“I’ll always be your friend, no matter what you’re about to disclose.”
She pushed away from him and smiled another wobbly smile. “I won’t hold you to that promise after I’ve revealed all the nasty details of my story, but it’s kind of you to say that.” She drew in a breath, released it, then drew in another before she looked out the window, as if telling her story was so uncomfortable she couldn’t do it while looking at him.
“My mother suffered from melancholy, quite like Mrs. Davenport suffers from, and she was prone to dramatic acts during her bouts of melancholy. That drama eventually led to her death, which happened in the home of my father’s mistress.”
“Your father’s mistress didn’t murder your mother, did she?”
Gertrude turned from the window. “No, there was no murder that day, although I believe my mother was hoping her death would be laid at the feet of that woman.” She bit her lip. “From what I’ve been able to gather from the investigation that followed, although I was only ten at the time, my mother burst into that woman’s house, ranting about the shame she’d been made to suffer because of the woman’s involvement in my father’s life. Then, after she was done ranting, she pulled out a pistol and shot herself.”
Harrison rubbed Gertrude’s arm, his heart all but breaking when he felt her trembling. “How horrible.”
“It was, although I was spared the shame of how my mother died when my influential Cadwalader relatives stepped in, paid my father’s mistress to not spread tales, and even managed to keep the manner in which my mother died out of the papers.” Gertrude shuddered. “Her death could have been avoided, though, if only I’d been more diligent in her care.” She shuddered again, drew in a ragged breath, then lifted her chin. “She was being overly dramatic on the day she died, and because of that, I didn’t immediately go after her when she flew into one of her rages and raced out of the shabby rooms we were renting. Because of that decision, there was no one to stop her from taking her life.”
“You were all of ten years old, Gertrude. Surely you must know there was little you could have done to influence your mother’s decision.”
“I’ll never know for certain, and besides, my not going after my mother is not the worst thing I’m guilty of.”
Brushing back a strand of hair that had come undone from its pins, Harrison wiped away a tear that was running down her cheek. “Perhaps you should start from the very beginning so I have a clearer picture of the situation.”
“I really don’t enjoy elaborating on that time in my life.”
“Clearly, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist.”
“Are you ever this insistent with your sisters?”
Harrison smiled. “I should think not since they’d then take to banding together to thwart me, but since you don’t have an entire posse of ladies to band against me right now, I feel perfectly safe being insistent with you.”
Shaking her head, Gertrude settled back against the seat. “Oh, very well, I’ll elaborate, but do remember you’re the one insisting on this after I disclose all the gory details.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Crossing her arms over her chest, Gertrude looked out the window again for a long moment, then returned her attention to him. “As I mentioned, my mother suffered from melancholy, but it’s next to impossible to explain exactly how deeply a case of melancholy can affect a person, let alone a family,” Gertrude began. “She’d always been prone to dramatics even when my father was alive, but after he died—and because he’d died under what can only be described as unsavory conditions—my mother’s dramatics took on a new and concerning turn. She’d not speak for days on end, and then when she did, hurtful words would escape from her mouth, like how disappointed she was with me, her one and only daughter, but a daughter who possessed only passable looks and no great charm to speak of.”
She held up a hand when he opened his mouth, stopping the argument that was on the very tip of his tongue.
“There’s no need to be offended on my behalf, Harrison,” she said. “I was an incredibly shy child, which made it next to impossible to display much charm, although the criticisms my mother leveled at me were devastating and difficult to accept at the time.”
“Did you ever consider in hindsight the idea that your mother might have been so critical of you because she was disappointed in herself? It’s been my opinion that many a cruel word has been tossed an innocent person’s way to distract from the deficiencies of the person spouting those words.”
“While I’ve often been of that opinion as well, I’m afraid that in my mother’s case, she meant every word. She was never happy with the books I chose to read to her, or the meals I tried to prepare. To this day, I’m not what anyone could call proficient in the kitchen, but I did try, although my attempts were never quite good enough for her.”
“She sounds like a deeply unhappy person.”
“Shewasunhappy, and spent the three years after my father’s death trying to find meaning for all the disappointments she’d been made to suffer. That’s why we spent an excessive amount of time on our knees in church, praying that God would bestow on us, or at least on my mother, a semblance of peace, but that particular prayer was never answered.”
Harrison braced himself when Gertrude’s gaze turned distant and fresh tears clouded her eyes before she continued her story in a voice no louder than a whisper.
“We’d finally run out of money, you see, on that day so many years ago, and Mother was wringing her hands and bemoaning her fate. I made the very great mistake of suggesting she seek out one of our many wealthy relatives and ask for some assistance, which turned out to be the suggestion that finally had her losing all sense of reason.”
Gertrude raised a finger and traced it along the window of the hansom cab. “She screamed horrible accusations my way before she turned physically violent. She broke an umbrella over my head, then continued to hit me with the bits that were left, shouting words of disgust at me when I wouldn’t fight back. When the umbrella had nothing remaining to it except the handle, she flung it aside, grabbed her reticule, then stormed out of the room.”
She turned from the window. “That was the last time I saw my mother alive, and as I said before, it’s my fault she died. I could have stopped her. It wouldn’t have been that difficult, but I chose to stay behind, unaware of my mother’s plight until the police came looking for me.”
An image of a young Gertrude sprang to Harrison’s mind, one that had her covered in bruises and huddling all alone in a derelict room, wondering when her mother might return to rain more abuse down on her.
Closing his eyes for a single second, Harrison drew in a breath, and then reached out and drew Gertrude straight back into his arms. Pressing his lips against the top of her head, he breathed in the scent of her hair, blinking away the moisture that was now clouding his vision.
“You must know, Gertrude, that your mother’s death was not your fault. She chose to end her life instead of fighting for it—and fighting for you. You were a child, she was the adult, and even though it does sound as if she suffered from severe mental anguish, she should have never allowed you to believe you were responsible for that.”
