or sit in the parlour together with Mrs. Grey, I often catch her gazing at me. Once or twice, completely unexpectedly, she's put her hand to my face in a loving gesture. Perhaps in my absence, she's come to miss me. Whatever the reason, I'm touched by her affection, and I think how glad Papa would be to know that we are closer.