Veritas by Quinn Coleridge

Author:Quinn Coleridge [Coleridge, Quinn]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Brompton Road Literary LLC
Published: 2017-07-07T23:00:00+00:00

19

Bellum domesticum.

War among family.

Willard draws the horses to a halt at the porte cochere of my home. The animals whinny and stomp as they wait for a good brushing and a bucket of oats. It’s supper time for their humans as well, although I lack Cordelia’s appetite at the moment. Eager to get inside, she climbs out of the carriage first and then helps me down. Wintery air surrounds us as we walk toward the house. It pushes under our cloaks, swirls our petticoats.

Cordelia opens the heavy door and cries out in shock. It seems that Cook is sitting at the entrance to the servants wing. I know it’s she from the sound of her fitful weeping. Hoping that her tears are a result of an argument with the scullery girl or a fallen soufflé, I walk toward the front of the house where masculine voices are conversing in somber tones.

Something terrible has happened. I shut down my ears, afraid of what I might hear. Where shall I go? The library is located on my left, so I walk inside and close the door. It smells of antique leather and dusty books, of comforting, familiar surroundings. The fireplace is cold, but I sit at its marble base and pull my knees to my chest. Cocooned in this room, I prepare for the worst and let myself listen.

My mother’s obstetric doctor is here, talking with my father in his study. They discuss phrases like “massive maternal hemorrhagic stroke” and “fetal mortality”. Poor Cherub is no more, and Mama is unconscious in her bed upstairs, never to awaken.

A train whistles at Stonehenge station, echoing through the woods outside, through the forested space between High Street and The Revels. I’ve heard this same, lonely noise every night of my life. It signals the last departure—for the train Kelly’s taking back east. I imagine him settling into his seat, anticipating the reunion with Alice.

Chest burning, I lean against the hard marble, longing to weep. But I can’t produce a tear. Cordelia opens the library door and comes to my side.

“It’s your mother, miss. She’s in a bad way.”

My mind goes blank during the trip upstairs, until I cross Mama’s sitting room, and bump my foot against something hard and heavy. I reach down and touch a smooth, enamel-covered figure with bulging eyes and flaring nostrils. It’s Mr. Ming, the Chinese dragon doorstop. He’s sat here, keeping watch over Mama’s boudoir, for as long as I remember. Bigger than a housecat, made of iron, Mr. Ming was once a playmate of mine. When isolation was overwhelming, I pretended the dragon was a baby and swaddled him in blankets or dressed him up in a hat and one of Mama’s fur stoles for impromptu tea parties.

I haven’t thought of my dragon friend in years, despite his constant presence. Funny, what one remembers of childhood… Yet tonight’s not the time to reminisce about my life, rather it is Mama’s moment of summation.

No one is keeping her company or speaking words of comfort when I enter her inner chamber.

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