While her mother headed for the kitchen, Elinor wandered down the hallways until she came to the family room. Big, snuggly couches crowded around a massive TV screen while on the other side of the room stood the grand piano, raised on a step like it was a throne. And Marianne, only seventeen, sat at the bench, dressed completely in a black dress, including a black veil and black nail polish, as if she were a regal lady from the eighteenth century in full mourning. Marianne had always been into drama, but Elinor didn't see the point of over-dramatizing grief, especially if it caused pain to others.
Elinor strode toward her sister, the latter so absorbed in her mournful song that she didn't notice her older sister until Elinor tapped her on the shoulder.
"Marianne?"
Her sister started, smashing the keys and creating jarring chords. She tossed her head up, but Elinor couldn't make out her face behind the black veil. After a moment, she returned to the piano and resumed playing her sad song.
"How about a duet?" Elinor offered.
The playing paused for a long dramatic moment before the black-shrouded head nodded and she scooted over to make room for Elinor. The latter rifled through the messy stack of music on the piano until she found the happy song she wanted, then propped it up on the piano.
Marianne gasped like an offended nun. "Elinor!"
"Dad hasn't actually died—"
"He's worse than dead. He's a puppet that makes you think he could be locked deep inside but he isn't. He's gone. I wish he had died."
"Marianne!"
She clanged the piano keys. "It's the truth! If Dad were dead, then we wouldn't have our stuffy half-brother showing up to give out orders on stuff he knows nothing about! He doesn't even care about Dad's situation; he only wants the money."
"That's not true," Elinor said, keeping her voice light and airy. "I'm sure he loved Dad—"
"But not us. He never bothered to visit."
"He did once. Come, Marianne, see it from his side. Dad remarried quickly after John's mother died and it was to a woman less than five years older than him. That made it awkward."
Marianne tossed her head, the veil flailing like a wagging finger. "Awkward? That would not be the word I'd use. He hates us, Elinor. Blames us for everything."
"No, he doesn't; otherwise he wouldn't have invited himself over for dinner. I'm sure he's offering an olive branch and wants a chance to start over."
Marianne slammed the piano shut, then rose with an angry scoff and stalked out of the room. So much for the olive branch.
Elinor stared at the musical piece. It had been her father's favorite, a song they'd play every Sunday while he sat in his favorite chair just ten feet from them, humming along. Now it probably would never be played again.
Unshed tears burned behind her eyes so Elinor focused on tidying up the papers on the piano. Then she headed for Maggie's room. Only ten, her youngest sister hadn't taken well to their father's stroke and seemed intent on hiding from reality, including her own family. She never came out; the meals left at the door always returned barely touched.
Elinor knocked on the door. "Maggie? You in there?"
No response emitted from the door.
"Maggie, would you like to help Mom make dinner? She's making your favorite: chicken pot pies."
Still no response.
She tried the doorknob but it was locked. There was a key to open it but their mother had forbade Elinor to resort to it. If Maggie wanted to hide while she worked through her grief, then she should be allowed that privacy.
Elinor, personally, wasn't so sure it was the wisest thing to do, but neither did she think barging into the room would help things either.
With a sigh, she made her way to the kitchen to help her mother herself. Normally, they had a cook that would make the meals, but ever since the stroke, Elinor's mother had insisted on doing the cooking. It had soothed her in the past and it was the only solace that seemed to work now.
As Elinor headed for the kitchen, however, the doorbell abruptly rang. Her eyes flew to the grandfather clock stationed in the hallway. It was too early for her half-brother, but neither could it be friends—those had stopped coming to share their condolences over a month ago. Perhaps a mail delivery?
To Elinor's chagrin, she discovered it was, in fact, her half-brother. Though she had only met him in person once, the pictures he posted of himself online made it easy for her to recognize him. He had cut his brown hair shorter than the last picture he had posted and he wore a stiff polo shirt with slacks, something he only wore when he was on vacation according to his photos. Beside him stood a woman who obviously made a point to of retaining the beauty of her youth and her designer dress, shoes, and handbag screamed wealth. Though Elinor had never met the woman, the many photos of the two together let her know this was Fanny, her step-sister-in-law.
"John," Elinor began in a warm tone and hoped her face didn't show any of her inner dread. "Fanny. We weren't expecting you for another hour."
John flushed, the redder skin more obvious against the paleness of his shirt. "Yes, well, we had come early to see Dad, but, uh..."
Elinor understood immediately. He had expected a man who could hold a conversation, not someone who could barely recall the last sentence spoken. A whole hour in that type of company would have strained even Elinor.
"He was not up to seeing us," Fanny finished the conversation, a pinched smile on her face as if the happy expression hurt her. "So we decided to be gracious and come here and cheer you up with our presence."
Elinor doubted anyone would be cheered, but she opened the door wider anyway. "That's so kind of you. Please come in."
The two ventured inside, their eyes darting over the front entrance like hunters seeking treasure, probably noting the expensive rugs covering the inlaid marble floor, the grandfather clock inherited from her father's uncle, and the various knick-knacks showing off her parents' many travels.
"Very nice decor you have," John began.
"Yes, my mother has enjoyed decorating the house."
John flushed again. Apparently, the mention of her mother was a sore spot. Even Fanny's smile grew faker, but it didn't stop her from turning to Elinor and asking in an overly oiled voice, "May we have a tour of the place? Your father used to brag about this place all the time. It would be nice to finally see if it lives up to his tales."
Elinor hesitated. The home wasn't exactly clean enough to inspire the needed praise. Her mother had given the maids the month off mainly so they wouldn't keep finding sobbing family members.
However, Fanny breezed past Elinor as if she had complete rights to do whatever she wanted. John shot an apologetic smile at Elinor before hurrying after his wife.
"Uh, this hallway," Elinor said as she caught up, "leads to the bedrooms, but if you'll follow me this way." She led them to the family room which also opened up to the large kitchen. Her mother toiled away, making dinner, while Marianne lounged on the couch, still draped in her black, eighteenth-century attire, but ruining the scene by tapping furiously on her phone.
"Hi, Mom," Elinor called. "John and Fanny are here. Marianne?"
Marianne glanced up from her phone, and despite the black veil, the scowl behind it was obvious. Seconds later, she returned to her phone, tapping away. John and Fanny exchanged offended looks so Elinor hurried them into the kitchen where her mother was frantically drying her washed hands.
"John, so good to see you again." She held out her hands for a hug but John awkwardly grasped one and shook it limply.
"Hi, Linda."
Her mother's smile faltered, but she rallied to extend a hand to Fanny. "Good to meet you once more, Fanny. I wasn't aware you would be coming."
"Well, once John explained the situation to me, of course I had to come." She gazed around the kitchen as if expecting mice to scurry across the long countertops. "With Mr. Dashwood's current, um, situation, it's obvious he's going to be there for quite some time. Decisions must be made soon. This is a very fine home," she adde
d, looking around again as if trying to estimate its worth.
"Thank you?" Mrs. Dashwood forced out, her eyebrows pulled low in slight confusion. "My husband did always say the heart is where the home is, and if you have a good home, then you never have to worry about the heart."
Fanny's smile soured. "Yes, well, he should have worried more about the head than the heart."
Elinor and her mother stared at Fanny, not sure how to respond to that. John stepped in instead.
"He does have a good heart. The doctors said he could live for another twenty years at the least."
"Such a pity his mind didn't last that long," Fanny said, her eyes roving the family room, completely unaware of the offended look on Elinor's mother's face. "You don't hire a cook?"
"I like to cook," her mother said, her tone gathering steel.
"Won't you sit down?" Elinor offered, eager to avoid having her mother lash out at Fanny.
"You mean dinner is already ready?" Fanny eyed the pots on the stove as if doubting anything good could be in them.
"Not quite yet," Mrs. Dashwood managed to say, her tone softening, and she stirred the contents of the pot with a spoon. "But if you'll join Marianne in the family room, I'm sure you all could spend the extra time catching up on each other's lives."
"Thanks, but we'd rather see the rest of the house," Fanny said. "No point in wasting valuable time." She glanced at Marianne as if she were a beggar on the street, unfit for her company.
"The house isn't ready for a tour," Elinor said, stalling for time. Though she'd never admit to it, she hoped to never let the rude lady see the rest of the house.
"Well, it should be if we're going to sell it."
End Excerpt
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Persuading Her: A Modern Persuasion Retelling (Pemberley Estates Book 2) Page 22
