Madeline stilled. Her hand stiffened mid-movement and curled slowly into her skirt, gathering a fold of fabric between her fingers as though she needed something tangible to anchor herself.
A faint tremor passed through her breath before she managed to speak.
“My mother…” she began, but the word caught. She swallowed hard, her throat working as she forced her expression into something calm, something composed, though the tension at the corners of her mouth betrayed her. “My mother is alive.”
Tessa blinked up at her with wide eyes. “Then where is she?”
Madeline’s breath thinned, rising shallow and tight. She smoothed her skirt as if brushing away fragments of a memory she wanted no part of. When she finally lifted her gaze, her smile was soft, but it wavered at the edges.
“Somewhere far away,” she said, the gentleness in her tone at odds with the strain beneath it.
Tessa studied her as her brow furrowed. “But don’t you miss her?” she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper, as if afraid she had stepped somewhere delicate.
Madeline shook her head slowly, the movement small but heavy. Her lashes lowered as her gaze dipped toward her hands.
“Well… my mother and I aren’t on the best of terms,” she murmured, the confession slipping out like something fragile and long buried.
Tessa’s head tilted, curls brushing her shoulder as confusion mixed with sadness on her face. Her little fingers crept toward Madeline’s sleeve, brushing it in a hesitant attempt at comfort. “What does that mean? Does she not love you?”
Madeline inhaled sharply but kept her voice steady through sheer force of will. Her hand drifted down, smoothing the fabric of her dress over her hips, a habitual motion she did not seem to notice. Her lips curved into something that was not quite a smile, not quite a grimace.
“She loves appearances,” she said softly, her eyes flickering away to the window as though the cold light there could shield her. “That is what I know for certain.”
A beat of silence followed, quiet and trembling, filled only by the soft tick of the clock and the distant hum of the house.
The truth had slipped out too easily, too starkly, and she wished she could take it back. But Tessa only blinked, absorbing it with the simple acceptance children possessed before the world taught them suspicion.
The girl looked down at her hands, her gaze drifting to the faint white scars on her cheeks reflected in the polished instrument.
“Do you think people don’t like me because of my face?” she asked in a small voice.
Madeline nearly broke. Tessa’s question hit her like a soft blow, and when she finally spoke, her voice came thin and shaken.
“Who told you that?” she whispered, leaning in without realizing it, her hand hovering just shy of the girl’s shoulder.
“No one,” Tessa said quickly. Her fingers twisted into the fabric of her own skirt, knotting and unknotting it as she looked down. “Not with words.” She bit her lip and scrunched her brows. “But I can see. When governesses came for interviews, they always stared at my scars for too long. Or too little. They smiled too hard or not at all.” Her voice dropped to a wounded murmur.“And sometimes they said they couldn’t stay because the house was too far from their families, but Papa says that was not true.”
Madeline’s heart squeezed painfully. She reached out, slow and tender, and tucked a stray curl behind Tessa’s ear. The girl looked up immediately, eyes wide and soft, her lower lip trembling with the effort to remain brave.
Madeline stroked the curl gently, then let her hand rest lightly at the girl’s cheek. “People judge what they do not understand,” she said, her voice low and warm, each word carefully chosen. “Sometimes they look only at the surface of things because they cannot bear to look deeper. But their opinions…” She brushed her thumb lightly along Tessa’s cheekbone, “…do not define your value, my dear.”
Tessa blinked rapidly, her lashes fluttering as though fighting the sting of tears. “You speak like you’ve felt the same, Miss Watton. Do people judge you too?” she asked, her voice small but earnest, tilting her chin up to read Madeline’s expression.
Madeline exhaled slowly, her shoulders falling in a quiet, vulnerable motion. “Yes,” she admitted, her gaze drifting momentarily toward the window as though the confession needed somewhere safe to land.
“Why?” Tessa pressed, scooting a fraction closer on the bench, her tiny hand inching toward Madeline’s.
Madeline hesitated. She inhaled once, twice, then exhaled slowly. Her fingers brushed across her own wrist as if remembering old comments, old wounds.
“Because sometimes,” she said gently, “I do not look the way they expect a lady to look.”
Tessa stared at her with sudden, striking seriousness, far too old for her years. Her brows lowered, her lips pressed together, and she reached out to touch Madeline’s hair with careful fingers, as though examining something precious.
“But you’re very beautiful, Miss Watton,” she said simply, the certainty in her voice so pure it pierced.
Madeline’s breath hitched and she let out a startled, choked laugh. “Thank you, sweetheart,” she murmured, brushing a hand over her hot cheeks. “It’s very kind of you to say. I’ve been told otherwise many times.”
Tessa’s small chin lifted in fierce indignation. She folded her arms, nose wrinkling as though she smelled something foul.
