Susanna Kearsley - The Winter Sea

‘You are too kind.’

‘Did you imagine I would send you all that way with nothing?’ Looking down herself, the countess made a show of straightening the edges of the books as though that small act mattered greatly. ‘I presume that you are yet resolved to go? I would not have you think you cannot change your mind. ’Tis not too late.’

Sophia tried to smile. ‘I doubt the servants who have labored these past days to make arrangements for my leaving would be pleased were I to change my mind.’

‘There are none here who wish to see you leave. The servants would be overjoyed to see you stay at Slains.’ She met Sophia’s eyes. ‘And so would I.’

‘I wish I could.’ Sophia felt the stir of sadness. ‘But there are too many memories here, of him.’

‘I understand.’ The countess always seemed so strong that sometimes it was easy to forget that she had also lost a husband, not so long ago, and knew what it was like to live with memories. ‘There may yet come a time when you do count them as a comfort.’ And her eyes were very gentle on Sophia’s downturned face. ‘It does get easier, in time.’

Sophia knew it did. She knew from having lost her parents and her sister that the sharpness of her grieving would be blunted by the passing years, and yet she also knew that losing Moray had cut deeper than the others put together. His death had left her feeling more alone than she had ever felt before, and she herself might well grow old and die before enough years passed to dull the pain she carried now inside her.

There were footsteps in the corridor; a soft knock at the door.

‘Do you feel strong enough to do this?’ asked the countess, and Sophia bit her lip and shook her head before she answered, ‘But I must.’

‘My dear, you need not if it brings you too much pain. The child is not yet two years old, and being such a young age is not likely to remember.’

It was, Sophia thought, the very argument she’d made to Moray when he’d told her of his infant nephew, whom he’d never had the chance to meet. She understood his answer, now. Deliberately, she raised her head and in a quiet voice replied, ‘I will remember her .’

The countess studied her a moment with concern, then gave a nod and crossed to let in Kirsty’s sister, leading Anna by the hand.

The little girl was finely dressed as though for church, with ribbons in her hair. She did not venture far into the room, but stood and held fast to the skirts of Kirsty’s sister, who looked over at Sophia in apology. ‘She did not sleep well last night, she was troubled by her teeth. I fear she’s out of sorts, the day.’

Sophia’s smile was brief, and understanding. ‘We are none of us as cheerful as we should be.’

‘I will leave her here alone with you a moment if you wish it, but—’

‘There is no need.’ Sophia shook her head. ‘It is enough that I should see her. Come, and sit with me.’

They sat where she’d so often sat with Colonel Graeme by the fire, the chess men lined up tidily across the board between them. Anna seemed to find them fascinating. Kirsty’s sister would have kept the little girl from touching, but the countess, who’d stayed standing by the mantelpiece, insisted that the child could do no harm. ‘The men are made of wood, and cannot easily be broken.’

Not like real soldiers, thought Sophia with a pang of sudden sorrow. Moray would not ever see his daughter’s face, nor see those small, fair features form the image of his own as Anna, with her father’s focused concentration, lifted knights and bishops from the board by turns and held them in her little hands.

Sophia watched in silence. She had spent the past days planning this farewell, rehearsing what she meant to do and say, but now that it had come the words seemed out of place. How did you tell a child who did not know you were her mother that you loved her, and that leaving her was all at once the bravest and the worst thing you had done in all your life, and that you’d miss her more than she would ever know?

And what, Sophia asked herself, would be the point? She knew within her own heart that the countess had been right, that Anna’s mind was yet too young to hold this memory; that as surely as the wind and waves would shift the sands till next year’s coastline bore no imprint of the one the year before, so too the passing days would reshape Anna’s mind until Sophia was forgotten.

Which was only as it should be, she decided, biting down upon her lip to stop its sudden trembling.

Reaching out, she stroked the softness of her daughter’s hair, and lightly coughed to clear her voice. ‘You have such lovely curls,’ she said to Anna. ‘Will you give me one?’

She did not doubt the answer; Anna always had been quick to share. And sure enough, the child gave an unhesitating nod and stepped in closer while Sophia chose one ringlet from beneath the mass of curls and gently snipped it with her sewing scissors. ‘There,’ she said, and would have straightened, but the little girl reached up herself to wind her tiny fingers in Sophia’s hair, in imitation.

And that one small touch, so unexpected, made Sophia close her eyes against the sharpness of emotion.

She felt, in that brief instant, as she’d felt when it had only been herself and Anna newly born, and lying in the bed at Mrs Malcolm’s, with the wonder of her daughter sleeping warm against her body and the feeling of those baby fingers clutching both her hair and Moray’s silver ring…and suddenly she felt she could not bear it, what she knew she had to do.

It was not fair. Not fair. She wanted Anna back, to be her own again. Her own and no one else’s. And she would have sold her soul at any price to turn time back and make it possible, but time would not be turned. And as the pain of that reality tore through her like a knife, she heard her daughter’s voice say, ‘Mama?’ and the blade drove deeper still, because Sophia knew the word had not been meant for her.

She breathed, and swallowed hard, and when her eyes came open there was nothing but their shining brightness to betray her weakening.

Anna said a second time to Kirsty’s sister, ‘Mama?’, and the other woman asked, her own voice curiously husky, ‘Do ye want to have a lock of Mistress Paterson’s, to keep?’

Sophia said, ‘My curls are not as nice as yours,’ but Anna tugged with firm insistence, so Sophia raised the scissors to her own hair and cut off a piece from where those baby fingers had so often clung in sleep.

‘Aye,’ said Kirsty’s sister, when the child turned round to show her prize. ‘It is a bonny gift, and one ye’ll want to treasure. Let me borrow this wee ribbon and we’ll cut it into two, and then ye both can bind your curls to keep them better.’ Over Anna’s head her eyes sought out Sophia’s. ‘I will send ye more.’

Sophia’s fingers trembled so they could not tie the ribbon, but she folded it together with the curl into her handkerchief. ‘The one is all I need.’

The other woman’s eyes were helpless in their sympathy. ‘If there is anything at all…’

‘Just keep her safe.’

And Kirsty’s sister gave a nod, as though she could not speak herself. And in the silence of the room both women, and the countess too, looked down at Anna, who in childish oblivion had once again begun to move the pieces on the chess board.

With an almost steady smile, Sophia asked, ‘Which one do you like best, then, Anna? Which one is your favorite?’

She had expected that the little girl would choose a knight—the horses’ heads had held her interest longest—or a castle tower, but the child, after some consideration, chose a different piece and showed it on her outstretched hand: a single, fallen pawn.