Fred pulled his horse to a sliding stop, spraying mud everywhere and earning a frown from our father. I jumped off before he could push me off, and barely managed to smooth down my skirts over my woolen stockings before she stepped out of the carriage.
She didn’t look old enough to be my mother. Her skin was pale and smooth against the dark purple velvet of her gown, blue eyes startlingly bright even from paces away. Before the sun had a chance to even kiss her skin, she snapped open a black satin and lace parasol, holding it above her head as she brushed her hair back over her shoulder. With one hand, she lifted up her skirts, revealing high-heeled brocade shoes that were slowly sinking into the mud.
My father took a few steps toward her, then paused, seeming uncertain of whether she wanted assistance or not. “It’s good to see you, Genny.”
“I’ve told you not to call me that.” Like my own voice, hers carried well on the air, and I grimaced at her rejection of my father’s familiarity. Seeing them in close proximity, it seemed barely possible they could be acquaintances, much less a pair married fifteen years. My father, the dirty, weatherworn farmer, and my mother, the sparkling opera star. A more incongruous pair I’d never seen. Time changed people, but either one or both of them must have been completely different when they first met. What had they been like, I wondered, and what had made them change?
“Papa, where’s Joss?”
Fred’s voice startled me, but my mother’s frowning inspection of her shoes didn’t waver.
“In the barn brushing the pony, I reckon.”
“I’ll go get her,” Fred said. “You do want to see Josette, don’t you, Genevieve?” I looked up, surprised to hear him call her so.
“I’m sure I’ll see her at some point,” she replied, either used to him calling her by name, or not caring that he did. And clearly not caring whether my little sister made an appearance or not. Given everything that had happened today, a dull burn of anger seared through my guts at her casual dismissal of Josette. I snapped my face around, ready to put her in her place, but the full force of my mother’s gaze stopped the words in my throat.
“My sweet little bird.” She tilted her face slightly to the side, lips blossoming into a smile. “I’ve missed you dreadfully.”
It was absolutely the most perfect thing she could have said to me. My anger disappeared as though it had never existed, and I started toward her, arms outstretched. But she didn’t mirror the motion, and I ground to a halt. Awkwardly, I lowered my arms and took a step back, aware that both my brother and father were looking anywhere but at us. “I’m going to find Joss,” Fred muttered, dragging his horse toward the barn.
Of course hugging her would be inappropriate. It was far too familiar. And while I might have started the afternoon off clean, Fred’s horse had left sweat stains on my dress and out of the corner of my eye I could see a twig stuck in my curls. “I missed you too, Mama.”
Her smile brightened, and with one hand, she reached out to cup my cheek. “My sweet little Cécile.” Her fingers were soft and smelled of flowers. “Come, come. Let us go inside before the sun puts any more freckles on your face. We’ve much to discuss.”
She took my arm, and I slowly helped her across the yard toward the house, wondering the entire time why she had worn such impractical footwear. No amount of scrubbing would get the mud out of the brocade. I steered her around the puddles, taking small steps so that I wouldn’t splash water onto her skirts, but she didn’t seem to care that she was wrecking her fine things.
“How was the journey, Mama?” I asked, helping her onto the steps.
“Dreadful, as always,” she replied, waiting for me to open the door for her. She didn’t bother to knock the worst of the grime off her feet before going inside, and I winced as she tracked mud across the wooden floor.
Neither she nor Gran acknowledged each other, but that wasn’t anything new. I pulled out a seat for my mother, and only quick action on my part got it back underneath her in time as she sat without looking. Hurrying to the fire, I poured steaming water from the kettle into the teapot, placing the chipped tea service with fresh cream and honey on the table in front of her. I could feel both their eyes on me as I sliced a few thick pieces of the fresh loaf Gran had baked, smeared them with butter I’d churned myself, and put them on the table with the tea. Then I cautiously sat down on the chair between them, careful to cross my ankles properly rather than pulling them up underneath me as was my habit.
My mother poured the tea for both of us, adding a generous amount of honey to both cups. I didn’t like mine sweet, but I was afraid to argue.
She took a small sip of the steaming liquid, eyes fixed on me. What important things did she want to talk about? Had something happened? How did it involve me? A thousand questions leapt through my head, but underneath my curiosity, hope was growing.
“Sing.”
The demand managed to be expected and surprising at the same time. Tea slopped out of my cup onto my hand, and I had to bite my lip to keep from yelping at the pain. I’d imagined this situation more times than I could count, but now that it was upon me, I had no idea what to do. In my imagination, I’d always known the perfect song to sing, but in reality, I’d never learned anything beyond what we sang at festivals. I cast an imploring look in Gran’s direction, but she only rested her chin on crossed fingers. She wouldn’t help me in this.
Sucking in a deep breath, I leapt into the song everyone always asked me to sing at dances. It was enthusiastic and joyful, but I barely made it through the first few lines before my mother flung up a hand, choking me off. “Stop. Please stop.” Her brow was creased with a scowl, her eyes cold as the winter sky. “Any talentless wretch could manage that.”
“I don’t know any others,” I whispered, feeling a tremble in my voice. Do not cry, I screamed at myself. Don’t you dare cry.
“Why am I not surprised.” She sipped a mouthful of tea. “Cécile, you will repeat after me.”
She sang a few lines, her voice lovelier than I’d remembered. “Now you.”
I imitated her, hesitantly at first, but then with more confidence. She’d sing, and I’d repeat, trilling like a songbird mimicking a flute. My father walked in during the middle of it, the smile on his face sad and proud at the same time. I beamed at him while I stretched my voice to match the higher and higher notes my mother sang, meeting each and every one of them. It was the most exquisitely wonderful moment of my life.
She stopped singing as abruptly as she’d begun. Taking a mouthful of tea, my mother smiled. “Well done, Cécile. Well done.” Then she turned to my father. “I’ll take her when she’s seventeen.”
“No!” My father looked as surprised as anyone that he’d spoken. “No,” he repeated, more quietly this time. “You ain’t taking her, Genevieve. I need her here. And besides, this here is her home.”