As they hemmed away, Mama said, “I haven’t seen you much these last couple of days, and you have been quiet at dinner ever since Mary’s wedding.”
Catherine heard the unspoken question, but she did not know how to answer it. Her habits of keeping her emotions to herself were longstanding and deeply ingrained. “I have just been painting a bit more than usual,” she said.
“Come now, Kitty,” Mama said. “I have watched over you your whole life, and I know there is something wrong. I know I am not particularly wise or even always sensible, but I have lived a lot longer than you. Perhaps, I can help. At the very least, I can listen.”
Catherine did not have a high opinion of her mother’s intelligence, but she had not proven to be much better. She lived life by rules, by following, rather than thinking things through. She thought about the list of honesty she had created a week ago, that had sat on her desk untouched and unread since then. It was a perfect example of how little she tended to think things through.
“It is difficult to explain,” said Catherine. She wasn’t trying to be repressive, but she truly did not know how to put all the complexities of her situation into words.
“Let me guess,” said Mama. “Part of it is that your intention of never marrying is pointless now that all your sisters are taken care of. Part of it has something to do with that nice Viscount who whisked you away from Mary’s wedding breakfast. I am certain there is even more to it, but that is all I have observed.”
The handkerchief Catherine was working on fell to her lap, and her jaw dropped a full inch as she looked at her mother in shock.
Mama laughed at her reaction. “You cannot be the most accomplished gossip in the neighborhood without being rather observant,” she said.
Hesitantly, at first, Catherine began describing how she felt, about society, about her inheritance, about her lack of purpose, and even about Stephen. When she mentioned Stephen, she half expected her mother to burst out into exclamations of joy at the prospect of possibly having a future earl as a son, but Mama just listened.
She told her mother everything…almost everything. She did not tell Mama that she had allowed Stephen to hold her as she cried, nor did she tell her that he had nearly proposed.
“It sounds to me as if you have backed yourself into a corner,” said Mama. “Do you know where that saying comes from?”
Confused at the segue, Catherine said, “No, I don’t.”
“Some people say it has to do with sword fights, where if you constantly retreat eventually you will back into something and be unable to retreat any further. At that point, you will either have to fight back or die. As for me, I always have a different image in my mind when I hear that saying. You’ve seen a maid mop the floors many times. Have you ever noticed that they starton one side of the room and gradually work their way toward an open door?”
“Of course,” said Catherine, still unsure where this was going. “They do that so they can exit the room when they are done without tracking dirt onto the wet floor.”
“Exactly,” said Mama. “If you don’t do it correctly, you can mop yourself into a corner, and the only way out is to either wait a really long time or make a mess.”
Catherine waited for Mama to explain more, but she said nothing else, as if she had already made her point. Exasperated, Catherine said, “I don’t know what that has to do with anything.”
“Oh, I suppose I didn’t explain that part,” said Mama. “Well, both interpretations of that saying apply to you. You have created this idea of who you are supposed to be, essentially placing yourself in a corner. Now, however, you might be thinking that you don’t want to be in that corner anymore. Well, the only way out is to either make a mess or fight, probably both.”
It was a confusing mishmash of mixed metaphors, but Catherine got the general idea.
That afternoon, after hours of sewing hems on handkerchiefs, Catherine wrote to Elizabeth, accepting her invitation.
