house, when Consuelo came running down the stairs to join her, and Annabelle didn’t have the heart to tell her she couldn’t come. She was so happy there, discovering her mother’s old world, which was so different from the one they lived in now, with their tiny, comfortable house in the sixteenth arrondissement. Everything in her old world seemed huge to her now, and to her child.
The house she had wanted to see was not far, and when she got there she saw that the trees were overgrown, the shutters closed, and it was in disrepair. Blanche had told her it had been sold in the past two years, but it looked like no one lived there, and it hadn’t been used in a decade. It appeared deserted. It was Josiah’s old house, where she had spent her married summers, and where he and Henry had continued their affair, but she didn’t think about that now. She only thought of him. And Consuelo could see that this house had been important to her mother too, although it was small and dark, and looked sad.
“Did you know the people who lived here, Mama?”
“Yes, I did,” Annabelle said softly. She could almost feel him near her as she said the words, and she hoped he was peaceful now. She had long since forgiven him. There was nothing left to forgive. He had done the best he could, and loved her in his own way. And she had loved him too. There was none of the raw disappointment and betrayal she still felt at Antoine’s hands, more recently. The scars of what had happened with Josiah had faded years before.
“Did the people die?” Consuelo asked sadly. It looked that way, judging by the condition of the house.
“Yes, they did.”
“A nice friend?” Consuelo was curious why her mother looked so far away and shaken by being there. And Annabelle hesitated for a long moment. Maybe it was time. She didn’t want to lie about her history to her forever. The lie that she’d been married to Consuelo’s father was enough, and one day she would tell her the truth about that too, not that she’d been raped, but that they hadn’t been married. Now that Lady Winshire had acknowledged her, it wouldn’t be quite as onerous, though still hard to explain.
“This house belonged to a man named Josiah Millbank,” she said quietly, as they peeked into the garden. It was completely overgrown, and looked entirely deserted, which it was. “I was married to him. We got married here in Newport when I was nineteen.” Consuelo looked at her with wide eyes, as they sat down on an old log. “I was married to him for two years, and he was a wonderful man. I loved him very much.” She wanted her to know that part too, not just that it had gone wrong.
“What happened to him?” Consuelo asked in a small voice. So many people had died in her mother’s life. Everyone was gone.
“He got very sick, and he decided that he didn’t want to be married to me anymore. He didn’t think it would be fair to me, because he was so sick. So he went to Mexico, and he divorced me, which means that he ended our marriage.”
“But didn’t you want to be with him even though he was so sick, to take care of him?” She looked shocked, and Annabelle smiled as she nodded.
“Yes, I did. But that wasn’t what he wanted. He thought he was doing a good thing for me, because I was very young. He was a lot older. Old enough to be my father. And he thought I should marry someone else who wasn’t sick and have lots of children.”
“Like my father,” she said proudly, and then a cloud passed her eyes. “But then he died too.” It was all very sad, and made her realize, even at seven, all that her mother had been through, and come out the other end, whole, and alive, and even a doctor.
“Anyway, he divorced me, and went to Mexico.” She didn’t tell her about Henry. She didn’t need to know. “And everyone here was very shocked. They thought he divorced me because I did something wrong. He never told anyone he was sick, and neither did I. So they thought I had done something terrible, and I was very sad. I went to France, and went to work in the war. And then I met your father, and had you. And everyone lived happily ever after,” she said with a smile, as she took Consuelo’s hand in her own. It was a highly edited version, but it was all Consuelo needed to know. And her marriage to Josiah was no longer a secret. It seemed better that way. She didn’t want to keep secrets, or tell lies to cover them anymore. And she had been fair to Josiah in the story. She always had been.
“But why was everyone so mean to you when he went away?” That seemed horrible to Consuelo, and so unfair to her mother.
“Because they didn’t understand. They didn’t know what had really happened. So they told bad stories about it, and about me.”
“Why didn’t you tell them the truth?” That part made no sense to her at all.
“He didn’t want me to. He didn’t want anyone to know he was sick.” Nor why, which was far more understandable. Not to mention the part about Henry Orson.
“That was silly of him,” Consuelo said, glancing over her shoulder at the empty house.
“Yes, it was.”
“Did you ever see him again?”
Annabelle shook her head. “No. He died in Mexico. I was in France by then.”
“Do people know the truth now?” Consuelo asked, still looking pensive. She didn’t like that part of the story at all, when they’d been mean to her mother. She must have been very sad at the time. She even looked sad talking about it now.
“No, they don’t. It’s been a long time,” Annabelle answered.
“Thank you for telling me, Mama,” Consuelo said proudly.
“I was always going to tell you one day, when you were older.”
“I’m sorry they were mean to you,” she said softly. “I hope they won’t be anymore.” The only one who had been recently was Antoine. Not just mean, but cruel. It had been the worst betrayal of all, and had reopened all her old wounds. Talking to Lady Winshire about it had helped her. She saw now what a small, petty person Antoine really was, if he couldn’t love her, even with her past. She wouldn’t have done the same to him. She was a far bigger person.
“It doesn’t matter now. I have you,” Annabelle reassured her, and it was true. Consuelo was all she needed.
They got up and walked back to their cottage then, and for the next three weeks they played and swam and did all the things Annabelle had done as a child and loved there so much.
It was during their last week there that Annabelle took Consuelo to the Newport Country Club for lunch. It was one of the few grown-up things they had done. Other than that, Annabelle had avoided all the places where she might run into old friends. They had stayed mainly on their own grounds, which were large enough. But this one time, they had decided to go out, which was brave of Annabelle.
And just as they were leaving after lunch, Annabelle saw a portly woman walk toward the restaurant. She looked flustered, red-faced, there was a nanny with her, and she was leading six young children and had a baby on her hip. She was snapping at one of them, the baby was crying, and her hat was askew. And it was only when they were inches from each other that Annabelle saw that it was her old friend Hortie. Both of them were shocked and stopped walking, and stood staring at each other.
“Oh… what are
“I’m here with my daughter for a visit.” Annabelle smiled at Hortie, feeling sorry for her. “I see the baby factory is still producing,” she teased her. Hortie rolled her eyes and groaned, and for an instant looked like the friend Annabelle had loved so dearly, and would never have abandoned.
“You’re remarried?” Hortie asked with interest, and then glanced at Consuelo.
“Widowed.”
“And she’s a doctor,” Consuelo piped up proudly, as both women laughed.
“Is that true?” Hortie looked at Annabelle, impressed if it was, but she knew that Annabelle had loved medical things as a young girl.
“It is. We live in Paris.”
“So I heard. I was told you were some kind of hero during the war.”
Annabelle laughed. “Hardly. I was a medic, riding ambulances to field hospitals to pick up wounded men. Nothing very heroic about that.”
