Page 81 of The Dravenhearst Brides
The second bride’s mouth opened, a snide look twisting her beautiful face into something distinctly evil.
“Here, sit beside me, Babette.” Margot slid into a chintz chair and patted the neighboring seat. She fought a shiver, pulling a blanket from the settee to wrap around her shoulders. Behind her, the windows were thick with creeping frost. Inside the panes, not out.
“Indeed, indeed. Sit and drink,” Eleanor trilled. She settled on Margot’s other side and began to pour. Smoke curled from the teapot, dewy steam collecting along the rim of the cup. “Tell us everything, Margot. Surely you’ve shared the news with Merrick by now? What did he say? How did you do it? Oh, did he cry when you told him he was going to be a father?” She propped her chin in her hand and waited expectantly.
Margot ignored the proffered cup of tea. The warmth felt delicious in her frozen fingers, but she didn’t trust the brew for one minute. The story of Babette’s miscarriage loomed heavy, and Eleanor’s fervor about the baby frightened her. It was all she ever wanted to talk about.
“I’ve still not told him. The, er, time hasn’t felt right.”
“What could possibly be morerightthan a baby?” Eleanor wheedled. This too was a familiar refrain. “You’re starting a family. There’s no greater calling than children, Margot. No greater joy than motherhood.”
“Is that so?” Babette plunked herself down at the table with enough force to rattle the teacups. “Is that why you offed yourself in the rickhouse, Eleanor? You were filled withjoy?”
Eleanor slammed the teapot down, a large dollop sloshing out to stain the tablecloth. “Babette,manners.”
She turned to Margot. Reached out to pat her hand. It felt like dunking her fingers in a bucket of ice.
“Babette and I have never seen eye to eye on this,” Eleanor confided, leaning in. “But you, Margot…you’re going to be a wonderful mother. You’re going to be the best of us, I just know it. Drink up, dearie.”
Margot continued to ignore the tea.
“How dare you.” Babette kicked her feet up to an empty chair, lounging irreverently. “I was an excellent wife, a fantastic mother. Would have been even better if you’d left well enough alone. Ruined everything with your meddling, you did. Ninny.”
Eleanor’s hand flew to her chest. “I did no such thing. You were the one cavorting behind your husband’s back. Really, Babette, do wedding vows mean nothing to you?” She ticked off the offenses on white-gloved fingers. “Youdefiledmy house with your sinful parties. You made a fool of my beloved son, getting yourself in the family way not once, buttwiceby another man. Invited your degenerate, concubine friend—”
“You took my children from me,” Babette bellowed. “I lost two babies and my life because of you.” She grabbed her teacup so violently, a tidal wave spilled over the edge, soaking another section of tablecloth. “And your beloved, pious, perfect son loved those bloody Gomorrah parties as much as I did.”
“When you’ve lostsixbabies,” Eleanor said, her tone lethal, the tail of a rattler poised to strike, “you can come crying to me. And I didn’t take your life or your second bastard baby from you, Babette. You’ve only yourself to blame for that.”
The silence that befell the room was deadly, stretching for several long, uncomfortable moments.
It was broken by Eleanor’s laughter, high and loud and altogether wrong.
“Oh, Margot.” The bride dabbed her napkin at her veil, right at the place where her mouth should be. “I’m terribly sorry, dearie. What dreadful hostesses we are. We were talking about you and Merrick. Babette, wouldn’t you love to hear about your son? How happy he is? How very much in love they are?”
“If my son had a half a brain,” Babette replied, hands fisting in her lap, “if he loved her at all, he’d leave his blasted distillery behind and take her far, far away from here.” She pushed back her chair and stormed from the room, slamming the door behind her.
“Don’t mind her,” Eleanor said, shaking her head. “She’s never understood what it’s like, the sacrifices women must make. When she came here, I thought we could be friends. The way you and I are.” She nodded frenetically, veil flailing. “But she just doesn’t have what it takes.”
“What it takes for what?”
“To be a mother.” Eleanor tilted her head. “She was a terrible mother, and she knows it. I’m sure Merrick has told you all kinds of stories. I certainly could. Drink up, dearie, your tea.” She gestured toward the untouched cup.
Terrible mother, terrible woman—Eleanor’s implication was clear. If a woman wasn’t a good mother, what else about her mattered? Did anything?
Margot frowned. “About those stories, do you happen to know—”
“It started as soon as he was born. She refused to put him to breast—can you imagine? That’s where the attachment issues began, mark my words. Right from the outset. You plan to nurse your own baby when the time comes, don’t you, Margot?”
Truthfully, Margot hadn’t given it a lick of thought, but she sensed implicitly only one answer was acceptable here. “Er, sure…but—”
“Aha! Because you understand.” The shadow of Eleanor’s lips twitched in a sanctimonious smirk beneath the veil. “Youunderstand.”
“I’m sorry.” Margot’s hands fluttered with her napkin, twisting it in her lap. “Understand what, precisely?”
Out of nowhere, Eleanor began to cry. Great, hitching sobs racked her body. “It’s the best thing you’ll ever do, you know,” she said, between gasps. “Being a mother.”
Gracious.
