And then, on the occasion of her mother’s death, and several years after the tragic loss of her two remaining sisters, Violette Marie Constance reached out to the only person yet to be informed of the sad news of the recent passing of her mother: her father.
Thrush found it exceedingly good fortune that his daughter had called, that she was indeed in town looking after various matters pertaining to her mother’s considerable estates, and that she seemed completely amenable to a liveried drive up the river to her childhood home and a tentative reunion with her elderly father.
Fredreich and Mathilde-Eloise were possessed of an enthusiastic hopefulness that had not graced the walls of the house for almost four decades. They smiled to each other as they closed the doors of the formal salon after serving their employer and his daughter and accepting the woman’s warm greetings and a brief word or two of shared memories. Then they retired to the kitchen to undo the work of the morning’s preparations and put all aright once more in its proper order.
It was something of a shock then, when a mere half hour later, the doors to the salon burst open and the sound or angry heels on the marble floor destroyed the soft silence of the house. These were joined by raised voices and, while, of course, they did not open the doors and peer out at their employer and his daughter, they made no attempt to hide themselves from what rose enough to become sensible to their ears.
“I’m sorry, father,” Violette Marie said, almost in tears. “I should not have come. Mother warned me, oh, how she warned me all those years while we were growing up,” she continued.
“Violette, my dear, please, come back to the table and finish your breakfast, please,” the old man cried out plaintively. “What can I say? You must believe me,” he pleaded.
“Believe you? Father, I don’t even know how to help you. You, you are truly mad!”
“No! Violette, no, I am not mad. Please, didn’t you see, at the table while we ate? Give me a chance to explain! Surely you saw—”
“No! Stop it! Father, I read all your letters. All those years, mother had never let any of us see them. But she kept them, saved them, I’m not sure why.”
Thrush’s face brightened at this for the first time since his daughter’s arrival.
“You read them?”
“Yes, when I was going through her things, I found them in a box. All organized by date and by year and by the recipient’s name. Yes, she kept them.”
“Well, then, you know, please,” he began, but she cut him off.
“No, Father, no. I will not be a party to such madness, such, such,” she faltered, her lips curling in disgust. “Father, you are not well, and I implore you to seek help. But this obsession, this…I cannot be a party to it. I’m,” she sobbed. “I’m so sorry, I should never have come!” she cried and then fumbled around for her things.
Mathilde-Eloise heard all this and scurried from the kitchen to retrieve Violette’s cape and hat and her bag. She handed the woman her things and then retreated to the kitchen where she left the door ajar just an inch.
Without even putting her cape on, Violette Marie grabbed her hat and bag and hurried out the door and up the walkway where she was helped into the waiting car by her driver, and then they were gone. Thrush was left standing in the doorway watching as the car disappeared, trembling and wiping his brow with his hand before turning and going inside and closing the door.
5.