SHACKLES

CHAPTER THREE

I was but six years of age, and it was a fresh March morning when Mama’s sister arrived in grand fashion, her carriage wheels clattering upon the gravel as the mist clung faintly to the hedgerows. Mama received her warmly, ushering her into the drawing room with familiar affection. I, ever eager for company, clung to Aunt Mia’s skirts, and she fondly tousled my hair, saying, “My beautiful Zoe grows lovelier by the day.” I blushed under her praise, cheeks warm with childish pride. Yet there was a curious urgency in her manner, and soon she turned to Mama with lowered voice and said she had something of importance to discuss. She bade me go and look upon the gifts she had brought—some books and toys thoughtfully arranged upon the parlour table. I darted out in search of Louisa, my chaperone, whom I found already inspecting the items. One glance at the book told me it was not at all to my liking. It was a dainty, delicate tale, full of lace and teacups, altogether too “girlish” for my taste. I preferred daring adventures, tales of ancient heroes, and myths born of the Greeks. The teddy bear seemed equally insipid, with a vacant expression that made me scoff. “I don’t like these,” I declared with open disdain, “They are dreadfully lame.” Louisa gasped and shushed me at once. “Such unladylike talk,” she chided, “Your mother spoils you terribly.”

I turned on my heel and fled the room, restless with indignation, only to pause as I reached the corridor. There, just beyond the door to the drawing room, I heard my aunt’s voice, hushed but sharp. “Liz,” she said gravely, “your husband has got a woman with child. He’s taken her as a concubine.” Her tone carried a cruel disbelief, though it was veiled in laughter. “After all you’ve done for him.” Mama’s voice, when it came, was quieter, hollowed out by sorrow. “He is in pain,” she murmured, “and he needs an heir. I cannot give him one.” I stood frozen in the hallway, too young to understand the full weight of their words, yet old enough to sense the crack in Mama’s strength. Aunt Mia embraced her as Mama broke down, and in her anguish, she spoke words I now know to be blasphemous, her grief pouring forth without filter or form. She wept as she spoke of how much she missed Papa, and her sobs seemed to echo against the silence of the house. I entered then, knowing nothing of the world, only that Mama’s sorrow frightened me. I went to her and placed my hand gently upon hers, a child’s offering of comfort. She tried to compose herself, to shield me with composure, but I looked up and said simply, “I miss Papa.” At that, something within her gave way entirely. She began to murmur incoherently, eyes wide and distant, her form trembling beneath my touch.