hadn’t learned from her grandfather and father, she would learn from
him. Miles probably wouldn’t need to hang around until she was twenty-one. Two years should do it, then she’d send him on
his way, mailing him papers that needed his signature. By then, she would have established herself in charge of Somerset.
In the late afternoon, Mary took these arguments to her mother to defend her father’s action. She found Darla lying on a chaise
longue in the room she’d shared with her husband, her rich auburn hair brushed out of its elaborate pompadour and spread around
her shoulders. The late afternoon sun cast a sickly glow through the sheer yellow draperies. Mary wondered disconsolately
if there was some significance in the bright lavender housecoat she wore—a kind of repudiation. The black dress and hat were
out of sight, as were the many flowers of condolence her mother had ordered sent up from the parlor after her husband’s body
was removed for burial. Earlier, meeting Sassie coming downstairs with an armload of the still fresh arrangements, she had
asked with a feeling of dread, “What is this all about?”
“What does it look like?” Gloom darkened their housekeeper’s voice. “I declare, I got a feelin’ nothin’ ain’t never gonna
be the same round here again.”
Mary had the same feeling as she stood anxiously studying her mother lying on the chaise longue. There was a terrifying remoteness
about her white-set features, the rigid length of her body. All warmth and spirit seemed to have been struck out of her. A
cold, unapproachable stranger lay in the lavender satin housecoat.
“You ask me what else he could have done?” Darla repeated Mary’s question. “I will tell you, my dear daughter. He could have
loved me more than he loved his land.
That’s
what he could have done.”
“But, Mama, you would have sold it!”
“Or, that failing,” Darla continued with her eyes closed, as if Mary had not spoken, “he could at least have divided his holdings
equally between our son and daughter. That strip Miles inherited is all but worthless. It floods every spring. Nothing planted
there can mature before or after the rains.”
“It’s still a part of Somerset, Mama, and you know Miles has never cared a whit for the plantation.”
“At the very least,” Darla went on in the same dead tone, “he could have considered my feelings and known how it will look
to all of our friends for him to have left his wife’s welfare in the hands of his daughter.”
“Mama…”
Her eyes still closed, Darla said, “Your father’s love was my greatest treasure, Mary. What an honor it was to be his wife,
to have been picked from all the women he could have married, some prettier than I….”
“Nobody’s prettier than you, Mama,” Mary whispered, choking on her grief.
“His love gave me life, gave me stature, made me important. But now I feel that it was all a sham, simply something for me
to enjoy while he lived. In death, he took it all away, all the things I thought I was to him, and he to me.”
“But, Mama—” The words failed to come. They failed because deep down in her sixteen-year-old heart, Mary knew her mother spoke
the truth. In the end, the preservation of the plantation had meant more to her father than his wife’s pride, feelings, and
welfare. He had left her virtually penniless, dependent on her children, and subject to the humiliation of Howbutker society.
Mary, who already had little tolerance for weakness, could hardly blame her mother for feeling shattered and empty, bereft
of even the memories that would have brought her comfort. With tears spilling down her cheeks, she knelt beside the chaise
longue. “Papa didn’t mean to hurt you, I know he didn’t.”
She laid her head on her mother’s bosom, but even as tears soaked the lavender satin, some part of her far below her grief
rejoiced that Somerset had come to her, and she
him. Miles probably wouldn’t need to hang around until she was twenty-one. Two years should do it, then she’d send him on
his way, mailing him papers that needed his signature. By then, she would have established herself in charge of Somerset.
In the late afternoon, Mary took these arguments to her mother to defend her father’s action. She found Darla lying on a chaise
longue in the room she’d shared with her husband, her rich auburn hair brushed out of its elaborate pompadour and spread around
her shoulders. The late afternoon sun cast a sickly glow through the sheer yellow draperies. Mary wondered disconsolately
if there was some significance in the bright lavender housecoat she wore—a kind of repudiation. The black dress and hat were
out of sight, as were the many flowers of condolence her mother had ordered sent up from the parlor after her husband’s body
was removed for burial. Earlier, meeting Sassie coming downstairs with an armload of the still fresh arrangements, she had
asked with a feeling of dread, “What is this all about?”
“What does it look like?” Gloom darkened their housekeeper’s voice. “I declare, I got a feelin’ nothin’ ain’t never gonna
be the same round here again.”
Mary had the same feeling as she stood anxiously studying her mother lying on the chaise longue. There was a terrifying remoteness
about her white-set features, the rigid length of her body. All warmth and spirit seemed to have been struck out of her. A
cold, unapproachable stranger lay in the lavender satin housecoat.
“You ask me what else he could have done?” Darla repeated Mary’s question. “I will tell you, my dear daughter. He could have
loved me more than he loved his land.
That’s
what he could have done.”
“But, Mama, you would have sold it!”
“Or, that failing,” Darla continued with her eyes closed, as if Mary had not spoken, “he could at least have divided his holdings
equally between our son and daughter. That strip Miles inherited is all but worthless. It floods every spring. Nothing planted
there can mature before or after the rains.”
“It’s still a part of Somerset, Mama, and you know Miles has never cared a whit for the plantation.”
“At the very least,” Darla went on in the same dead tone, “he could have considered my feelings and known how it will look
to all of our friends for him to have left his wife’s welfare in the hands of his daughter.”
“Mama…”
Her eyes still closed, Darla said, “Your father’s love was my greatest treasure, Mary. What an honor it was to be his wife,
to have been picked from all the women he could have married, some prettier than I….”
“Nobody’s prettier than you, Mama,” Mary whispered, choking on her grief.
“His love gave me life, gave me stature, made me important. But now I feel that it was all a sham, simply something for me
to enjoy while he lived. In death, he took it all away, all the things I thought I was to him, and he to me.”
“But, Mama—” The words failed to come. They failed because deep down in her sixteen-year-old heart, Mary knew her mother spoke
the truth. In the end, the preservation of the plantation had meant more to her father than his wife’s pride, feelings, and
welfare. He had left her virtually penniless, dependent on her children, and subject to the humiliation of Howbutker society.
Mary, who already had little tolerance for weakness, could hardly blame her mother for feeling shattered and empty, bereft
of even the memories that would have brought her comfort. With tears spilling down her cheeks, she knelt beside the chaise
longue. “Papa didn’t mean to hurt you, I know he didn’t.”
She laid her head on her mother’s bosom, but even as tears soaked the lavender satin, some part of her far below her grief
rejoiced that Somerset had come to her, and she
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