Sylvia had been popping in and out but was now ushering everyone through into the dining room, where the large table was laid with a haphazard selection of plates, glasses and cutlery. It was a wonder, thought Juliet, that with so much crockery, glassware and silverware, there was barely a piece that matched another. She was glad to sit between her father and Martha, but nearly let out an audible groan when Léo appeared directly opposite her and beamed warmly. She gave a small smile in response, one which didn’t meet her eyes, then turned in relief to her father, who was banging his knife on his glass.
‘A toast!’
No one had had time to pour any drinks, so there was a scramble to pass around the wine bottles before Rousseau finished speaking. Luckily, reflected Juliet, as she waited her turn, his speeches tended to be on the long side, so she probably wouldn’t still have an empty glass by the time he finally got to the point. Indeed, it was a couple of minutes before he concluded:
‘…very glad to have Juliet living back with us here at Feywood. To Juliet!’
‘Juliet!’ said everyone and gratefully started necking their drinks. Juliet’s appreciative smile and muttered ‘thank you’ were as brief as etiquette allowed before she took a welcome slug of her wine.
The food was absolutely delicious, and it was a few minutes before anyone spoke again as they devoured the starter of delicate cured salmon with herbs from the kitchen garden and crumbly savoury shortbread biscuits. Frankie and Will jumped up to help clear the plates and bring in the main course of spring vegetables and nut filo pie, then Martha cleared her throat.
‘Everyone, there is something I would like to discuss.’
Every eye swivelled to look at her. It was unusual for Martha to speak up, and she reddened as she continued.
‘It’s nearly a year now since Mum…since Mum died…’ She paused and swallowed hard. ‘I think we should arrange a memorial service for her. I mean, I’d like to.’
‘But we already had a funeral,’ said Juliet.
Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Léo looking at her, his eyes wide and his brow crumpled, doubtless with disapproval.
‘Well, yes, but I do feel that I would like to do a proper memorial and invite more people. The funeral was so small, and we did say we would do something later.’
Rousseau rose and came to stand behind his eldest daughter, his hands on her shoulders.
‘Martha is right. I, too, would like to honour Lilith with a special occasion in her memory, and maybe we could all create some special art as a tribute to her. Will you organise it, girls? I’ll help you write a list of people to ask. Thank you, Martha.’
As he sat down, most of those assembled started talking quietly, congratulating Martha on her idea and discussing what could be done. Juliet had lost her appetite, even for the beautiful food her aunt had cooked. How could she create some art in memory of her mother, when that memory was so sour? Her mother had despised Juliet’s art, and she had never hesitated to make that clear, as well as attacking many other choices she made. And now, here she was living back at Feywood becauseLilith had put the house at risk. What tribute could Juliet possibly create? The funeral had been bad enough, as she had tried to tackle feelings so mixed that she didn’t think they could ever be pulled apart and released, while the few mourners that had been at the small service expected her to show some sort of dramatic grief. The tears hadn’t come then but were pricking now. She didn’t want to upset the others or stop them honouring the woman they had all had such different relationships with, but she couldn’t see what her contribution might be. Pushing her chair back, she whispered her apologies and slipped out of the room.
Grabbing a discarded shawl from the newel post at the bottom of the stairs, Juliet ran out through the sitting room to the terrace beyond and sat at the wooden table they used for meals in the warmer weather. The spring evening was growing chilly, and she tucked the shawl around herself tightly, only now noticing that it was shocking pink. She wondered who had left it in the house, as it wasn’t something any of them would wear, but at the same time she was grateful for its soft warmth. Her mind was clearing from the fog of panic and anger that had risen, when she heard the French window open and close softly behind her and footsteps approach the table.
‘Hi, I thought you might be sorry to miss your supper.’
Léo placed a tray on the table with her filo pie, two bowls with squares of chocolate brownie and raspberries, two full glasses of wine and, bless him, half a bottle more.
Juliet looked up, wondering if he was laughing at her again, but he smiled with what seemed liked genuine warmth.
‘Oh, thank you. That’s really nice of you,’ she said.
‘May I join you?’ asked Léo.
She nodded and he pulled out a chair and sat down, taking one of the puddings and a glass of wine.
‘You seemed very upset in there.’
‘You probably think I’m horrible. I didn’t get on with Mum, so I don’t know what I could contribute to a memorial.’
‘I don’t think anything. I don’t know you and didn’t know your mother. I do know that mothers can be difficult, very difficult. Your sisters and father, perhaps, feel differently?’
‘Oh no, they feel exactly the same. They know damn well how difficult and selfish and narcissistic and controlling she was.’ Juliet had a drink of her wine and warmed to her theme. ‘They arewellaware, but somehow, they don’t seem as conflicted about it. Maybe Martha feels too guilty – my mother manipulated her nicely into that. Frankie probably got on with her better than the rest of us – their screaming arguments were probably the healthiest dynamic in our house growing up – and Dad…well, Dad always opted for the easy life, let her have her way and retreated into his art.’
Léo nodded.
‘And you?’
‘My mother despised me. Why she didn’t just stop talking to me, I don’t know – it would have been kinder. Instead, she did everything she could to criticise me, control me and try to force me to be who she wanted me to be.’
Juliet was furious to feel tears rolling down her cheeks. She was angry at Léo seeing them, angry at her mother for causing them, even from beyond the grave, and angry at herself for being so weak as to succumb to them. She rubbed them away with the pink shawl and glared at her brownie. Léo sat quietly, sipping his wine, and, for a moment, Juliet wondered what it would be like to spill it all out to this sympathetic man, to tell him some of the cruel things her mother had said, the ways she had found to shame her middle daughter. She felt a sudden dizziness as shethought she was going to open up to Léo, perhaps even lean her head against one of his sturdy shoulders and let him comfort her as she reopened the hundreds of little wounds her mother had inflicted, letting him heal them. But almost as soon as the urge had come to her, she pushed it away with a sharp inward breath. Léo looked at her earnestly, apparently unembarrassed by her tears.
