“I asked for cocoa tarts,” Mama said, raising a brow, “and the bitch gave me pudding.”
“Scandalous,” he managed. “Have you been walking in the evening again? Rearranging the busts?”
“I don’t like their eyes,” his mother said. “Sightless eyes. Not looking anywhere. Preposterous little villains, always watching me. What are they looking for? Miserable, gloomy arses, the lot of them.”
He could not argue about the busts as he did not care for them either. “You know you are not to be lifting them,” he chided gently. “You could do yourself injury.”
“I am always doing everything wrong, am I not?” Her eyes welled with tears.
And for the second time that day, he felt like a complete arse. “I am merely concerned with your welfare, dear heart. Do not fret over it. The busts have all been restored to proper order. It is you I worry about.”
“Oh, my darling lad. Do not worry over me.” Mama smiled, then released his hands. “I have never felt finer. When will my grandchild be born? Celeste told me, you know. Where is that girl?”
Her abrupt change—going from mistaking him for her Ferdy to realizing he was her son—was also commonplace. But nevertheless, navigating it remained difficult. He did not know precisely when his mother had become frail-minded. Years ago, perhaps. It had begun slowly, with simple things.
She had forgotten words. Names. Places. Later, it had grown worse. She forgot him. She became paranoid. One day, she had become utterly convinced that Langdon was planting spiders in her chamber. Another, she had cursed her best friend, and then announced she was not wearing her drawers at a garden party.
But it had been some time since she had mentioned his dead wife. And her grandchild, which had been stillborn. Sin’s daughter. At least, he had believed Opal had been his. Another wave of sadness hit him at the memory of the little angel brought into the world too soon. Years had passed, but he would never forget.
“Mama, do you remember me?” he asked softly, focusing upon his mother’s seeming lucidity instead.
She had sudden, beautiful flashes when she seemed to return to herself, like a sky after a brutal rainstorm. But always, inevitably, the clouds returned. Eventually, he knew, they would forever remain.
“Justin,” she said. “Of course I know you, my wonderful son. Why do you not visit me more often?”
“I visit you almost every day,” he reminded her. “If you ever have need of me, I am here. Ask Miss Wright or any of the staff.”
“Oh Ferdy,” she said, smiling again. “What would I do without you?”
And just like that, she was gone.
Again.
“Would you take some tea with me?” he asked her.
“Oh, yes Ferdy. I willalwaystake tea with you,” Mama said.
He could not keep himself from wishing that once, just once, his mother would take tea withhimagain. But he also knew that was not likely. Her glimmers of lucidity grew fainter by the day.
Soon, there would come a time when she would not know him at all any longer.
He had never dreaded another day more, aside from the day his daughter had been commended to the earth.
“I will ring for the tea,” he said, rising.
“Have the girl ring for it, Ferdy,” Mama called. “What is her name, again? The trollop ought to earn her bloody keep. And you will tell her I want tarts, won’t you? Not the pudding. I have never been able to abide by pudding. I would sooner eat a fucking shoe.”
“Of course,” he agreed, wondering where the devil his mother had gotten her colorful vocabulary.
Then again, perhaps it was best he never knew. Some secrets were best kept.
Chapter Seventeen
Do you know how delicious it is, dear reader, to fool everyone around you? To know that you have murdered two innocents and you will never be imprisoned for your crimes? It is a wondrous secret, and yet, confiding in you is equally thrilling. Sooner or later, the truth must be told…
~fromConfessions of a Sinful Earl
Her husband waskeeping a secret from her, and Callie did not like it.
