Page 57 of The Heir
“I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“What I want you to say. Yes.” Mama sighed deeply and let her sleepy gaze wander to the mantelpiece, to the portrait of Father, to the ceiling. “That’s always the question, isn’t it?”
Yes. Yes it is.
“Perhaps you should tell me whatever it is you’ve told your father,” Mother suggested. “It’s much easier when you have to remember only one story, don’t you think?”
Panic threatened. Jane clutched her hands together so tightly that for a moment she thought she might break her own fingers. “It’s . . . it’s complicated.”
“I’m sure it is.” Mother’s voice was amused, as if she’d just heard some bon mot during a party. Her whole attitude was full of charm and ease. But there was something there beneath all this, something calculating.
Something that reminded Jane of Father.
“Did Father tell you about the corpse?”
“Oh, that.” Mother’s sigh was long and ever so slightly bitter. “This to-do is about that?”
“The princess is sure there’s something behind it. Some story or something, and she wants to find out what it is.”
“What an odd notion! How does she plan to go about this extraordinary endeavor?”
“That’s what she’s talking to me about. She wants me to help her, and Father says I should play along. So I am.”
Mama laughed. It was a strained, weary sound, not like anything Jane had heard from her before. “And this is the indulgence that finally brings you into the princess’s good graces?”
Jane smiled. She didn’t know what else to do.
“Well, it does seem to be working. It was most amusing to hear your father singing your praises at the table the other night. So. You will be Her Highness’s pet for as long as her interest lasts.”
Jane felt oddly offended at this assessment, but then she saw her mother’s face. The comfort and charm had shifted, had turned into something much sadder and more speculative. “For all our sakes, Jane, do remember that you are a pet, and nothing more than a pet.” Mother spoke urgently. Jane couldn’t remember ever having heard her do so before. “And be very careful not to let her think you’ll bite her hand. That girl forgives even less readily than the duchess.”
Mother was remembering something specific. Jane was sure of it. She wanted to find a way to ask what it was, but the moment passed. The unfamiliar seriousness of her manner drained away, leaving behind the bored and exhausted beauty she knew so well.
“Go away now, Jane.” Mother’s eyes drooped. “I’m tired.”
But Jane found she was not yet ready to leave.
“Mother?”
Mother pressed the back of her hand to her brow. “Mmm?”
“Mother, did you know the dead man was Dr. Maton?”
“Yes, of course,” said Mother. “Your father told me.”
“He did?”
“Yes.” Mother opened her eyes and lifted her hand away. She was definitely not pleased. “What’s the matter, Jane? You look like you don’t believe me.”
“No, well, I . . .”
“Jane, you know how I hate it when you stammer so stupidly. Speak clearly, or do not speak at all.” Mother let her head flop back onto the pillows. “Ugh. Why must everything be so difficult?”
Jane took a deep breath. “Father lied about who it was to the princess. Do you know why he did that?”
For a moment, Jane thought Mother would simply dismiss her. But Mother shifted uneasily.
“Your father, Jane, is one for grand schemes.” She spoke to the ceiling, but Jane had the sense that she was speaking to her memories, as well. “He dreams of so muchmore, and not just for himself but for all his children. The difference between him and other men is that he actually works to make those dreams come to pass. He works for all of us, Jane.” Mother turned her eyes toward Jane, but the distance in them remained. “Unfortunately, he is not always careful with the little things. Small details, small men . . . He leaves them scattered about.”
