The Angry Woman Suite (45 page)

But as it had my entire history, Magdalene’s splendor directed me. And her answer was that we
had
to keep pressing. We couldn’t let our failures block other chances. Battles begin with sharp words, and then there’s the nasty bloodletting and the despair, but sometimes battles reveal nobility in people—and after a battle, there’s at least quiet; and hopefully a measure of peace. But the pendulum keeps swinging, always, and peace sooner or later turns back into bluster, then revolution again. Back and forth the pendulum goes. One of my childhood history book “friends” wrote that great battles are defined by the shape of the changing elements
within
them—by its people. Inconsistent, insecure, squabbling, and occasionally splendid people.

Francis
had
made incredible music. He’d moved people out of the mundane and into senses they’d thought forgotten, or never known, into states of splendor.
He’d
been occasionally splendid—and that
was
something—so I had to remember we’d also fostered much good. And Francis
had
been brave, marrying Diana and her two daughters—only a very brave or foolish man marries a widow with children.

Magdalene took my elbow, asking, “Can you see well enough?” The mist cleared as suddenly as it had formed, revealing Magdalene’s knowing smile and caressing eyes, and if I hadn’t loved her so well, so long, so intimately, I’d have wondered why she asked.
She
was the constant, the center; she knew better. Of course I’d keep forging ahead. I squared my shoulders.

“Well, I can’t see a thing,” Elyse said.

“Go home,” Stella said, taking Magdalene’s hand, and for once I understood her.

“I’ll
see us home,” I said to Elyse. “Take my arm again, the other one. There. I can see well enough for now, thank you very much.”

And I could, too. I knew exactly where we’d been, where we were, and where we’d end up. I knew the truth. As did Elyse. No matter what she said, that girl could see straight through the darkest night, if she chose.

The music swelled, a serenade, and the splendor lighted our way.

FRANCIS

I’d slept comfortably. Band mates in adjoining rooms, seeing me through to the end—just as we’d always promised; Mother’s portrait on the floor by the foot of the bed. Not hanging over me. For the first time in as long as I could remember, Mother wasn’t hanging over me.

The portrait had been an impulse—and that’s when I saw Elyse, when I went back to get the portrait. I saw her watching us from behind a cracked door, expression inscrutable, and those big, grave eyes. And I’d been torn. Magnificently torn.

She was my daughter, the daughter of my heart. I’d loved her and believed I could make a difference in her life. I’d believed I could save both my beautiful girls, Elyse and Bean. But their fates had been cooked way before I arrived on the scene. Rose’s fault, of course. Her family had always been no good. Lording Stephen Eric over me as if
he’d
been perfect, never impatient, never tired, never exhausted trying to make ends meet, to stay ahead, to be a good father, to make Diana happy.

I’d never had a chance, suffering by comparison to a dead Stephen Eric. Nothing had gone my way.

In the end, though, I said nothing to Elyse.

I took the portrait and left my daughter with the last words. The winning words.

It was all I’d left to give her.

I’ve decided to start writing—like Aidan did. I think it will help my nerves.

I’m looking at Mother’s portrait while considering good opening lines. Think I’ll go with these:

I remember the exact day my destiny was sealed. It was my brother Earl’s fault, of course. He was the one who set me up, who gave root to the fantasy, this idea that I could have a life beyond Grayson House.