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“You’re disgusting. You—”
She lets out a shrill, piercing, laugh. “Oh, grow up. You’re almost nineteen and you act like you’re still in the nursery. Playing make-believe with Emeline was one thing, but she’s gone and you can’t seem to shake your fantasy world. Maybe someday you’ll learn that in the real world happiness doesn’t just fall into your lap, that you have to go out and take it for yourself, like me. But until then, by all means sit inside lost in your silly novels and pining away over the man you love and don’t have a clue how to get.”
“Maybe because I’m too busy trying to clean upyourmesses to be able to even think of anything besides keeping this family together. Do you have any idea how much I’ve done for you? The things I’ve sacrificed to make sure that your careless, disgusting behavior didn’t ruin us completely?”
“And did I ask you to do anything, Lydia? Did I?”
“Of course not, you were too busy opening your legs at every chance you got and—”
Catherine laughs again. “Do you know what your problem is? You think you’re some sort of martyr, that the world is broken and onlyyoucan fix it.”
“Trust me, Iwishsomeone else would take some responsibility. Like Charles. Where is he in all this? If you love each other so much, how come you aren’t with him? He must know you hate it here, must know that you were carrying his child. Mother might turn a blind eye, but don’t think I don’t see you posting letters to London all the time. So why hasn’t he sent for you? What’s keeping you here?”
Catherine’s face freezes, and then she turns away, curling her fingers around the balusters of the stairs. “That’s none of your business,” she murmurs.
Now it’s my turn to laugh. “None of my business? How can you possibly say that after yesterday?”
She spins back to face me, emerald eyes flashing. “Because he abandoned me, that’s why! Don’t you think I’d rather be anywhere than stuck in this godforsaken place with you?”
She looks as if she instantly regrets divulging this. “Oh,” I say, taken aback. “I didn’t know.”
“Oh, what do you care?” Catherine runs an impatient hand through her tangled hair. “I got a letter from him a couple of weeks ago. He’s met some English whore, a dancer, and he’s going to marry her. He told me before I had a chance to write about the baby.”
“Catherine, I—”
“You’re sorry? Spare me.”
I’m not sorry, but I’m about to tell her that it’s for the best no matter what it feels like right now, when the door flies open. Father thunders out of the dining room, brandishing his newspaper over his head like when he used to swat Snip for having an accident inside. His face is as red as a beet, a vein I never knew he had pulsing in his temple. Catherine and I exchange a look of horror.
“For God’s sake, would you two be quiet?” he roars. “You would think we were at war with all the carrying-on out here.”
Catherine and I don’t say anything, our last words still simmering in silence between us. Father doesn’t give a backward glance as he jams his hat on his head, grabs his cane and yanks open the front door. “I’m going to the mill,” he mutters. “At least there the only noise to contend with is the looms.”
The door slams shut behind him and Catherine’s unflinching gaze slides back to me. When she speaks it’s so cold and detached that a shiver runs up my spine. “Just know this, Lydia—I will do everything I can to ensure that you are miserable and alone for the rest of your pathetic life.”
And just like that, the last tenuous strands of love, of family, of sisterhood strain and snap. Only yesterday her blood stained my hands, her laboring body vulnerable and helpless before me. I can’t take it anymore. I pick up my hem and head for my room.
“That’s right, go on, Lydia! Run away, you coward.”
My eyes are hot, but the tears stubbornly absent as I take the stairs two by two. I’m halfway up when I come to a sudden stop, nearly teetering backward.
I don’t know how long Mother has been standing there, one hand over her open mouth, the other clutching her shawl at her neck. Usually small and wispy among the imposing rooms of Willow Hall, she now towers above me, a queen of her castle. And the queen is not pleased.
I glance behind me to find Catherine has the decency to look ashamed, her gaze quickly settling back on the carpet. I can’t stop staring at my mother though, transfixed by the fury on the face that is usually so vacant and withdrawn.
Mother’s words are low and crisp. “That’s enough.” She sweeps down the rest of the stairs, her diminutive figure brushing me aside. “I won’t have another minute of this in my house. I’m at my wit’s end with all the bickering and animosity between you two.”
I’ve never seen Mother so angry. It doesn’t come naturally to her, it’s almost as if she has to feel her way along, not quite sure of what she should say. But it takes her only a matter of seconds to find her footing.
“It’s past time you were both married, but since you seem determined to spoil every opportunity, then I expect you’ll at least behave civilly to each other so long as you are under this roof.”
“Mother, that’s not fair. I—”
Mother cuts Catherine off with a look so frigid that it could turn the ocean to ice. Catherine clamps her mouth back shut.
“Now,” Mother says as she retrieves a letter from the sideboard. Catherine and I watch her in stunned silence. “This,” she says, waving the envelope, “is another letter from your Aunt Phillips. She’s lonely and doing poorly with her foot, and in need of a companion around the house.”
I swallow, casting a sidelong glance at Catherine.