“That should pair nicely.” Robert nodded. “But perhaps—would you suggest the sherry instead?”
The attendant cleared his throat, perplexed. “I think you’ll be pleased with either.”
“The wine, then,” Robert decided. “No—the sherry.”
The man could not make a decision. I leaned forward and addressed the attendant. “Please bring another glass. Lord Bramley will have one pour of each.”
Robert slumped into his seat, relieved, and nodded at me gratefully. Sweat beaded on his brow—from the warmth of the nearby fire, or the anxiety of choice. There would be no hawks or blackberries, no nestled cups, but I decided in that exact moment, we would be married. It wasn’t only the money and the title and his docile nature: I would be able to shape him to do as I saw fit with all three.
I nodded toward the pocket in which he had secured his watch. “A daughter without a mother? That must be quite a heartache. Though no doubt your closeness makes up for a great deal.”
“I try to make up for it.” He smoothed the tablecloth with his hands, which looked soft in the way that came from lack of challenge. “I do.”
“Naturally,” I encouraged him. “I am sure you’ve had plenty of opportunities to remarry. But no one could replace her real mother.” I felt a pang then, something far more genuine than all the other feelings I had had sitting next to him. The quick throb of loss that pulses until you push it away. Discreetly, I wiped my eye.
He nodded in agreement. “Or a father,” he acknowledged, respectfully, averting his gaze.
“Do forgive me.” I tried to smile. Sometimes the false self and the real one become so intertwined you do not know where one starts and the other ends. “Though I do not think anyone else here would understand as you do.” I dabbed at my eyes again. “And if I may overstep, perhaps it is not a woman’s touch your daughter needs, but rather a mother’s.”
He cleared his throat.
I nodded, confirming my meaning. He smiled back, uncertain. The rest of the evening was much the same: like pushing a rock down a hill on which it was already rolling. I directed. He received. All his timidity landed somewhere soft and unpleasant on the back of my tongue. But I thought of Rosie’s songs and Mathilde’s animals and knew I could make peace with a lifetime of the feeling for the sake of my girls.
In a few weeks’ time, all was settled. There was no one to ask permission of—a detail that held satisfaction and heartache in such equal balance, I could not be convinced there was any way but forward.
I have wondered: Was it deceitful to orchestrate a marriage based on my needs? We are all designed to sate our desires—and what is hunger if not a drive to survive? Is deceit less insidious if it is with noble purpose? There is nothing more noble than taking care of children—even if they are your own.
Hearing a hiccup behind me, I twisted in my chair and looked back across the study. Rosamund stood in the doorway, tearstained and swollen.
“Mother,” she said, and I extricated a hand from one daughter to offer it to the other. She sank down beside me and put her head onto my skirts. “What should we do?”
“Whatever do you mean,do?” Mathilde watched her. “We can hardly show up in front of the palace and juggle to catch their attention.”
“I know that.” Rosie lifted her head to narrow her eyes at her sister. “I don’t know how to juggle.”
Mathilde sighed and spoke before I could. “We wouldn’t make it past the gatehouse.”
“We could petition. Or at least ask.” Rosie turned to me once more. “Mother,” she pleaded.
“I don’t see what you’re hoping to accomplish,” Mathilde said.
Rosie paused her tears and frowned. “I am not crying for my own amusement. It is not frivolous to be concerned with one’s future.”
“Are you concerned with your future, or about missing a party?”
“Well.” She sniffled. “Why can’t it be both? Many great futures are decided at parties.”
“Just as many great parties derailed many futures,” I said. But my girls’ pleas and the unending talk of the near hereafter twisted in my gut. I looked around at the bookless bookshelves. How could I allow Elin, younger than Mathilde, to be introduced and not offer the same chance to my daughters, my own blood? I heard my father:You use the tools you have.I would do whatever it took to protect my family. I always had. In all the years, nothing had changed: Whatever shred of pride I had, the scraps I’d coveted, I would trade for them.
“I suppose,” I said, “that I could pay Sigrid a visit.”
The girls glanced at one another, and then back at me, a question on their faces.
There are boundaries you make for yourself that you still end up crossing. There are selves that your children do not know. I nodded, confirming. “Before she married the king, her name was Sigrid White.” I sucked in much-needed air. “Sigrid Camelia White.”
They realized, both at once, and gasped.
“You know—” Mathilde began.
