by Megan Bryce
Honora didn’t know which of them had it worse.
Chastity stuck her chin out and said bravely, “You were talking about me. With the troll.”
Charles’ head came up, a question in his eyes, and Fanny murmured, “Honora had a caller.”
“When? Just now?”
“We were all in the back garden, together.” Fanny watched the little girl who still wouldn’t look at her. “Chastity had run inside.”
Chastity muttered, “I needed a parasol.”
“It was a good idea. He’s irritated with me,” Honora said, and tried to remember what else she’d said to George St. Clair. What other secrets she’d not been careful with.
But Chastity only said, “Because you’re my. . .you’re my. . .”
“Because I’m not your sister. I’m your mother.”
And if a ten-year-old could express utter outrage, she did. She turned on Fanny and said angrily, with disbelief, “Then who are you?”
Fanny said in a breathless voice, “No one.”
Chastity sucked in a deep breath, turning back to Honora. “I’m ten! You didn’t tell me in ten years!”
As if ten years was unbearably long, and it was. As if a ten-year-old could understand why a mother would have to give up her own child. Why a mother would have to lie about it.
Honora was much older than ten, had been older than ten when she’d had to make the decision in the first place, and she still couldn’t understand it.
“I couldn’t tell you before.”
“Would you have told me someday?”
“Yes,” Honora lied. “When you were old enough to understand.”
Chastity looked up at Charles, her father but now her grandfather instead.
“Who is my real papa?”
A thief and a blackguard. A liar and a manipulator.
Honora jerked when she realized she could have been talking about herself.
And she wondered, for the first time, if there had been a reason for his lies, a reason he’d stolen her virtue.
She would never know; and she didn’t particularly care.
Her father opened his mouth and Honora talked right over him. Lies, lies, and more lies when the truth could only destroy.
“He was a soldier, and I loved him.”
Chastity looked back at her. “Did he die?”
“He did. He was brave and good, and he took care of his soldier-brothers like you take care of Temperance and Faith and Frederick. Because he knew that a brother was a brother because of love, not blood.”
“Did he love me? Even though I was his blood?”
“I’m sure he would have. I know he would have. But he never knew about you. He died before anyone knew about you.”
“He would have married you. If he’d known,” Chastity said confidently, and Honora nodded, relaxing back against the sofa and wondering if lies could ever become the truth.
“And then you would have been my mother instead. . .”
Her eyes darted sideways, at Fanny sitting there quietly, her hands hidden in the folds of her dress and her calm face frozen.
Honora said, “And then I would have been your mother. Just the two of us. No papa, no sisters, no brother.”
Chastity’s eyebrows crinkled. “But we would have lived here.”
“No. We would have been alone. Living on the other side of the wall because Papa and I can’t live under the same roof without fighting.”
Her father let out a loud sigh and Honora almost smiled at him.
“But, did it hurt you, Honora? To give me up?”
The tears came suddenly, unexpectedly, and Honora blinked ferociously.
“It hurt so badly that I have never recovered. I didn’t want to tell you because I didn’t want it to hurt you.”
Fanny reached across to hand Honora her handkerchief, and Honora took it gratefully and said, “I didn’t tell you because you had a mother who knew that a daughter was a daughter because of love, not blood.”
Chastity looked at Fanny, her eyes filling with tears, and Honora murmured softly, “I didn’t tell you because the one thing I could give you, you already had.”
Chastity’s voice was tight and small. “You’re not my mother.”
Fanny’s tears fell unheeded and she didn’t even try to stop them. “I am.”
She opened her arms and Chastity ran to her, hugging her tight.
Fanny whispered, “And you really are mine, Chastity. As much as your sisters and brother. Mine, and loved.”
Honora dabbed her eyes, hating her stepmother and loving her, and knowing those opposing feelings wouldn’t ever go away.
Fanny pulled her daughter into her lap, cuddling her tight, and after a few minutes Chastity felt safe enough again to philosophically say, “It does make sense. Why they’re so sweet. And why my hair’s not blond. Why they’re pretty and I’m ugly.”
Fanny pushed Chastity’s hair back from her face, saying, “Never ugly.”
Chastity made a face, looking at Honora and most likely remembering the story of the not-beautiful-but-not-ugly princess.
Honora said, “If I could have given you beautiful blond hair and sparkling blue eyes, I would have. But I think I passed on my parasol-wielding abilities, if that is any consolation.”
Chastity cocked her head. “And the troll likes you.”
The troll had liked her, the real her, and Honora smiled slightly. It was unlikely that he still did but she said, “Yes.”
“And the soldier loved you.”
“Yes,” Honora said, the soldier apparently already a saint.
“And Mama loves Papa, and we’re just like him.”
“Yes.” Honora met her father’s eyes and said again, “Yes.”
Chastity snuggled deeper into Fanny’s lap and said quietly, “Am I going to live with you now? You and Aunt Beatrice and Uncle Arnold?”
Fanny’s eyes widened and Charles’ chest expanded and Honora shook her head.
“That choice was made a long time ago, Chastity. And it can’t be undone. It will be easier if you forget. Easier if you think of me as your sister because that’s what I am. That’s all that I am. And you can’t tell anyone, not even Temperance.”
“But she’s my sister! And I love her and she loves me.”
“Which means you only lie to her when you absolutely have to.”
Charles opened his mouth, then closed it, and Honora said to him quietly, “Thank you.”
Chastity sat up suddenly. “Wait, if you’re my mother and they’re your sisters and brother, that means they’re my. . .aunts and uncle!” She thought about that for less than a second. “Well, I’m not ever going to tell Temperance or Faith or Freddy. I’m not going to call them aunt and uncle!”
Collin was waiting for George in the tiny room of the lodging house they’d found.
That meant he’d found no work for today, and George handed Collin the loaf of bread he’d bought with coins he could ill afford to spare.
Collin tore it in half, offering George his part, and George held up a hand. “I’ve eaten.”
Collin took a large bite and said around it, “Where?”
“Miss Honora Kempe’s back garden.”
Collin growled, then took another bite.
George sat down on his trunk, tucked into a corner of the small room and said, “I know your thoughts on the matter and I don’t need to hear them again.”
Collin narrowed his eyes, chewing ferociously.
George said, “I need to send a letter to my father.”
Collin swallowed. “I hope he doesn’t chuck it in the fire.”
“I hope so, too. Because I have a valet to feed.”
Collin slowly put down his bread. “You’re going back to the vicarage. Perhaps they haven’t given it away yet!”
George eyed his friend. “I knew you thought I would return to my living once I found her.”
“You’re not?”
George said slowly, “No. I have anothe
r idea.”
Collin leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. “You’re not ever going back?”
“No.”
“I thought that once you found the chit who’d stolen your heart, you would be able to resume your life.”
“I know. And don’t call her a chit.”
“Oh, there are a few other names I could call her instead.”
“You could try Miss Kempe.”
“I’m afraid that wouldn’t make it past my lips.”
They stared at each other until Collin finally shook his head and sighed heavily. “What else did you find out in Miss Kempe’s back garden?”
“I found that I still don’t know enough,” George said and Collin closed his eyes. He swore, long and heartfelt, inserting a few phrases he must have picked up from the manual laborers he’d worked beside since following George on this pilgrimage.
George stood, opening his trunk and rummaging around for paper. “I’m going to tell my father what I’m going to do, what I’m going to be, instead of a vicar. Instead of his fourth son. Three is enough for one man.”
Because his father did still have three sons happy to live their life according to plan. Henry’s health had slowly improved and when George had left to find his heart, his brother had once again been sitting in his plush chair. Watching his children play and disappointing Death one more time.
Collin said, “I thought you didn’t know what else there was?”
“I didn’t. It came to me while sitting in Miss Kempe’s back garden. It came to me as I was wondering how a woman, or a man, could have a future when the one they were born to is taken away.”
“Or thrown away.”
“Or doesn’t fit.”
“They starve, George.”
“I would have agreed with you last year. And then Sinclair came home and told me about his. . .”
“It’s called trade.”
“Fine. His trade. His successful trade.” And if the word still left a bad taste in George’s mouth, well, he was a viscount’s son.
Collin said, “Might I remind you that his successful trade is in India!”
George nodded. “It did not escape my notice. I also met a woman who had scraped together a life and a living when very few women can.”
Collin’s mouth fell open. “You. Are. Joking. Scraped together!”
“My point is not that I want to follow in either of their footsteps but that there are options I had no idea existed.”
Collin looked around the tiny room, then flung his arms out wide. “What options? They’re not here!”
“No, they’re not here.”
Honora didn’t get out of bed the next morning.
She felt oddly empty, as if she was floating. As if she was watching her own life disintegrate around her shoulders.
As if ridding herself of all her lies had somehow deflated her.
A maid came to check on her and Honora stayed in bed, sending her away without unlocking the door.
Aunt Beatrice knocked, and Honora didn’t want her sympathy. Didn’t want her aunt to stroke her hair and tuck her covers around her. Honora didn’t want to be comforted.
She missed breakfast, took no tea, and dozed.
She was awoken a little while later by Fanny knocking lightly on the door.
“Honora? Mr. St. Clair is here to see you.”
Honora blinked the sleep from her eyes and said to the ceiling, “How strange. Did he bring the magistrate?”
A long silence greeted her question and then finally a key was put in the lock and her stepmother pushed the door in.
Fanny looked at Honora, lying listlessly in bed, and closed the door behind her. She sat down next to Honora’s hand and said quietly, clearly worried about young ears listening when they shouldn’t, “Why would Mr. St. Clair bring the magistrate to see you?”
Honora woke up the rest of the way, thinking she might give lying up for good. Her secrets were spilling from her at an alarming pace.
Fanny shifted, jostling the bed. “There has been enough drama in this household, Honora.”
Honora closed her eyes. “I know. I’ll leave.”
“I think I would prefer the truth.”
“You really wouldn’t.”
Fanny said nothing and when Honora opened her eyes again, her stepmother was looking down at the skeleton key in her hand.
“I was only a few years older than you when I married your father and everyone told me that you would be a challenge.”
“I do so hate when I prove everyone right.”
“I’m so sorry, Honora. That I was too young to be a true mother to you after you had lost yours. That I was too overwhelmed with Temperance to see that you were in trouble before it was too late.”
Honora shifted uncomfortably. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for, Fanny. Including marrying my father.”
“I have everything to be sorry for because you have suffered, and I have raised Chastity, and not for one moment have I wished that I could change your fate because that would mean losing her.” Fanny stood up and walked toward the door, then stopped. “Thank you for her, for my brave little girl who sees the world like no one else does. Her life was worth all you lost, Honora. But if you can have it back, take it. Be brave.”
“I can’t have it back.”
“Then why is Mr. St. Clair here? With or without the magistrate?”
Ten
Honora didn’t know. And when Fanny left the room, that question hung so heavily that eventually Honora forced herself to her feet to find out.
And when she entered the sitting room, George took one look at her and jumped to his feet to wrap his arm around her waist and gently guide her to the sofa.
Fanny went to the other side of the room, leaving them as much privacy as she could without actually leaving them any.
And the woman may indeed have been happy to raise Chastity but she obviously had no intention of giving Honora any chance to do it again.
“Are you all right, Twiggy?”
Honora looked into George’s eyes. “It has been a trying couple of days.”
“I’m sorry. If I’d seen her. . .”
If he’d seen her, Honora would have had a few more years most likely but their conversation would have happened.
The ability to be where one shouldn’t was also something Honora had passed on to Chastity.
Honora leaned toward George and whispered, and was reminded of happier days when she’d sat next to him and whispered, “George, please. Whatever you’ve come for, let’s get it over with. I am utterly exhausted.”
He looked at Fanny, not very far away at all. Looked behind him at the open door.
“Perhaps we could go out to the garden. The sun will do you good.”
“There’s sun today?”
“A little. Would your siblings like to join us outside as well? I’d like to know where everyone is at all times.”
“You’ve figured us out already.”
He helped her rise. “I have.”
The girls and Freddy were rounded up and they all went outside to play in the sun.
A blanket was tucked around Honora, as if she was an invalid, and she wondered just how terrible she looked.
How empty.
George sat next to her and when everyone was visible, yet far enough away, he said, “I loved a good woman once. Not you.”
Honora smiled and closed her eyes.
“The clarification was unnecessary.”
“I loved her, and I just sat and waited for her to realize that she loved me. I just sat and watched her marry my brother. I’ve been destroyed by love twice now.”
You, and he didn’t have to say that she had been the second.
“You’ve come back for thirds?”
“I sincerely hope not. I came for the why.”
“And I’ve already told you. A few stolen minutes, two lives destroyed, and very few options.”
The bird twittered again
and George waited until she opened her eyes again to say, “Minutes? Does it change anything if I wish you’d thrown away your virtue and future for at least an hour or two?”
She looked sideways at him.
He repeated, “I wish it had been worth it. I wish it had been worth all you suffered.”
Honora watched four young children running in circles around their mother, remembered how Fanny had said Chastity’s life was worth all that had been lost.
Perhaps she had been worth it.
George watched them too, and he asked, “Was your child’s life destroyed by that minute?”
“Minutes, plural. You don’t need to make it worse than it actually was.”
“You don’t need to make it worse than it actually is, either. Did you give her the best possible life out of very few options?”
Honora leaned toward him, the blanket suddenly stifling her, and she whispered hotly, “Yes. And I refuse to be so helpless ever again. I would do it all over– take bits of security from every man until I had enough. Until I would never have to make that choice again.”
“So that is the why,” he said and nodded. “Now I want to know if. I loved once, before you. And I still don’t know what was true. If she’d ever loved me back. And I don’t think she could even tell me, not now. So I want that truth. From you.”
She raised her eyebrows. “You want a liar and a swindler, someone you could have hanged at the snap of your fingers, to tell you that she really– no, really she did– loved you.”
He took a deep breath, leaning back in his seat and closing his eyes.
He nodded again and she watched him for a long moment.
“What are you doing?”
“Listening.”
Honora looked around, as if she could hear with her eyes.
“To what?”
“The birds,” he said, and Honora could suddenly hear the twittering in the tree tops.
“The wind,” he said, and Honora could hear the leaves rustling.
“The children,” he said, and Honora could hear the giggles and whispers.
“You,” he said.
“I love you,” she said with all the disgust she could muster. “And it’s horrible.”
“Love is.”
“I didn’t mean to. You were going to be the last, a payment so large we’d be comfortable for the rest of our lives.”
