Cordelia’s shoulders shook. “I cannot. I do not know how.”
“Then let me show you,” Gwen pleaded. “We can go to Cousin Edith. We can sew or keep house or even take in lodgers if we must. We can be poor and free instead of comfortable and afraid. Mama, please, come with me.”
Cordelia pressed a hand to her mouth, squeezing her eyes shut as if she could shut out the picture her daughter painted. When she lowered it, the answer was already in her gaze.
“I cannot,” she croaked. “I am his wife. I will remain his wife.”
Gwen’s fingers went numb. “You would stay even if he sent me away? Even if you never see me again?”
Cordelia choked on a sob. “Do not say such things, Gwendoline. We will visit. St. Agatha’s is not at the end of the earth.”
“He will not allow it,” Gwen said. “You know that as well as I do.”
Cordelia’s silence confirmed it.
“He is my husband,” she whispered again, as if the repetition could make the word holy enough to stand against all argument. “I made my choice. I must be faithful to it.”
Gwen pulled her hand back slowly, as if from a flame that had burned deeper than she had expected. “And I,” she replied in a voice she barely recognized as her own, “must be faithful to mine.”
For a moment, they simply looked at one another. Mother and daughter. Two women perched at the edge of the same precipice, one clinging stubbornly to the crumbling ground behind her, the other feeling the rocks give way beneath her feet.
Cordelia reached out again, but Gwen rose before she could touch her.
“You are tired,” Cordelia said, as if this were all that troubled her. “You have had a long day. We will speak again in the morning. Things always look different in the morning.”
“They will look the same,” Gwen muttered. “Only clearer.”
“Do not speak to Howard about this. He would be furious to know that you have been entertaining such wild ideas. Promise me you will not provoke him.”
“I have no intention of telling him anything,” Gwen assured her.
“Good.” Cordelia heaved a sigh of relief. “You will see. Once you are settled in St. Agatha’s, it may not be so terrible as you fear. There is calm in such places. Order. Prayer. Perhaps it will suit you more than you think.”
Gwen stared at her. “You truly believe that?”
“I must,” Cordelia whispered. “Or I will go mad.”
There it was. The line she would not cross. The courage she could not summon.
Gwen loved her mother for her frailty and hated the world that had made such frailty inevitable.
She smoothed her skirt with hands that wished to shake. “Sleep, Mama. I have taken too much of your rest.”
Cordelia swiped at her tears. “Come here,” she said, opening her arms.
Some stubborn part of Gwen wanted to refuse. To turn around and leave with all the dignity she could muster, as she had from the lodge. Instead, she rushed into her mother’s arms because she loved her with a fierce devotion that no disappointment could kill.
Cordelia held her so tightly it almost hurt. “You are my heart,” she whispered against Gwen’s hair, “whatever happens. Remember that.”
Gwen closed her eyes. “Then choose me.”
The words were a plea breathed into the hollow of her mother’s shoulder, where they could do no good.
Cordelia only held her more tightly. “I cannot,” she croaked. “But I love you. So very much.”
It is not enough.
But it was all Gwen had.
