Page 14 of The Feud

I brush past her and into the sitting room, assuming she will follow. I’m not going to command her the way Lionel did because I want her to have some control. She comes in behind me and I’m pleased, sweeping my arm out to indicate the plethora of antique furnishings and artwork. “I’m surprised to hear you belittle history. You lived in a very old country, far older than the United States. I assume you were surrounded by many things that were old and had historical significance. Surely, you’ve seen many buildings that were built hundreds and hundreds of years ago. By those standards, my home is quite new.”

“Lionel and Rosemund’s house is very contemporary and modern. I prefer it.”

Touché, little girl.

I move to the mantel and point to the oil portrait above it. “This is your great-great-great-great-grandfather, Robert Blackburn. He built this house.”

“He looks mean,” Sylvie says as she studies the painting.

I smile. “If only half the stories I’ve heard about him are true, he was not the warmest of men. Very dour in nature. Took his job seriously. But he loved his family.”

Sylvie doesn’t reply, but instead starts to pace around the room, looking anywhere but at me.

“Would you like to see your bedroom? We didn’t have a lot of time to get it ready, but my mother—your grandmother—bought new bedding and curtains. Of course, if you don’t like them, we can get you something else.”

“It won’t make a difference. I won’t be here long.”

“Well, I hope to change your mind. Hope you’ll at least give me a chance.”

Sylvie wheels around. “I’ll give you nothing. The Blackburns deserve nothing.”

I shoot up a prayer for patience. My tone is soft but chastising. “I see someone has been filling your head with lies.”

“Nous ne sommes pas une famille de menteurs.”

Frowning, I ask, “What did you just say?”

I get an overly sweet, completely fake smile. “I said I’d like to see my room now.”

It’s a lie and I know it. I’d bet money that she just cursed me in French. I’ll let it go though, and know that for the foreseeable future, I’ll probably have to let a lot of things go as Sylvie settles in.

CHAPTER 6

Ethan

Brooding could be the best descriptor for my mood this morning as I stare at the empty coffee cup before me. I tune out the chatter around the breakfast table, filled by my parents, brothers, and sister. Miranda is at the kitchen sink cleaning up and I find the clink of dishes and silverware a comforting distraction from my dark thoughts.

I glance at my watch and sigh.

That soft sound brings a halt to the talk around the table and everyone turns to look at me.

Our home has a massive formal dining room that seats twenty, but we rarely take meals there unless it’s a holiday. When the family gets together, we usually sit at the big square butcher-block table in the kitchen before a large bay window that looks out over the back pastures. In the distance, a handful of saddlebreds graze on spring grass.

My mother is the first to speak to me directly. “Would you like me to go up and have a word with her?”

I can see how worried she is. “I don’t know.”

“I’d be glad to put something together,” Miranda says from the kitchen sink. “You can take a breakfast tray up to her.”

I shake my head. “She needs to learn to come down and eat with us as a family.”

Those words ring hollow as they’ve all been sitting here for nearly forty-five minutes, their breakfasts finished long ago.

“She probably just needs more time.” This from my father who, while an amazing man who loves his children and family dearly, isn’t the best at handling confrontation. It’s not because his nature is gentle, but because he’s more logically minded. He never sees the need to battle things out but feels that rational discussion is the solution to all problems.

That just isn’t going to work with a nine-year-old girl who is filled with bitterness over her situation, compounded by the sorrow of losing her mother.

Sylvie’s homecoming is not going well. After I showed her to her room yesterday, she immediately demanded to be left alone. And because I’m at a loss as to how to get her to engage with me, I complied. Throughout the rest of the day, family members made individual trips up to her room to introduce themselves. I stood just outside the door where she couldn’t see me and listened to each painful, but short, conversation. My mother put forth the most valiant effort, spending a full fifteen minutes in there with her talking about everything under the sun.

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