Chapter 6
Beatrice Fenwick arrived the next morning.
Honora had called her.
Of course.
The older woman entered my study wearing pearls and indignation.
“My daughter made a mistake.”
I looked up.
“Which one?”
She stopped.
Good.
There were several.
Locking the door.
Burning Eliana’s belongings.
Hiding the truth.
Silencing Mirella.
Using my grief as cover.
Beatrice sat without invitation.
“You’re angry.”
“Yes.”
“You’re also grieving.”
“No.”
That surprised her.
“I’m thinking.”
More dangerous.
She began defending Honora’s position.
Widowers remarry.
Homes change.
Children adapt.
Old staff create resistance when they treat new wives like visitors.
All true sometimes.
Then:
“You should have cleared Eliana’s things years ago.”
Maybe.
Not her decision.
Beatrice continued.
“My daughter walked into a mausoleum.”
There.
I understood where Honora learned the language.
Beatrice herself had married a widower at twenty-six.
His first wife’s portrait hung in the dining room.
Her china remained locked.
Her children rejected Beatrice for years.
She survived by removing every trace she could.
“Your daughter repeated your marriage.”
Beatrice stiffened.
“She learned not to live under a ghost.”
“No.”
I leaned back.
“She learned to fight dead women through their children.”
Silence.
That hurt.
Good.
Then I asked:
“Did you tell staff to hide the locked door from me?”
Beatrice did not answer immediately.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because the fire was already traumatic.”
“For whom?”
She frowned.
“Everyone.”
“No.”
I spoke quietly.
“For Honora.”
That was what she had protected.
Her daughter’s future.
Not Blythe.
Not Mirella.
Not me.
She wanted the engagement to survive.
Beatrice finally admitted she believed if I learned Honora had locked them in, I would end the relationship.
Correct.
So she removed the fact that would allow me to make that choice.
Then called it protection.
I stood.
“This is the last private decision you make inside my house.”
Her face hardened.
“You can’t keep me from my daughter.”
“I’m not.”
“Then what does that mean?”
“It means being her mother does not make you authority over what I am allowed to know.”
She looked at me for a long moment.
Then:
“You sound like your father.”
I almost smiled.
“My father would have thrown you out already.”
May you like
She looked uncertain.
“Lucky for you, I’m trying something different.”
