Murder at Marble House(7)
“She treats me as though I’m one of those dolls.” She jerked her chin at the shelves of bisque faces staring lifelessly back at us. “Those wretched, insensible, staring dolls. They’re horrible and I hate them. Mother’s horrible and I hate her.”
Part of me wished to agree, at least about the injustice of the situation. Instead, I seized her hands in my own. “You don’t mean that, Consuelo. I know you don’t. Your mother . . .” I drew a breath and tried not to loathe myself. “Your mother wants the best for you. The very best. She may be a bit . . .” I bit back the words vainglorious and misguided, and replaced them with something more diplomatic. “. . . A bit overbearing at times, I’ll agree, but I believe her heart is in the right place.”
Good Lord. So much for not loathing myself. So much for Consuelo respecting and adoring me.
She snatched her hands out of mine. “You’re with her on this,” she said flatly. Bitterly.
“No. Yes. No.” I shook my head and swallowed the growing lump in my throat. “Consuelo—”
Before I could get out another word, she said, “How can you be? You, who have all the independence in the world. Who may decide each and every day what to do and where to go. Whom you’ll see. Whom you’ll someday marry.” This last came out as a choked whisper that nearly wrenched my heart in two.
“You’re wrong,” I said, not altogether dishonestly. Hadn’t what occurred that morning between Derrick and me proved my options were limited, that I couldn’t simply do as I pleased whenever I pleased; that so-called independence came with a price, with often painful sacrifices?
“My life might look appealing to you, but not a day goes by that I don’t sit down with our household account book and decide whether we’ll eat meat for the next week, or eggs and toast in order to pay our bills. When something in my house needs repairing, that’s another several items crossed off our grocery list. Barney should have been put to pasture a year or two ago, but I can’t afford a new horse. And I need a goat because I can’t afford a gardener.”
She had set her head on my shoulder as I spoke and now I heard a watery chuckle against my neck.
“And when was the last time you saw me in a frock as new and fashionable as this one?” I stroked the folds of her dress where they spilled across my own.
She fingered the edge of her coral silk sash. “You don’t care about new dresses, Emma. You never did.”
“You’re right,” I said with such fervor she flinched and sat up straight. “It’s not dresses I care about, it’s helping people. People like Katie, my housemaid, and Jamie, your new gardener. I made a difference in both their lives, I truly did. Just consider, Consuelo, how many people I could help if I had the resources . . . and the connections. Just think . . .”
I trailed off to let that much sink in. Her brows converged, not in anger or sorrow this time, but in contemplation. I could all but see her mind working it over. Her bottom lip eased between her teeth. I leaned closer to her. “Just think how many people you’ll be able to help once you take your place in society. Not your mother’s place, Consuelo. But when you’re no longer under her thumb and you can step out as your own person. A woman of influence in your own right.”
“I . . . I hadn’t thought of it that way. . . .”
“Well, no. You’ve been too upset.”
“I’ve been selfish, worrying only about myself.” The ridges between her brows deepened. She wasn’t quite there yet, not completely convinced. Doubt continued to niggle at her, yet when I should have moved in for “the kill,” when I should have gathered every persuasive ploy at my disposal to seal the bargain, guilt reared up to stop me cold. Guilt . . . and my own doubts.
If I truly believed my own words, then why hadn’t I accepted Derrick’s proposal of marriage this morning? He was a good man. And what about all the people I could help with the Andrewses’ fortune at my disposal?
But I’d seen all too well what fortune does to people, how it changes them. Especially women. Yes, society matrons like Aunt Alva and Aunt Alice could support any number of causes—as long as those causes were approved by society, and by their husbands. Take on a “wrong” cause and society would close ranks in opposition. Be seen as too forward or assertive or unconventional, and a woman would find herself ostracized by friends and family, her connections severed, her influence to do good works stripped away. It was a harsh reality . . . and all too often it produced hardened women, forced to subdue their own true natures behind a gilded façade of gentility that very often bore no resemblance to the person within.