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Chapter 7
Matilda entered the Hardon House with a defeated feeling. Hope had been vanquished in some ways. It was as though four walls of stone were placed around her and her future was not in the room with her.
The main room took on a different feeling to her, even from just walking out of it an hour ago. Before, it was a place of promise where the days ahead might have held the possibility of Aaron in them, but returning back, the chandelier that hung above seemed mocking.
How was it that within mere hours, everything could change? The time between seeing Aaron in the courtyard and in the carriage, those were almost the best moments of her life. Everything after the carriage ride was dismal. How was she to find the positive in a future unwanted? She knew that the last person to understand had arrived before her—her mother, Catherine.
“How was your phaeton ride, Matilda? I find it rather odd that you would want to do such a thing in such unpredictable weather. We have had nothing but storm after storm on days that started in sunlight.”
Matilda let out a sigh small enough to where her mother could not hear it. Ann had said the very same thing before. It was redundant. “Well, I tend to fancy the unpredictable. I find it boring to relish in the notion that everything is planned ahead, especially when you do not choose it. The weather shall not control me.” She surveyed her mother, who did not get the double meanings of her ramblings.
“You have quite the perspective, don’t you? Ann had informed me that you weren’t fond of the party. May I ask what upset you about it?”
It wasn’t like Ann to discuss such trivial matters with her mother. Matilda figured that it may have been a warning sign to possibly exhibit Ann’s boundaries. There was only so much the woman could let Matilda get away with. Nonetheless, the question caught her off guard.
“Um, well, I suppose Charles ignoring me three-fourths to four-fourths of the night was a factor. As I faced his back from a distance, I was ironically met by a cavalcade of compliments and gossip. It was an event that made me feel like I was on display rather than being in attendance.”
There was a fine art to speaking to her mother Matilda had learned. She could speak freely as long as it was wrapped in a reserved bluntness. Instead of saying she loathed the party, there was always a better way of saying things.
“You look far too into things.” She began to walk, and Matilda followed her down the long, narrow hallway.
Matilda had thought of something to say regarding her mother’s last comment. Still, she was not one to appreciate anything that looked at things from an outside perspective. Looking into things took an ability to analyze life, but her mother would not want to hear that.
“Mother, I recently read a poem just this afternoon that said love is to not only be cherished, but it is to be desired. What if you don’t desire the person that you think you should, or rather, who the world expects you to?”
They both entered into her father’s study, where her mother sat at his desk and sifted through papers. The room held almost as many books as the library did. But the main difference was that her father enjoyed books about wars, numbers, philosophy, whereas Matilda could appreciate all that, but her heart would always be found in the fiction and poetry sections.
“What does a poem have to do with love, Matilda. It is just a poem, nothing more and nothing less.”
“If I may say so, I believe that you belittle the art by saying that. Poems and stories can be rather profound. We are all living one as we speak.”
Catherine finally looked to her daughter. They were filled with a restrained frustration like an antsy horse behind a stable door. “Matilda. It is becoming quite worrisome that you live in such fantasies daily. That is a dangerous mindset to have. Poems and stories are written for entertainment. You cannot deem those guides for life.”
It made the muscles in Matilda’s face have the strength of a dying man to hear her mother speak so matter of fact on things that were wrong. “But mother,” She felt as though she should have gone quiet but didn’t. “The poem had been written for the writer’s wife, a sonnet. It was based on true feelings.”
A long pause filled the room. It was so long and tense that Matilda could almost feel the temperature change. “I see it now. You are trying to work through your feelings surrounding the upcoming engagement.”
“No. I—”
“You are fearful. You are using these trashy materials to cope.” Her mother rose as if the notion gave her energy. “No daughter of mine will live through books.” The way she said books made them sound like they were some sort of wine for a drunkard.
“Mother, you are getting it all wrong.”
Catherine walks over to Matilda and sits her down on her father’s bench. The frustrated mask she wore dissolved somewhat. She let out a sigh. “You are my daughter, which means that you share in my life’s habits…if that is the word. You and I can be similar.”
Matilda did not know how true that was.
“And what you are feeling when it comes to love is rather understandable. When I was your age, before I met your father, I questioned everything from why I needed maids to whyI couldn’t wear what I wanted to wear, all the way down to love.”
The more her mother spoke, the more Matilda got a sense that they weren’t thinking the same thing whatsoever. “It is not love that I question—”
“But poetry?” Her mother interrupted. “I never once turned to fictional books and poetry for guidance. As a matter of fact, if I had done so, you may have not been born, and I would be out in the world searching for non-existent dragons.”
Matilda could feel her eyes welling up. The way in which her mother spoke about literature was an open wound. She would never understand. The only one that came close to understanding the way she thought was Aaron.
“You will not use poetry as a weapon against a marriage that would do the family good. A part of growing up is realizing that sometimes, there are things bigger than yourself and your own little desires. You think your father wants to work all day instead of spending time in leisure? No.”
Matilda knew her mother well, the same way that she knew how to speak to her mother. And the way Catherine’s words were moving meant that she was building towards something. Catherine never put words into the world that did not have a purpose. Everything she did had intent. And that realization worried Matilda.
