Olivia stared in dumbfounded shock as she watched the man before her. She sank down into the nearest chair, stumbling a bit before the journey was actually made. The man's eyes were large and brown, glistening with fresh tears. Beneath his moustache, his lips were trembling as he tried not to explode into hysterics. His eyes drank in her sight—her clubfoot, the bracelet, her height, her eyes, her hair. Shakily, he sank down kneel before her. He looked at her leg once more before gazing up into Olivia's confused eyes. His hand slid up to examine the material of her skirt, fingering it softly as if it were a favourite childhood toy.
"Oh, my Lydia . . . I never thought I'd see you again, I thought you were dead. M-My name is Thomas Hammond, Lydia. Your mother . . . Your mother, and I, we . . . We started the store before you were born and . . . and she died, when you were born. There were—There were complications, with the birth. You were the most beautiful baby, Lydia."
"Sir, Mister Hammond, I—"
"No. No, hear me out. Please."
Olivia nodded slowly. She couldn't believe what she was hearing. Her father had been alive all this time? And he hadn't come to get her? All of her life, she had dreamed of the Roufoides, of the family that loved her. But even the Roufoides had died. She couldn't see how a loving, caring father would ever leave her in that orphanage for thirteen years.
"With the store, and with Eleanor dead . . . I couldn't care for you. The money was . . . We didn't have enough. And I couldn't care for you. Not until the store took off. So I brought you to the orphanage, with no remaining relatives that could take you. I left the doll with you, it had been your very first present, as well as the matching necklaces. The chain was small enough for your size, so it fit perfectly around your neck. And I told them, that I would be back, in a year, to get you."
"Then—Then why, Mister Hammond? Why didn't you?"
"The woman there told me you had died."
Beads of sweat formed at the man's temples and he quickly pulled a kerchief from his pocket, dabbing them away. Olivia remained quiet, waiting for him to finish. She couldn't believe what she was hearing. Mrs. Opperheim was cruel, she knew that much. But Olivia had never thought that she would tell a parent that their child was dead. As she thought about it, the situation began to make some semblance of sense. The more children in the orphanage, the more funding it would receive. And the more Mrs. Opperheim would use for herself rather than for the benefit of the children.
"I couldn't believe it. Despite your birth complications, you were a strong baby. A survivor. And after the death of your mother . . . I didn't want to believe it. But I had to. I didn't want to go on. I left the doll that you now see in the shop window when I left you there a year before. The woman there gave it back to me when I came to get you, as . . . as proof that you had died, and would no longer need it. It's been in the window of the shop ever since."
"And the necklaces?" Olivia murmured, shifting uncomfortably in the chair.
"The woman said that you had been buried with it on. It's—It's now too small for your neck, isn't it," the man said with a forced chuckle. He stood carefully, as if he'd faint, and went back to the desk to pick it up. "Here, Lydia. Hold out your wrist for me."
Olivia timidly lifted her arm and allowed Thomas to clasp the small necklace around her wrist. It was loose and barely stayed on her wrist, but Olivia, upon looking at it against her skin, suddenly felt a sense of belonging. That something was most definitely right. A settling feeling caused her to relax as she felt the light pressure of the chain upon her wrist. Her eyes slowly gazed up at the man who she now knew was her father, as they glistened, wet with silent tears.
"Oh, Lydia," Thomas breathed as he took her hand. "I am so . . . so sorry."
Olivia's hand closed around her father's as she slowly accepted it. She looked from her hands to her father's face, biting down upon her trembling lip. A flood of emotions was rushing through her veins, heated blood flowing into her heart and forcing it to beat faster. It pounded in her chest, and Olivia was surprised that she was not able to hear it. She stared into the eyes of the stranger before her who claimed to be the man who fathered her. Eyes that she somehow knew, but didn't recognize. The man was so close, and yet so distant. Unable to be trusted and yet unable to be feared. Neither her father or a stranger.
At her silence, Thomas squeezed her hand and laced his fingers with hers. His hands were warm and damp with sweat, like her own. He stared at her with concern, having expected her to speak in response to what he'd said. His free hand tilted her chin upward.
"Lydia?"
Lydia. Lydia wasn't her name. Her name was Olivia. She had been called Olivia all her life and now this man expected her to call herself another name. It was the name she had been given at her birth but it was as alien as the man that kneeled before her. She knew it was her identity but couldn't fully grasp it. Her name was Olivia. Olivia.
"Olivia."
"What?"
"Please, sir," Olivia mumbled shakily. "Call me Olivia."
Thomas looked as if his heart had fallen from his chest and now lay in a heap on the floor; still beating but causing him a great deal of pain and despair. He broke his gaze with Olivia and brought it to observe the room, not really seeing, or looking for anything in particular, but just trying to keep his eyes from her. His tongue poked from between his lips and brushed against the upper one and the bottom of his moustache, making a soft smacking sound as his tongue disappeared back into his mouth.
"Yes. Yes, of course. Olivia."
Olivia shifted uncomfortably and tugged her hand from his, her fingers coming to fumble with the chain around her wrist. She stood slowly, using the chair to support herself as she did so. Looking down at Thomas, she changed her weight from both feet to just her good leg, brushing off her skirts and fumbling with the fabric of it. She stared at the trembling man in brown, searching his appearance for something familiar that she recognized.
Nothing.
Though all memory of infancy had been irradicated by her developing mind, she felt that there should be something that caused her to be drawn to the man before her. Despite what he had told her, he was just another man to her. The same as any other stranger she'd met on the street. Olivia was engulfed in a wave of disappointment; the undertow causing her to back up in the direction of the door.
Thomas's gaze shifted from the floor to his daughter's face. His features were lined with anticipation and questioning. Placing his hands on his knees, he brought himself to stand before her again.
"I need to go," Olivia mumbled.
The man looked as if he had been slapped. "Go? Go where?"
"Agnes—The lady who takes care of me—Will be expecting me. I need to go."
"Oh," Thomas replied in a voice barely above a whisper. "Go, then."
Olivia backed up further, her hand reaching behind her and fumbling for the doorknob. She tugged her eyes from the form of Thomas Hammond and swung the door open, making a hasty exit. She knew now who her family was, where she came from. All of her life, she'd wanted to belong to a family. Her search was over and her goal had been fulfilled. Emptiness settled in the pit of her stomach rather than joy. As Olivia wandered home from the curiosity shop, she couldn't help but wonder if it would have been better if her history had remained a blank.
"I feel nothing, Gwen. There's nothing when I look at him. When I look into his eyes I don't see my father, I see . . . I don't know what I see. I see the owner of a curiosity shop. I see a strange man whose eyes water when he sees me. I see a man I don't know who trembles when he says my name. And it isn't even my name. My name is Olivia, not Lydia. No matter what I was born with."
Gwen Minton pursed her lips and smacked them together. She stared at Olivia with her small eyes behind thick glasses, her expression blank for a few moments. "I don' know what ta tell you."
"Something!" Olivia cried suddenly, standing up from her place on the bed. Her tone was desperate, moreso than she meant it to be. "Something, Gwen. Anything to make things easier for me. I don't see a father, I see a stranger. Is that all there is? I've always wanted a father and now I have one and I don't know what to do with him."
"I t'ink he's t'inkin' da same thing. Only it's dat he don' know what ta do wit' *you*. I mean, he t'inks you've been dead awl dese years. An' den one day, some girl walks into 'is shop an' it's his daughtah. I bet 'e feels da same as you."
Olivia's knees bent slowly and lowered her down onto the bed again. "Do you really think that?"
"I wouldn'ta said it if I di'n't mean it, 'Livia," Gwen replied placidly as she took Olivia's wrist in her hands to examine the bracelet. She turned the charm over with her slender fingers. "An' I'm sure he dun' take too well t'callin' his baby by anothah name."
"I can't have him call me Lydia," Olivia mumbled in response. "I haven't been called Lydia for thirteen years. Yes, it may be my real name, but it's not what I'm used to. I don't like it when he calls me Lydia. I don't know anything about what's going on around me. I'd at least like to be familiar with my own name."
"I'se sure he'll be able t'respect dat, Liv. Jus' give 'im time. Y'shouldn't expect t'have any kinda relationship or undastanin' after first meetin'. Yeah, you'se're related, an' been waitin' ta find each othah for years, but you'se're still jus' like strangers."
Olivia glanced to Gwen slowly with a sort of awed admiration. Though the blonde girl was younger than herself, she seemed to be much wiser beyond her years. She smiled and tucked her hair behind her ear lightly. "What do I do now, Gwen?"
Gwen shrugged, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. "Dunno. But I t'ink you should try an' spend some time wiv him. Ya know, get ta know 'im, let 'im know you—Dat kinda t'ing."
"It's snowing."
"What?"
Olivia's gaze had drifted out the window and concentrated on the delicate white flakes falling on the other side of the glass. Had time passed so quickly that it was already cold enough to snow? Olivia must have lost track of the days. Time flowed so slowly back at the orphanage, when she was so unhappy and abused. Once she was sheltered and enjoying life, she barely noticed the changing seasons. How peculiar, Olivia thought. What torture time puts us through. I should think that the troubled times would pass quickly, and the pleasant slowly, in order to savour them. Bt then, perhaps joy is joy merely because the incidents of such seem so short and special.
"Olivia."
"Huh?"
Gwen gave her a sharp tap on the shoulder. Olivia turned to see an expression of inspiration on her friend's freckled features. She raised a brow in question.
"Dis is perfect, Liv."
"I . . . don't understand."
"Da first snowfall o' da year, Liv. Go see yer father an' take a walk. Or somefin'. Throw snowballs. I dunno. I guess it just might be a nice chance ta tawk wit' him. Grab a coat an' go out."
Olivia thought about this for a few moments before nodding. "Gwen, you're a genius."
"A genius?" Gwen snorted. "Yeah, dat's me."
Olivia gave Gwen a quick pat on the shoulder and limped from the room as swiftly as she could. Gwen followed her, bounding down the stairs and going to the foyer closet. She pulled Agnes's mauve coat from its hook and sidestepped behind Olivia, helping her friend to get it on.
"Have a coat?" Gwen asked, smoothing the thick material over Olivia's shoulders.
"No—"
"This this will do. It's rather long, but it'll keep ya warm. I'se sure Agnes won't mind if ya borrow it."
Olivia didn't want to think about that Agnes might not ever have the chance to wear it again, but the idea crossed her mind briefly and she winced inwardly.
"Take care of her while I'm gone?"
Gwen smiled. "Always do. 'Til she goes to sleep, 'cause the folks'll want me back."
"Thanks, Gwen."
The blonde girl squeezed Olivia's arm reassuringly and opened the door for her. A think blanket of snow had already coated the ground. Olivia took in a deep breath, the air rushing into her lungs and frosting them over. Smoothing the coat and her skirts, she made it down the front steps past the door. She turned back to smile at Gwen one more time before heading off down the street.
"Was it really so unbearable there?"
Olivia kicked a foot gently through the snow-covered grass. "No, I suppose not. Were it so unbearable, it would have killed me. But it didn't. I did have friends. Letty and Mary and Cora. I know that Letty went back to her parents in Vermont, but other than that, I don't know how they're doing. And I'm too frightened to go back there and find out."
Thomas hesitantly put his hand out to brush against Olivia's hair. "Good. I don't want you to go within ten blocks of that place. My God, Lydia—Olivia, how could I have allowed you to live in such a hellhole?"
"You didn't know what it's like. No one knows—that's why it's still running. I don't . . . I don't blame you, Mister Hammond. I never have."
"You don't?" Thomas looked to her, quietly surprised.
Olivia hinted at a smile. "No, of course not. How could I have blamed you if I didn't know you existed?"
Thomas chuckled gently. "Yes, I suppose. But do you blame me now?"
"No; circumstance."
Olivia turned her eyes from her father and began to walk again. Thomas realized that she didn't want to carry that conversation further and quieted, watching her. The cold had made her leg stiff and worsened her limp. Olivia made an attempt to ignore it, but there was no way she could hide it. She tightened her coat around her and fixed her gaze ahead.
Thomas gave Olivia an awkward tap on the shoulder, causing her to stop and look up at him.
"Hm?"
"How would you like to take a ride around the park?"
Olivia arched a brow. "A ride?"
Thomas made a gesture with his head toward the street where white and red carriages drawn by one horse each were stopped, the drivers awaiting passengers. He smiled to her playfully and didn't mention he was doing it because of the pain he knew Olivia was experiencing.
"Well?"
Olivia slowly returned the smile, eyes brightening. "I'd love to."
Thomas walked Olivia across the street and helped her into the first carriage before going to speak with the coachman. Olivia took in her velvet-lined surroundings as she snuggled into Agnes's coat and the soft cushioned seat. The velvet smelled of a fine woman's perfume and fabric starch. How wealthy she felt, sitting in such a carriage. It was the most beautiful item of craftsmanship she had ever immersed herself in.
Olivia had her nose to the back of the seat, inhaling its scent, when Thomas climbed in. He chuckled, sitting back and smoothing his overcoat down. "Are you enjoying yourself?"
"Mm, it smells wonderful."
Thomas wrinkled his nose. "It smells of horses."
"No, no, the velvet doesn't."
"Doesn't it?" Thomas bent his head down and back over his shoulder, sniffing. "Well, what do you know."
Olivia closed her eyes. "I imagine that a fine lady was in here last," she murmured. "With expensive flowered perfume from a crystal bottle and satin petticoats with ribbon-weaved lace. I'll bet she was beautiful."
Thomas stared at her quietly with a smile as the carriage lurched to a start. Olivia's eyes snapped open at the sudden movement and looked around. The park was so much easier to enjoy when she didn't have to worry about walking through the snow. The branches of the trees were weighed down by heavy bundles of snow resting on top, causing them to droop down as if reaching for the people below and asking for help. Ladies in long coats and skirts with extra petticoats, hands buried in thick fur muffs, huddled close against their beaus and husbands for warmth as they walked along the side of the street.
The world seemed to be whirling around Olivia; she'd never traveled so quickly without pain. She felt as if she were dancing. She'd never danced before, and had only dreamed of waltzing gracefully around a ballroom in the arms of a strong man, only imagined what such a sinfully delightful pleasure a dance would be. Here, the waltz was the beating of horsehoofs on snowy cobblestone, the strong man was the carriage. A melody flowed through her mind in gentle, soothing rhythms and she wasn't sure she was humming until she turned to see Thomas smiling at her.
Then she saw it.
Over Thomas's shoulder, through the trees, she could see it. The very sorts of women she saw huddled and cold were free and gliding, and graceful men followed them in something so much more graceful than a dance. Children wobbled and flailed their arms as their parents tried to teach them the fluid movements.
"What are they doing?" Olivia murmured as she stared out at the gliding people.
Thomas glanced back over his shoulder. "Ice skating. I never could do it myself, being frightfully clumsy with my feet."
Ice skating. Indeed! Now that she gave it a more comprehensive look, Olivia could see that the people weren't floating above the ground, but sliding over ice. They wore special shoes, with metal blades on them that helped them to move. Oh, what fun it must be! she thought.
"Yes," Thomas answered. "I suppose."
Olivia then realized she had spoken aloud. As they passed by the ice, she settled back in her chair with a calm, dreamy sigh. "I should like to ice skate."
Thomas nodded quietly and leaned against the cushion as well. "We shall do it, then."
"Oh, but I can't with my leg."
"I—" Thomas fumbled for a response. His cheeks flushed apologetically. "I'm sorry."
Olivia shrugged slowly. Though she herself was disappointed at the thought, she gave a flickering smile and replied with, "It's quite alright. I should think that I wouldn't be good at it, anyhow. I'm sure that it's much better to watch than to actually skate."
The smile appeared again, this time directed toward her father. Olivia still couldn't picture him as anyone other than a man she hardly knew, but she could feel a definite kinship as she watched his simple features. Perhaps she could grow to know him as a father, but at the moment, all she could think of him as was a friend. As Thomas smiled back, Olivia offered him her hand.
"I hope we can spend more time like this," Thomas said gently, taking her hand with one of his and smoothing her tousled hair with the other.
"I do, too. There's so much of the city I haven't seen," Olivia replied. Her last words were distorted by a long, heavy yawn. She rested her head against her father's shouder and squeezed his hand.
Thomas basked in the peaceful silence for several moments. "Where are you staying now?"
"With Widow Dover on Twenty-Third Street," Olivia replied. "She's sick, so I shouldn't have left, but my friend Gwen is staying with her until she goes to sleep, and I should be back by then."
"Widow Dover? Crazy Widow Dover?" Thomas chuckled.
Olivia nodded and looked up at him. "Have you met her?"
"No, although several of my customers have talked about her and said they were surprised she didn't frequent the shop, with all its curious items. I've heard quite a bit about her, and nothing as to that she has a granddaughter."
"Oh, I'm not related to her," Olivia said. She failed to mention that she was, however, related to her husband. And that Thomas had married William's daughter. That, of course, was too much information that was unlikely to be believed. The time would come when she would have to tell her father how she found him. "She took me in after I ran away from the orphanage. Maybe you can meet her once she gets well again. She's a most dear woman, I'm sure you'd grow to be quite good companions. And she's not crazy at all. Maybe a little bit eccentric, but certainly not crazy."
"She sounds like a dear woman. I'm sure I'll like her, if you like her so—Olivia?"
Olivia didn't answer, but nodded and yawned again as she burrowed closer to him in a mass of mauve fabric. She felt the hansom cab halted to a stop as its rounds came to an end, but didn't move. The heaviness of exhaustion finally fell upon her and she was unable to keep her eyes open. As she drifted off into slumber, she could hear Thomas speaking to the driver before the cab jerked to start again.
Olivia wasn't asleep when Thomas carried her in through the unlocked doorway of the house on Twenty-Third, but she was certainly teetering off the edge of consciousness as she rested in her father's arms. As he shifted his hold on her to close the door, she whimpered and turned her head.
"I'll take you to your room," her father murmured.
She could only nod and make a gesture toward the narrow stairway. He walked with silent grace as he carried her up the stairs, the structure creaking under his feet. The paint crumbled off of the wall as Olivia's feet and skirts brushed against it. Thomas gently shielded her head from hitting the banister. When they reached the top of the stairs, he looked around the hallway for a moment before seeing the open doorway to Olivia's room.
"Is this it?"
Olivia barely nodded, and lost sense of where she was before feeling the soft pressure of her mattress beneath her. Thomas knelt down at her side and brushed the hair from her face. She couldn't see him, but she could hear his soft, fatherly voice as he spoke. And she knew then that this is what she'd wanted, and what he wanted. He wanted a daughter to hold and be close to. And for thirteen years, he didn't have that.
"Sleep, Lydia. You're exhausted, I can tell. I really enjoyed myself today, being with you. Thank you, so much, for coming back to me. You have no idea how pleased I am to know you're alive, and to have you in my arms again."
Olivia could hear the rustle of his wool suit and the quiet cracking of his knees as he stood, and felt him gently kiss her forehead before turning to exit. She snuggled into the pillow and thought she would immediately drift off, but she had the sense that something wasn't right. There was a quiet, startled gasp from her father. Her heavy eyelids struggled to open.
Agnes was standing in the doorway, holding onto it tightly to keep her footing. Her skin was pale and thin, sagging like crumpled, wet paper. Her brilliant jade eyes had sunken into her face, lined with fluid. She was ill-and hadn't been up in weeks. She had been watching Thomas and Olivia, and the two adults were now watching each other with level eyes. There wasn't any hostility, but there was a definite sense of uneasiness.
"Mrs. Dover?" Thomas asked quietly.
"Yes. What do you want?"
He held out his hand. "Thomas Hammond, Mrs. Dover. I'm Lydia's father."
The old woman took his hand, but at the word "father," she stammered. "You're what?"
Olivia forced herself up and the others turned to look at her. "He's my father."
Agnes gave her a befuddled look. "But your name is Olivia."
"It is now," Olivia replied as she stood up and dragged herself to the doorway. She took Agnes's wrinkled, brittle hands and led her to the bed, helping her to sit down. Thomas watched both of them before Olivia gestured him over. She laced her fingers together and fidgeted.
"There's something I've been neglecting to tell both of you," she began. "No, not neglect in your case, Agnes. I lied to you."
"Lied to me?"
"Please. Let me explain. Mister Hammond, you're my father. But I also know who my mother was. Who my grandparents were. Sometimes I think that fate is on my side. It isn't something I ordinarily believe in, but I can't call it anything else. When I ran away from the orphanage, I'd bought a newspaper for a penny. When I went to get my train ticket, I was a penny short. I ended up throwing the newspaper and Agnes caught it. She offered to take me in and I accepted."
The adults watched her quietly, listening.
"Then in the attic, I found letters from Agnes's husband, William. The last letter was from a woman named Adeline-"
"Adeline," Thomas repeated, recognition flashing in his eyes.
"Yes. Adeline Newell. When I told you about my discovery, Agnes, you gave me William's journal. I read most of the entries. When you asked if your suspicions about an affair were correct, I lied to you and said Adeline and William were never more than companions. They were."
Agnes closed her eyes and looked down, nodding with calm resignation. Her hands were trembling.
"Gwen and I then went back to the orphanage and found my records. My name was changed from Lydia Hammond to Olivia Swipple, and my father was told that I had died twelve years ago. The paper said my mother's name was Eleanor Newell. And I went back to the journal. The next entry said that she was with child, and if the baby was a girl, she would name her Eleanor."
Thomas looked up and met Agnes's eyes. Olivia could feel the heat of their stares, as if it were in flames-even though their eyes were coated in a film of tears. She watched the two of them, before Agnes looked to her.
"You're William's granddaughter," she murmured, her voice cracking.
Olivia nodded quietly and her hands tugged at her skirt, shifting her position. "I didn't want to tell you about William and Adeline, but . . . I thought you should know."
Agnes nodded slowly and looked back to Thomas briefly. "It's been forty years," she said shakily. It was obvious to Olivia that her heart had shattered, but she was trying to maintain her proper dignity. "And Olivia's a wonderful girl. If . . . if it hadn't happened, she wouldn't be here."
Thomas placed a gentle, warm hand on Olivia's shoulder and squeezed.
"It's funny," Olivia said quietly, "how things come together, sometimes."
"Serena! Don't go near those ribbons!"
Gwen chased after the sleek adolescent feline, scooping her up into her arms. She scolded the cat by tapping her on the nose and tossing her into the overstuffed armchair in the corner of the living room. Serena fumbled to land on her feet and squawked with surprise, but her shock was short-lived. She sank down onto the chair and went about licking her white paws.
Olivia picked up the box of candles and brought it to the small Christmas tree that stood proudly in front of the living room window. She and Gwen had purchased it and brought it home. With Agnes bedridden, they were determined to decorate the house beautifully so that she would enjoy her Christmas morning. It was only three days away, now. It had snowed at least twice more since the first snow of the season a month before, but it had not snowed in a week and what had been on the ground was melting into a brown mush, with patches of wet grass between it. Even so, it seemed like nothing could deter Olivia's Christmas spirit. It was something she'd never actually looked forward to at the orphanage. Certainly, she knew what Christmas was, and had recognized it, but it was never such a celebration.
Gwen had brought up the decorations from the basement. Many of the garlands and ornaments were at least thirty years old. One Olivia had taken a special interest in was a small glass ball that was awkwardly painted in dark purple, with a ribbon stuck to it crookedly. A black pen had scratched "Millie '65" in childish script. Olivia hung it in a revered spot just below the angel that made the top of the tree tilt slightly to the left. She now looked at it admiringly while cradling the box of candles.
"You just gonna stand dere, or are y'actually gonna do somefin'?" Gwen mocked gently, taking a few of the small wax tapers from the box. She wobbled on her toes as she started placing the unlit candles into the holders that had been fastened to the branches. "Ya gotsta admit, Livvie, we did a pretty good job o' dis without Agnes helpin'."
Olivia set the box on the floor with a low thud that caused Serena to scamper from the room. Pulling out as many candles as her arms could hold, she joined Gwen in adding them to the tree. "We did. Do you think she'll mind that we didn't wait for her to decorate? I just thought it would be nice if she came down on Christmas morning with everything decorated. Because I don't think she would be able to come down and do it herself."
"Speakin' of," Gwen said, peeking around from the other side of the tree, "how is she?"
"I think she's doing better," Olivia lied. In all actuality, she was worse. Since Olivia had told her the truth about William and Adeline, Olivia noticed Agnes's deterioration. Despite the calm dignity and acceptance Agnes managed to feign, it was as if her worst fears had finally come true-and that hardly helped her illness. Olivia knew that Agnes had always suspected the affair, but she also knew firsthand that nothing is ever as horrible when you only suspect it, as opposed to also knowing it. Seeing Agnes ailing so, Olivia didn't want to admit to herself that the woman who had been so kind to her wouldn't survive to see 1902.
Gwen nodded her appreciation of this reassurance before disappearing around the other side of the tree, but Olivia supposed that Gwen knew Agnes wasn't as well as Olivia had said she was.
"Is your father gonna see ya fer Christmas?" Gwen's voice came again, though it seemed as if it were the tree speaking. The branches jiggled as, Olivia assumed, Gwen couldn't get one of the candles to fit in the holder. The ornaments rattled and the angel teetered.
"He might," Olivia returned, reaching up to steady the tree's top branches. "I don't know. I should like to see him."
"Should ya? Good."
The clock in the foyer chimed three o'clock and the tree jiggled again as Gwen gasped. She lept out from behind the tree and tripped over an empty box of ornaments. Olivia couldn't hide her surprise at this action. Gwen righted herself and brushed the pine needles off of her shirt and ruffled them from her hair. She reached down and tugged away a ribbon that had tangled around her leg.
"Gwen?"
"It's t'ree a'clock. I'm s'posed ta go out wit' my parents fer dinner at t'ree thirty. You give Agnes me wishes, won'cha? I'll come over Christmas afternoon'r somefin."
Olivia smiled lightly. "Of course I will, Gwen."
And Gwen was out the door before Olivia could even say goodbye. She was peculiar in that way, and it only caused Olivia to smile and chuckle to herself. Once the door had been closed after Gwen's exit, Olivia settled the rest of the candles in their holders and gave the tipsy angel one last tilt to the right. She limped backwards to admire her work, barely sidestepping the box of remaining candles. How Agnes would love this, Olivia thought to herself. Her thoughts were interrupted by the idea of actually bringing Agnes down to show her what she and Gwen had worked on all afternoon. She limped from the room and made her way upstairs, humming a Christmas carol she'd heard on the streets but didn't know the words to. Her skirts swished around her ankles as she stopped her jovial, although heavy and uneven, gait in front of Agnes's closed door.
Olivia knocked rhythmically and gave a whistle. When no answer came from inside, she called her name.
"Agnes?"
Again, no answer. She was probably sleeping. Olivia carefully turned the knob in her hand and peered in. Yes, she was sleeping. Olivia shifted her weight from one foot to the other and back again as she thought whether or not to wake her. The latter won over the former and she made her way in. She sank down on the edge of Agnes's bed and nudged her shoulder.
"Agnes, you've got to wake up and come downstairs. Gwen and I took the Christmas decorations from the basement and put them up. We even got a tree this morning, and we can light the candles on it Christmas Eve. I've never celebrated Christmas before, Agnes. I've always wanted to, but in the orphanage we never did anything like this. The living room is so beautiful, Agnes, you must come and see it."
The silence that ensued after Olivia's babbling caused her to stop and look back to the woman peacefully lying in bed.
"Agnes?" Olivia murmured again, this time with a twinge of fright. She took her shoulder and shook gently. "Agnes, I'm calling you. Wake up . . . Agnes? Agnes, please, I don't mean to disturb you. You've got to wake up. This isn't funny, Agnes-Open your eyes-"
Olivia fell quiet and pulled her hand back with dull horror and the harsh realization that Agnes would never wake up. Tears coated her eyes and she pulled the old woman's fragile body into her arms.
"I'm so sorry."
They had taken Agnes away. Her funeral was to be held the day after Christmas—tomorrow. Christmas Eve passed without joy for Olivia. She'd cried herself to sleep to the lullaby of the mirthful carolers. Tolling bells had woken her up early and for hours she merely lay in bed, her eyes focused on the ceiling. When she'd finally rolled out of bed and gotten dressed, she took a long walk around the house.
The emptiness of the rooms weighed heavily on her back and added lead to her footsteps. Her wandering eventually brought her to the living room. The sight of the Christmas tree, still gleefully glittering in the morning light coming through the window, caused a heavy sigh to escape her lips. Olivia sank down into the overstuffed armchair, her eyes snagging on the angel tilting sadly to the left.
"At least she ain't ill anymore," Gwen had said to her two days before as she dried the tears in her eyes. Olivia hadn't seen Gwen since then, and she wasn't sure if she was grateful for that or not. While she knew she needed time alone, there were the lonely mealtimes at the kitchen table when all she wanted was a shoulder to cry on and a comforting word. The cats noticed Agnes's loss as well, but they were no solace to Olivia. They mourned in the basement and resurfaced only to sporadically pick at their food.
The gift Olivia had gotten for Agnes at the curiosity shop lay unopened beneath the tree. Under the clumsily wrapped paper lay a set of lace petticoats with lavender ribbons of satin. Olivia had brushed against them the day she asked Thomas to take a walk in Central Park, and they had made the most delicious rustling sound. She thought at once of the whispering skirts that gathered about Agnes's brittle ankles to gossip. And were the skirts not a part of Agnes, Olivia would never have considered getting the woman such a personal gift. Even while Agnes was bedridden, the swishing of the petticoats could still be heard throughout the halls. With Agnes gone, the house and the whispering petticoats had fallen silent.
The silence was driving her mad. Olivia leaned forward in her chair and took the box, tearing the paper around it before pulling it open and dropping the lide aside. The petticoats were carefully folded in layers of thin paper. Olivia lifted them from the box and peeled the paper, allowing it to drift to the floor with a delicate crinkle.
Her hands traced over the scratchy, stiff lace that sat in her lap like a young child. Tears gathered in her eyes and she found herself hugging the petticoats to her breast. They whispered, but with a different voice. They smelled of the curiosity shop, not of Agnes.
"I'm so sorry," Olivia whispered, crying, as she had the afternoon of Agnes's death. "I should never have told you the truth. If it weren't for me, you'd still be alive. If it weren't for me . . ."
A knock. For two days Olivia hadn't answered the door. It had never been locked, and she expected any callers to come in on their own accord should the occasion be urgent enough. The knock came again, slightly louder. She didn't want to see anyone. Not with the tears in her eyes, not with her shaking hands clutching tightly to petticoats. She buried her face in the fabric but the whispering wasn't comfort.
She heard the door click open and the approach of quiet footsteps yet she did not make any acknowledgement of it. Olivia continued to ignore it, though the footsteps came closer and a hand was placed on her shoulder. She flinched lightly and slowly looked up.
"Why, Olivia," Thomas said gently with a ghosting smile, "what for do you cry into petticoats? It is Christmas morning, and here you are getting tears on lace underclothes."
Olivia watched her father as he handed her a kerchief. He was dressed in black, his tie red silk. In one arm he carried a long box wrapped in paper. Olivia couldn't help but smile at his words, realizing how foolish she must have looked.
"And why," he continued, "did you not answer the door? I have come every day since I heard, and there is all but an answer. I had begun to think you had gone to live with Gwen or that you yourself had perished. And, oh, my heart broke."
Thomas's lilting formal tone caused Olivia's smile to widen. He pried the kerchief from her fingers and dried her cheeks for her. The smile on her lips flickered and died. Thomas knelt beside her, setting the box on the floor.
"Olivia, how I hate to see you cry."
"It's my fault."
Thomas's brow became creased as he pulled the handkerchief away. "Your fault?"
"If I hadn't told Agnes about William and Adeline—"
"Nonsense," he said, clicking his tongue softly. "She was ill."
"She would have gotten well again. She died of a broken heart."
"Now, I don't think that's an actual medical condition," Thomas said. "Olivia, it isn't your fault. It isn't anyones. It was just her time to go, I guess. I'm not sure why, but I don't think anyone does. But Olivia, please. Don't blame yourself. Now why are you crying into the petticoats you got for Agnes?"
Olivia held them close and they hissed as they were moved. "You wouldn't understand."
"I suppose I wouldn't," he replied. "I never understood why you'd want to give her petticoats in the first place."
"Yes," Olivia chuckled, "it does seem odd, doesn't it. But you see, Agnes always wore these petticoats that rustled and I always felt like they were speaking to me."
Thomas smiled. "Speaking to you?"
"Yes, whispering."
"I see now—Oh! That reminds me, I nearly forgot."
He clearly hadn't, and merely had been waiting for the right moment. He smiled at her and took the petticoats from her lap, replacing them with the wrapped box. Olivia saw his smile waver briefly.
"Merry Christmas," he said, a faint tremor in his tone, as he rocked back on his heels. His eyes were intent on Olivia's hands as they carefully unwrapped the paper around the box and lifted the lid. Thomas inhaled shakily as he waited for Olivia's reaction.
Glass eyes stared up at Olivia from the box that now seemed like a coffin. Blonde curls had been combed, the pink velvet bow straightened, and fabric had as many wrinkles pressed out of it as possible. Painted pink lips were pursed in an imploring, childlike expression below a small and delicate nose. The charm of a newly polished necklace rested on a pillow of lace on the bodice of the dress.
It was her doll.
Olivia brushed her fingers against the doll's charm before looking to the one around her wrist and the "LH" engraved into it. All of a sudden she felt, at last, like she belonged somewhere, that a connection had been made between herself and the world around her. It caused her heart to thud against the walls of her breast, and a solid feeling to form in the pit of her stomach. She couldn't remember her life before the orphanage, but she knew this was right. She knew her past was meant to be forgotten and her life—her true life, was just beginning. Her eyes leveled upon those of her father.
"I want you to return to the home you were meant to live in, Olivia."
"Lydia."
"What?"
"Please," Olivia said with a soft smile, "Call me Lydia . . . Father."
A past is nothing without knowledge of it. I once believed that if I created a fantasy of what I wanted my past to be it would become me. It seems hard to believe that it was only a few short months ago when I still believed my parents were Guillaume and Marianne Roufoide and my life was nothing but a fairy-tale. When I learned that my story was nothing but fiction, I put down my quill and turned away from the pages that had once been my solace in the dreary days in the orphanage. I left it unfinished as it had been taken away from me. I don't believe I ever saw the document again. Though I didn't know it then, the horrifying events that led up to my flight from the orphanage was my true escape. Not only from the only world I knew, but from the lies I had created for myself. Something has guided me all of my life. I've never believed in any God, nor have I ever put my faith in fate or destiny. There's certainly something there, and I don't know what it is, that leads us all down the path we're meant to take. Certain knowledge we're meant to have at certain times, and certain people are there to help us along the way. I never knew that buying a newspaper from the boy with more freckles than I could count would keep me from boarding that train to Boston. I never knew that Agnes would be the wife of my grandfather, and I never thought that I'd find my true family or any place where I belonged. Here I am, now with a new name, a new home, and a new family. Of course, it never was new, it was what I'd always had. I just didn't realize it until it was shown to me. It seems so new to me and yet it's been with me since I was born. I thought once that if I saw something from before I went to the orphanage, I would know everything about myself. I know now that life, even if it's what you're supposed to be, takes some getting used to and some time. Things come into focus when they're ready to, and you've just got to be looking through the lens when they do. It's been months since I've written a single word on paper, and as the new year comes about, so does my new life. Gwen gave me a quill and ink for Christmas and a journal of blank pages. As I write now, I realize I am only on the first page out of many. There will be so many things to write about, I know. But where can I start? I find myself here rejoining the quill I left what seems like ages ago, with my mind spinning in a whirlpool but nothing sinking down into my hand. I can't say my history has been glamourous, like the one that I created for myself. But I suppose I shall start the beginning, like any good story. And this time it will be the true story.
