Moira sat opposite, skirts rustling. “What happened?”
So Nancy told her, beginning with the letter, the necklace, and the brutal words exchanged in his study. She left out nothing, not the shouting or the tears or the way Oscar had stood, unmoving, as she walked away.
Moira listened, not once interrupting, but her frown grew deeper with every word.
When Nancy finished, she sat back, exhausted. The words had taken more from her than she’d thought possible.
“I see,” said Moira, quietly. “And you are certain the letter was real? That the words were meant for him?”
“I read it with my own eyes, Mama. I have seen enough to know.” Her voice cracked. “He did not even bother to deny it.”
Moira reached for her hand, squeezing until the bones ached. “You love him.”
“I despise him,” Nancy said. “But yes, I love him.” The admission was raw, like skin scraped from the heart.
Moira made a humming sound. “I always thought you would marry a poet, or a mathematician. Not a man who could barely manage a sonnet to his own name.”
“Don’t be kind,” Nancy said, burying her face in her hands.
“I’m not. I am being practical. Listen to me, darling.” Moira’s voice softened. “I do not believe it. Not for one second. That man looks at you as if you are the only person on earth worth looking at. I have seen it, and I am not a sentimentalist.”
“Then you have better eyes than I,” Nancy muttered.
Moira was relentless. “What if you are wrong? What if this is all some grotesque misunderstanding?”
“There is no misunderstanding,” Nancy snapped. “There is only pain.”
“Pain can be the beginning of truth,” Moira replied. “You must confront him, not run.”
“I have nothing left to say.”
“Then listen,” said Moira, her voice iron. “You are a Gallagher. You do not shrink from conflict. You face it until it surrenders. If there is one atom of you that wishes to see this resolved, you must go back and fight.”
Nancy closed her eyes. She remembered the way Oscar’s hands had felt on her face, the warmth of his breath, the ridiculous way he laughed at her jokes.
She remembered the hurt, too—the cold, the rage, the silence. But when she sorted through the debris of her heart, what remained was not hatred, but loss.
“I cannot,” she whispered.
Moira pulled her up and held her tight as ever. “Then I will do it for you. I will write to Scarfield and demand an explanation. No, do not protest. If he has an ounce of manhood left, he will come crawling.”
Nancy shuddered in her arms and let herself weep. For the first time in years, she felt like a child again, safe and helpless and entirely undone.
They stayed like that for a long time. Nancy was not sure how long, only that when she finally surfaced, her face was sticky and her lungs felt wrung out.
Moira dabbed at her cheeks with a borrowed handkerchief, then, abruptly, changed the subject. “Did you know your daughter and son have turned the lawn into a battlefield?”
“They are not my children,” Nancy said, but it came out soft and without conviction.
“They are as much yours as any child born of your body,” said Moira, and her voice was so warm that it nearly undid Nancy all over again.
She tried to protest, but at that moment the twins burst into the room, trailed by a huffing housemaid.
“Gran-mama!” Clara shrieked, running to Moira’s lap and burying her face in the tartan. “Aunt Nancy said we may call you Gran-mama!”
Henry hovered at the threshold, but when he saw his sister’s joy, he followed suit.
“Oh, I love that title, my little one!” Moira welcomed them both, arms wide. She pressed kisses to their heads, and for a moment, the world was perfect.
