Page 143 of The Wallflower Takes All

“I did not know how to be here without him.”

Poppy closed her eyes. “I know.”

The answer held truth and sorrow and, beneath both, something that still ached too deeply to soften into easy forgiveness.

Poppy had always loved her mother. Now, she understood her more fully than she ever had.

But understanding did not make the last ten years disappear.

“Mama,” she said quietly, “I miss him too.”

Lady Viva’s grip tightened.

“And I needed you,” Poppy continued.

Mama went still.

Poppy’s own eyes burned, but she forced the words out because she had carried them too long. “I was thirteen. I did not know how to settle bills or answer tradesmen or determine which guests meant well and which merely wanted a place at your table. I learned because someone had to learn. I kept smiling because someone had to make the house seem all right when it was not.” Her voice shook. “But I needed my mother.”

Lady Viva lifted her head. Rouge streaked faintly beneath one eye. She looked nothing like the dazzling woman who always descended their staircase in silk and diamonds, treating sorrow as an unwelcome caller beneath her notice.

“Oh, darling,” she whispered. “Oh, my sweet girl.”

Poppy swallowed.

“I never meant to leave you alone,” Mama said. “I did not. But meaning a thing and doing it are not the same, are they? I filled the house with noise because I could not bear the quiet, and you were left to keep it standing.”

The hurt in Poppy’s heart was so sharp she could scarcely breathe. Part of her wanted to say it was all right, because soothing Mama had become an instinct older than judgment. But it had not been all right.

“No,” she whispered. “It was too much.”

A tear streaked down Mama’s cheek. “I am sorry.”

The apology was not neat. It could not mend the accounts, reclaim the years, or turn Lady Viva into a mother who had known how to protect her daughter from grief rather than ask her to manage its consequences.

But it was real.

Perhaps that was enough for this moment.

Behind them, Gabriel shifted softly near the window. Poppy had almost forgotten he was there. He had seen enough to understand the shape of it now. The laughter. The disaster. The love. The harm.

He did not intrude. Poppy was grateful for that.

“Mama,” she said, “come home.”

Lady Viva drew back and dabbed at her face with a handkerchief so fine it seemed unsuitable for actual tears. “Is there cake?”

Poppy laughed. She could not help it. One sob escaped with the laugh, which made the sound uneven and ridiculous and entirely Montfort. “Mama.”

“What? I have endured a false wedding, a fraudulent archbishop, paste jewelry, and a shocking amount of candor. Cake seems warranted. Though I should like plum cake, not seed cake.”

Gabriel crossed to the table and retrieved the fraudulent license, folding it with exacting care. “I shall settle the parlor charge and arrange for the valise.”

Lady Viva turned toward him. “Mr. Ashby, darling, have you ever considered that competence is among the most seductive qualities a man may possess?”

Poppy closed her eyes. “Mama.”

Gabriel’s expression barely shifted. “Not at any length, my lady.”