“Now, why would you think that, Pamela?”
“Because Mother died that day too.”
Camelia’s heart shattered at the quiet confession.
“Oh, Pamela. I’m so sorry. That’s a heavy burden for you to carry.”
Pamela’s eyes glistened, and her voice trembled as she spoke. “He won’t talk about her. He just gets… angry.”
“Perhaps he does not know how to handle his grief either?”
“Perhaps… or perhaps he hates me for it?”
Camelia reached for her hand and squeezed it gently. “No, Pamela. Your father does not hate you at all. And you should never be scared to miss your mother or enjoy your birthday. Have you ever told him how much you want to talk about her?”
Pamela shook her head, her voice small. “No. He’ll shut me out. He always does.”
He shuts everyone out.
The door to the drawing room opened, and Mrs. Finch re-entered. She cleared her throat. “Shall we continue, Lady Pamela?”
“Yes, Mrs. Finch.” Pamela got up immediately and continued with her lesson.
Camelia’s tone was firm but kind. “A moment, Mrs. Finch. Pamela, listen to me. Birthdays are meant to be celebrated, not drowned in sorrow. Your mother would want you to smile and feel joy. We’re changing this, you and I.”
Pamela’s eyes widened, her voice hopeful but wary. “Change it? How?”
Camelia smiled. “Oh, don’t you worry about that. I’ll plan something special.”
“But… what if Father says no?”
“Leave your father to me. I’m quite good at pestering him. Mrs. Finch, what do you say? A birthday celebration sounds great, right?”
Mrs. Finch stood ramrod straight, her arms crossed over her flat chest as she scowled at them both. “Your Grace, I am not here to advise you on Lady Pamela’s social life. Now, without any further delays, we have an etiquette lesson to finish.”
Camelia rolled her eyes, and Pamela’s lips twitched into a rare small smile. “All right, Mrs. Finch. Do continue.”
She squeezed Pamela’s arm for reassurance before she placed the books on her head and walked towards the uptight governess.
“Father?” Pamela’s voice was soft and barely audible through the door.
“Enter,” Raph called out.
The door creaked open, and Pamela slipped in. Her raven curls were tucked under a bonnet, and her eyes were fixed on the floor.
She curtsied. “You… you wanted to see me, Father?” she whispered.
“Sit, Pamela.” He pointed to the armchair before him.
Pamela perched on the chair’s edge, hands folded tightly in her lap, and kept her head down.
“How are your lessons going?”
She glanced up, then down again, speaking timidly in his presence. “Mrs. Finch says that my stitching’s improving.”
“And your etiquette lessons?”
“She says there’s some work to be done.”
