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James held silent, wanting so much to say something to comfort her, but knowing there were no words to help.
She laughed bitterly. “I tried to tell myself it was his last act of caring, shooting himself in the garden. I made so many trips to the well, but at least the blood washed right into the ground. If he’d shot himself in the house, the Lord only knows how I would have cleaned it up.”
“What did you do?” he asked softly.
“I made it look like a hunting accident,” she whispered. “I dragged his body out to the woods. Everybody knew he was a hunter. No one suspected it was anything else, or if they did, they never said anything.”
“You dragged him?” he asked in disbelief. “Was your father a small man? I mean, you’re quite petite, and—”
“He was about your height, although a bit thinner. I don’t know where I got the strength,” she said, shaking her head. “Born of pure terror, I suppose. I didn’t want the children to know what he’d done.” She looked up, the expression in her eyes suddenly unsure. “They still don’t know.”
He squeezed her hand.
“I’ve tried not to speak ill of him.”
“And you’ve been shouldering this burden for five years,” he said softly. “Secrets are heavy, Elizabeth. They’re hard to carry alone.”
Her shoulders rose and fell in a weary shrug. “Maybe I did the wrong thing. But I panicked. I didn’t know what else to do.”
“It sounds as if you did exactly what needed to be done.”
“He was buried in consecrated ground,” she said in a flat voice. “According to the church—according to everyone but me—it wasn’t a suicide. Everyone kept offering condolences, calling it such a tragedy, and it was all I could do not to scream out the truth.”
She twisted her head to face him. Her eyes were wet and glistening, the exact color of violets. “I hated that he was made to sound a hero. I was the one to hide his suicide, and yet I wanted to tell everyone that he was a coward, that he had left me to pick up his pieces. I wanted to shake them and shake them and shake them and make them stop saying what a good father he was. Because he wasn’t.” Her voice grew low and fierce. “He wasn’t a good father. We were nuisances. He only wanted Mama. He never wanted us.”
“I’m sorry,” James whispered, taking her hand.
“It’s not your fault.”
He smiled, trying to coax one from her in return. “I know, but I’m still sorry.”
Her lips quivered—almost
a smile, but not quite. “Isn’t it ironic? You’d think that love is a good thing, wouldn’t you?”
“Love is a good thing, Elizabeth.” And he meant it. He meant it more than he ever could have dreamed he would.
She shook her head. “My parents loved too much. There simply wasn’t enough left over for the rest of us. And when Mama was gone—well, we just couldn’t take her place.”
“That is not your fault,” James said, his eyes searching hers with mesmerizing intensity. “There’s no limit on love. If your father’s heart wasn’t big enough for his whole family, that means he was flawed, not you. If he’d been any sort of a man, he would have realized that his children were miraculous extensions of his love for your mother. And he would have had the strength to go on without her.”
Elizabeth digested his words, letting them sink slowly into her heart. She knew he was right, knew that her father’s weaknesses were his weaknesses, not hers. But it was so damned hard to accept it. She looked up at James, who was staring at her with the kindest, warmest eyes she’d ever seen. “Your parents must have loved each other very much,” she said softly.
James drew back in surprise. “My parents…” he said slowly. “Theirs was not a love match.”
“Oh,” she said softly. “But maybe that’s for the best. After all, my parents—”
“What your father did,” James interrupted, “was wrong and weak and cowardly. What my father did…”
Elizabeth saw the pain in his eyes and squeezed his hands.
“What my father did,” he whispered savagely, “should earn him a place in hell.”
Elizabeth felt her mouth go dry. “What do you mean?”
There was a long silence, and when James finally spoke, his voice was very strange. “I was six when my mother died.”
She held silent.
