Beloved Captive by Kathleen Y'Barbo

sparing her a glance. She stepped into the dining room and went about the business of setting a place for Emilie at the head of the long dining table. “C’mon, honey,” she said when she’d finished, “and eat whilst I get your papa’s food situated.”
    “I’ll do it.” Emilie settled the items on the breakfast tray despite Cook’s feeble protest then looked up at the woman who’d stood in her mother’s stead since Emilie’s birth. “My father and I have some business to discuss, and I would ask that we not be disturbed,” she said as she lifted the tray.
    Cook nodded and stepped back, her eyes wide. “I told Dell there wasn’t a secret in this house that wouldn’t someday be made light. The Lord, He promises that in His Word.”
    Slowly, Emilie guided the tray back to its resting place on the table with only the slightest tremor impeding her progress. Speech was impossible.
    “Not much happens in this house that somebody don’t know about it.” Cook paused. “Honey, sit down. You look like you’re ’bout to fall over.”
    Emilie felt her eyes narrow as the blood rushed to her temples. Without concentration, she might have toppled. Several questions came to mind. She set her focus on the one that plagued her worst of all. “Is there anyone in this house other than me who did not know the truth about my mother?”
    The older woman opened her mouth to speak, then must have thought better of it. She pointed to the tray. “Why don’t I take this up to him? Likely he’s wonderin’ where—”
    “Cook, please.” Emilie hadn’t intended to plead, yet her voice failed her. “Please,” came out in a near-breathless whisper. “I would have you tell me about my mother.”
    Her gnarled hand clasped Emilie’s sleeve as Cook looked past her to the open window. “I can’t speak of such things,” she said. “I took a vow not to tell.”
    “Then you are relieved of that vow.” She leaned away from the old woman’s grasp. “I know of her death. What I wish to hear is the story of her life.”
    Cook swayed, one hand on her forehead. “Praise the Lord,” she declared as she righted herself and lifted her skirts to dance a jig. “God knew I couldn’t carry that secret to my grave, and He’s done performed a real life miracle and set me free. Where small hope exists, there does the Lord abide.”
    How many times had she heard Cook say those words? Too many to count. Enough to hold them in the same esteem as she did those of the ancient Greeks she’d studied at Miss Potter’s school.  
    “If only He chose to perform the same miracle for me,” Emilie whispered.  
    Cook stopped dancing and pointed at Emilie. “Oh, baby girl, He can. You just ask.”
    Emilie refused to wither under the old woman’s stare. “I’m asking you.”  
    “And I’ll tell you, but not right now,” she said. “There’s an old man upstairs who’ll have both our hides if he’s not fed soon.”
    Emilie nodded. “Then we shall continue this conversation after breakfast.” She reached for the tray once more. “I’ll see he finishes quickly.”
    Unfortunately, Papa was in no mood for finishing his breakfast. Rather, he seemed to want to tarry over his coffee and think. Emilie assumed he was thinking, for he certainly was not speaking as he sat propped against his pillows, staring out the window Emilie insisted remain open.
    Finally, she could stand the silence no more. “Papa, I’ve a topic to discuss if you’re a mind.” When he did not answer, she pressed on. “My mother. What news have you to tell me? Perhaps something you’ve withheld that you’d like to confess?”
    His jaw slacked, then tightened as he reached for his coffee cup and then turned away. Her hopes of a quick admission of guilt and a passionate request for forgiveness fell away, and in their place, anger began to blossom.
    The expansive room became too small. Emilie moved to set his tray on the table, but he held tight to it with his free