Eventide by Mae Clair

Author:Mae Clair [Clair, Mae]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Lyrical Press
Published: 2019-12-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 11

April 25, 1878

“I will not tolerate your stubbornness!”

The angry shriek of Sylvia’s voice was the first thing Hollande heard when she entered Stewart Manor. As was becoming her habit, she’d risen early and taken a walk by Yarrow Creek. Despite Sylvia’s dislike of daffodils, Hollande had picked a small bouquet, intending to put the flowers in her room. She hesitated in the foyer, hearing the low rumble of Nathaniel’s reply behind the closed doors of the drawing room. His words were indistinguishable, but the sharpness of his tone was clear.

A second later, Sylvia’s banshee screech cut into the foyer. “I will never forgive you for this! Never!”

More words from Nathaniel. Hollande thought she caught her name and drew nearer.

“That wretched girl is responsible. This is her fault!” Sylvia hurled the accusation like a knife. “You cannot take him from me.”

Hollande was almost to the door, drawn despite her reluctance to eavesdrop, when she heard Nathaniel speak plainly.

“Tristan is not returning.”

Sylvia screamed something unintelligible, her fury followed almost immediately by a loud crash. Before Hollande could catch her breath, the doors flung open and Sylvia stormed from the room. The moment she spied Hollande, her eyes blackened with rage. A gnarled, bent finger jabbed in Hollande’s direction.

“You! I will not forget what you have done.”

“I—” The sheer hatred in Sylvia’s voice left Hollande at a loss for words. She clutched the daffodils tighter.

Sylvia’s lips curled. “You have no more backbone than those simpering things you insist upon bringing into my house.” Eyes blazing, she leaned forward, her face inches from Hollande’s. “My house. Remember that when your world falls apart, you odious, lowly girl.”

Nathaniel stepped into the doorway. “Mother!”

The crack of his voice boomed through the foyer but had no effect on Sylvia. Back rigid, head held high, she climbed the steps to the second floor without a backward glance.

Hollande realized she was shaking. Tears burning in her eyes, she looked to Nathaniel. “What have I done?”

“Nothing.” He clasped her arm and led her into the drawing room.

The first thing Hollande noticed was the tea service. A china pot and cups lay shattered on the floor in front of the divan. As if someone had swept everything from the sofa table in a fit a rage. She had no doubt who that someone was.

“I have never known your mother to be violent in her anger.” Hollande set the daffodils on the table, then crouched to pick up the broken pieces. Hot tea puddled about the shell of the ruined pot, the cups like broken eggs. She used cloth napkins to blot the liquid.

“Leave it. I’ll take care of it.” Nathaniel was still incensed, his voice edged with frost. “She is beyond reasoning. Beyond sanity.” He squatted beside her, picked up several pieces of broken china, then banged the shards onto the table. “I cannot tolerate her presence much longer.” Blood squirted between his fingers. “Damn!”

“Nathaniel! You’ve cut yourself.” Hollande turned his hand over to reveal a gash angled across his palm.

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