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She offered the woman a small smile, but a shadow passed over Jay’s mother’s face.
“You would know that better than I, these days, I’m afraid.”
Ursula knotted the handkerchief in her hand. How does one even respond to that? Poor Jay—to be so estranged from one’s parents. She sniffed again. Please don’t let her cry. Why did her body always betray her?
Mrs. Truitt’s expression grew even more pinched and pained. She laid her hands on the table. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to distress you. You were brave, what you did, saying those things, out loud, to all those men. Few have that sort of courage.”
Brave? She was an imbecile. She should’ve never fancied she could make a difference, not that way. It would’ve been better if she’d convinced her father to donate the funds.
Ursula shoved another cookie into her mouth and swallowed, again and again. The sob sat right below the surface. She sank her nails into her palms as hard as she could.
Mrs. Truitt stirred the liquid in her glass for a long moment before speaking again. Her voice cracked. “Please don’t be embarrassed. My husband and I should be. We should’ve known you were to be our son’s second wife. And I should’ve known my husband would do something foolish like pay a blackmailer instead of speaking to Jay. He probably did it via letter too—through his lawyer, typed by a clerk. Men are so thick, and worse gossips than women. Once a secret is written down it won’t stay secret long.”
Something about the woman’s words coupled with the brittle, dignified tone broke her and the tears rushed forward. Ursula hid her face in her sleeve to muffle the sound. She leaned over the table, her elbow resting on the edge.
Utter, ultimate humiliation. She had no manners, but there was no helping it.
It was unclear how long she cried but her bare neck was hot and sweaty. Not attractive at all. Ursula raised her head and blotted again with the handkerchief. She was probably hideous. She blew her nose and lowered the cloth, unable to look at her companion.
Jay’s mother released a sympathetic sigh. “You are a sensitive one. Jay’s fortunate.”
Ursula snorted. “Me? Sensitive? I’m coarse and a complete dunce with people. I’m the least sensitive person created. Jay’s the sensitive one, so sensitive, and empathetic. He can truly see people and takes on what they feel.”
She wiped under her eyes until the skin itched. With a sigh, she tucked the handkerchief away, though close, just in case. She pushed another cookie into her mouth. At least that would stop her from rambling.
Mrs. Truitt made another sympathetic sound, probably assuming Ursula was daft. She traced the rim of her glass with her pointer finger before speaking. “You know a great deal about my son.”
“Jay is rather easy to know,” she said before nodding like a ninny.
“Really?” The single word contained a million questions, backed by the arched eyebrow. This woman was probably very skilled at poker, or would be if she tried.
Ursula stuffed a third cookie in her mouth and swallowed so quickly that rough edges cut her throat on the way down. “Oh yes. He holds a lot of secrets, but the rest of him—yes. He’s so careful and considerate. He tries to protect everyone. He can’t stand to see anyone, especially someone less fortunate or less powerful, hurt. He feels things so deeply. And the way people speak of him and don’t understand him and take advantage is just not right.”
Her words were rushed and much angrier than she intended, but once she opened her mouth she couldn’t stop the flood. It was true, all true. Jay deserved so much better. He deserved a real champion, not just the girl who never said anything right—the recipe that looked good on paper but burnt every time.
Mrs. Truitt blinked. “No. No, it isn’t.” She grasped Ursula’s hand and clutched it while studying her face, her eyes a mossy gray-green, glistening.
“We failed him. Both my husband and I, each in our own way. He was alone in his grief and he damaged himself. You aren’t engaged to the same man he was seven years ago.” Mrs. Truitt’s voice was hard, but the note of sadness still floated in each syllable.
Ursula nodded. “I know.”
She did, and she didn’t. None of them really knew. They’d skidded over the surface, rocks skipping over a black pond, deeper than any of them fathomed.
The comment was still confirmation. The demon was no longer a suspicion, but a fact. It wasn’t as common in America as it was in Britain, but Jay always was ahead of the curve, even with vices. And it was a vice, not a mere appetite.
The bargain her own mother made at the end of her life, fog instead of agony, relief from pain, but not really living—the tears prickled again, pressure emanating from the backs of her eyes. Ursula inhaled through her nose. It just wasn’t fair. To any of them.
Mrs. Truitt’s shoulders rose before she spoke. “He’ll never be as he was. The danger will always be there.”
The sadness now overtook the words. To be a mother and to live with that grim truth... The wrinkles marring Mrs. Truitt’s face grew more intense, around the mouth and on her brow. How old was she? Fifty? When they’d sat she’d appeared younger but now...
“I understand.” The words came out of their own accord, clear and confident, more than she felt. A lifeline, for them both.
“Do you really?” The catch within the whisper overtook Jay’s mother’s voice.
How did she explain? She was young and probably foolish and naïve. “I don’t know what the future will bring, and I cannot imagine what life is like in his body.” Ursula bit her lower lip and tasted the copper of blood. Images of him wrapped in the chair, his eyes haunted, flashed in her mind.
“He’ll never truly be free.” Mrs. Truitt echoed every thought, every fear she’d held back. The woman shrank, as if she would crumble.
