this
conversation with her present. She was flighty enough as it was.
"Thank you,
Em," Celia said, taking up her embroidery. She leaned closer to the lamp
burning on the table beside where she sat in a well-worn armchair. I sat in the
matching chair on the other side of the table, an open book on my lap. "It
was a pleasant séance today, if a little sad. Mrs. Krump seemed to be much
loved by her family."
"Indeed. And
you made them all feel joyful about their elderly mother moving on. It was most
ably and compassionately done. I have so much to learn from you."
She lowered her
work and narrowed her eyes at me. "Would you like to ask me what is on
your mind now, or do you have more compliments to pay me? Because I'm quite
open to them, you know."
I gave her a
withering glare and she smiled ruefully. "Very well, let me get to the
point. I learned some things today at George Culvert's library."
She picked up
her embroidery. "Oh?"
"I learned
that I am descended from an African tribe."
She dropped her
cloth, needle and all, and stared open-mouthed at me. She said nothing, but as
I told her all that I'd read in Beyond The Grave , her face became paler
until it was so white and pinched I thought she might faint. I knelt before her
and took her hand. It was cold.
"Celia? Are
you all right?"
"I...I...what
you say...is it true?"
"I hoped
you could tell me."
"I
can't," she whispered. "I can't tell you anything."
I sighed. "I
think you can. You know who my father was."
" Our father was a good man. He loved Mama—"
"Stop
it!" I pushed her hand away and stood. "Stop it, Celia. Your father
and mine are not the same person. I am seventeen and I am no fool, so stop
treating me like a child!"
She blinked up
at me. Her eyes were dry but dazed and distant. "You have grown up,
haven't you?" She sounded surprised. "It's happened so slowly. I
hadn't noticed until now."
"Then it's
high time you told me all you know about my father. I deserve honesty."
"I suppose
you do." She indicated I should sit back down then took up her embroidery
again. Her hands shook. "He was indeed darker than most, a shade or two
more than you, but I did not know of his African origins."
"Did
Mama?"
She lifted one
shoulder. "She may have."
"Go on."
Again the
shoulder-shrug. "There's not much more to tell. Shortly after my Papa
died, Louis, that was his name, came to work at his father's High Street grocery
shop."
"Which
one?"
"Mr. Graves
now runs it."
I knew the shop
and nodded at her to go on.
"There was
so little money after Papa died that we had to let our maid go and do all the shopping
on our own. Louis saw us struggling with our packages and offered to carry them
home for us one day. Mama had been working so hard and I immediately accepted his
offer even though she refused. He took it upon himself to listen to me and not
her and carried our things. He refused our attempts to pay him.
"He was
there the following week too and did the same, then the week after and the week
after. We began to expect him to be present whenever we shopped and looked
forward to his smiling face and friendly manner. He put us at ease with his
chatter and charm and..." Her voice trailed off but her fingers sped up,
pulling the thread so hard I thought it would break. "He was quite
handsome too."
"So you
became friends. Is that why Mama fell in love with him?"
She did not look
up at me but kept stabbing the needle into the cloth with such fervor I began
to worry she might stick her finger instead and bleed all over her lovely work.
"I suppose so."
So my father was
kind and generous. That at least was good news. Although it did seem strange
that my mother would fall in love with another man, no matter how charming,
mere months after losing her beloved husband. Perhaps she'd been lonely. "So
who was Louis? What was his full name and where did his family come from?"
She drew in a
deep breath and it seemed to steady her hand. "I know little of his
family. I don't even
conversation with her present. She was flighty enough as it was.
"Thank you,
Em," Celia said, taking up her embroidery. She leaned closer to the lamp
burning on the table beside where she sat in a well-worn armchair. I sat in the
matching chair on the other side of the table, an open book on my lap. "It
was a pleasant séance today, if a little sad. Mrs. Krump seemed to be much
loved by her family."
"Indeed. And
you made them all feel joyful about their elderly mother moving on. It was most
ably and compassionately done. I have so much to learn from you."
She lowered her
work and narrowed her eyes at me. "Would you like to ask me what is on
your mind now, or do you have more compliments to pay me? Because I'm quite
open to them, you know."
I gave her a
withering glare and she smiled ruefully. "Very well, let me get to the
point. I learned some things today at George Culvert's library."
She picked up
her embroidery. "Oh?"
"I learned
that I am descended from an African tribe."
She dropped her
cloth, needle and all, and stared open-mouthed at me. She said nothing, but as
I told her all that I'd read in Beyond The Grave , her face became paler
until it was so white and pinched I thought she might faint. I knelt before her
and took her hand. It was cold.
"Celia? Are
you all right?"
"I...I...what
you say...is it true?"
"I hoped
you could tell me."
"I
can't," she whispered. "I can't tell you anything."
I sighed. "I
think you can. You know who my father was."
" Our father was a good man. He loved Mama—"
"Stop
it!" I pushed her hand away and stood. "Stop it, Celia. Your father
and mine are not the same person. I am seventeen and I am no fool, so stop
treating me like a child!"
She blinked up
at me. Her eyes were dry but dazed and distant. "You have grown up,
haven't you?" She sounded surprised. "It's happened so slowly. I
hadn't noticed until now."
"Then it's
high time you told me all you know about my father. I deserve honesty."
"I suppose
you do." She indicated I should sit back down then took up her embroidery
again. Her hands shook. "He was indeed darker than most, a shade or two
more than you, but I did not know of his African origins."
"Did
Mama?"
She lifted one
shoulder. "She may have."
"Go on."
Again the
shoulder-shrug. "There's not much more to tell. Shortly after my Papa
died, Louis, that was his name, came to work at his father's High Street grocery
shop."
"Which
one?"
"Mr. Graves
now runs it."
I knew the shop
and nodded at her to go on.
"There was
so little money after Papa died that we had to let our maid go and do all the shopping
on our own. Louis saw us struggling with our packages and offered to carry them
home for us one day. Mama had been working so hard and I immediately accepted his
offer even though she refused. He took it upon himself to listen to me and not
her and carried our things. He refused our attempts to pay him.
"He was
there the following week too and did the same, then the week after and the week
after. We began to expect him to be present whenever we shopped and looked
forward to his smiling face and friendly manner. He put us at ease with his
chatter and charm and..." Her voice trailed off but her fingers sped up,
pulling the thread so hard I thought it would break. "He was quite
handsome too."
"So you
became friends. Is that why Mama fell in love with him?"
She did not look
up at me but kept stabbing the needle into the cloth with such fervor I began
to worry she might stick her finger instead and bleed all over her lovely work.
"I suppose so."
So my father was
kind and generous. That at least was good news. Although it did seem strange
that my mother would fall in love with another man, no matter how charming,
mere months after losing her beloved husband. Perhaps she'd been lonely. "So
who was Louis? What was his full name and where did his family come from?"
She drew in a
deep breath and it seemed to steady her hand. "I know little of his
family. I don't even
Similar Books
