It was, Anne supposed, little different from what she had imagined. She gazed at her father, at the pillar of strength she had loved and admired and obeyed as a girl. But there came a time in everyone’s life, she supposed, when one’s parent became a person in one’s eyes. And persons, unlike parents, were never perfect. Sometimes they were far from perfection.
Her mother lowered her hands.
“And your father—andwe,” she said, “thought it best that you not come back here, Anne—at least for a while. It would have been upsetting, and there would have been scandal in the neighborhood. It would have been dreadful for you.”
And for her and Papa and Sarah and Henry and Matthew, Anne thought with a half-smile.
“But I have missed you dreadfully,” her mother cried. “I have pined for you, Anne. And for David.”
But not enough ever to come and visit her? Anne thought. But then her mother had always been a dutiful wife. She had never done anything without Papa’s full approval and consent. It had always seemed to be a virtue…
“He is such a handsome child, Anne,” her mother said. “And he looks just like you.”
“David looks,” Anne said, “like Albert Moore, his father. He was a handsome man. David also has some of my characteristics. But more than anything else, he is himself. He has most in common with his new father. Sydnam is a painter and so is David. They paint together.”
It astounded her that she could admit aloud that David looked like his father without cringing from the very fact that Albert Moorewashis father. She glanced at Sydnam, who still stood with his back to the room, and felt a knee-weakening love for him.
“Anne,” Sarah said, “please forgive me.Pleasedo. It was a terrible thing I did, but I wassoin love. That was no excuse, though. I have not known a day’s happiness since. I am so very sorry. But I cannot expect you to forgive me.”
Anne looked at her fully for the first time. Shehadgrown plumper. She looked very much like their mother. But she was still the sister who had been Anne’s closest friend and confidante throughout their growing years.
“Anne,” Henry said, “I would have married you if you had come home as planned without—Well…You must know I would have. But you were there and Sarah was here.”
Anne bent her gaze on him. She would have liked to see him as ugly and unappealing. She would like to wonder what she had ever seen in him. He certainly had weaknesses of character that were unattractive. But he was Henry, and they had been close friends for years before planning a closer relationship.
“All things happen for a purpose,” she said, “though sometimes they take their time. If I had married you, Henry, there would not be David, and he has been the most precious person in my life for many years. And if I had married you, I would not have been able to marry Sydnam. And so I would have lost my chance for a lifetime of happiness.”
Matthew cleared his throat again.
“You have done well for yourself, Anne,” he said. “First you had a home and some pupils in that village in Cornwall, and then you got that teaching post in Bath. And now you have married a son of the Earl of Redfield.”
“It is strange,” Anne said, “that you know all these things about me. I have known nothing about your lives. I did not even know of the existence of any of my nephews and nieces.”
“I thought it best, Anne,” her mother said. “I thought you would pine.”
“I need to ask you all,” Anne said, “if the fact that I have come through these years rather well makes you feel better about turning your backs on me.”
“Oh, Anne.” Sarah’s voice was high with distress.
But it was her father who gave a lengthier reply.
“No,” he said abruptly. “No better at all. It was easier to believe that you had brought your suffering on yourself and then to feel relieved that you were coping on your own. It was easier to believe that you were better off where you were, away from the gossiping tongues of our neighbors. You did suffer and you did cope, and perhaps it really was good that you avoided the gossip. But no, I for one do not feel better about my treatment of you. I never have felt good about it. And now today, now that I have to look you in the eye, I feel worse—as I deserve to do. Don’t blame your mother. She would have come to you at the start, but I would not countenance it.”
“I ought at least to have written to you, Anne,” Matthew said.
“If it had not been for my extravagances at Oxford, you would not even have had to take a position as governess.”
“Sarah has always been miserable about the whole thing,” Henry said quietly. “So have I.”
“Well,” Anne said, getting to her feet, “if I was not tired before I am exhausted now. I will avail myself of the suggestion that I withdraw until dinnertime. I am sure Sydnam is weary too. Ancient history is a dreadful thing when it is one’s own, is it not? It cannot be changed. None of us can go back and do things differently. We can only go forward and hope that the past has at least taught us some wisdom to take with us. I have stayed away in more recent years because I bore a grudge, because I hoped you were all suffering, because I could feed my bitterness, which somehow seemed my right. But here I am. And though I will doubtless weep when I get upstairs, I am glad I came. For what it is worth, I forgive you all—and hope you will forgive me for what I have contributed to your unhappiness.”
They were all on their feet and all hovering. The scene could degenerate into high sentimental drama at any moment, Anne thought. But no one moved to hug her, and she did not move to hug anyone.
It was too soon yet.
But the time would come, she believed. They were all very much in need of pardon and peace. And, when all was said and done, they were family. And they had come today.
Sydnam was at her side and offering her his arm. She linked her own arm through it, half smiled about at the room’s occupants, and followed her mother from the parlor and up the broad wooden stairs, past her old room, and on to the room that had always been kept for such special guests that in effect it had almost never been used.
