Chapter 1
June 16th, 1811
Aurora Washam
Aurora's lungs burned as her entire body shook with the force of the coughing fit that had taken over her. Doubled over, hands clutching at the grass, it seemed to Aurora like this was never going to be over.
Yet she wasn't thinking about her coughing fit, or the way her chest heaved and struggled. No, the only thing running through her mind was those few words Father had just told her; that her mother's death was all her fault.
“Aurora,” Father's voice called, but he sounded far away. Then his gentle hand landed on her shoulders and eased her upright, and Aurora looked up to see something in his free hand. “Drink this,” he insisted, “and you'll feel better. Remember what the physician said — if ever these coughing fits appear, drink wild bergamot tea.” His voice was soft, reassuring yet firm, as he passed Aurora the cup.
Still fighting back the cough, Aurora took the cup with shaking hands. The tea was strong and bitter, the scent barely masked by the sugar Father had added in. Yet the steam soothed her aching chest and, without even needing to drink it, the bergamot had eased her cough.
Aurora saw how Father visibly relaxed, and a patter of her own relief echoed in her chest.
Slowly, she settled down into the grass. Earlier, they had been sitting here admiring the new chamomile growing in, until Aurora had asked that silly question and the world had come crashing down around her. Now, she stared down at her tea and wondered,why didn't I think to ask before?
Father settled down beside her, brushing a lock of golden hair from Aurora's face. His smile was kind, reassuring, but it did little to make Aurora feel better.
Truthfully, she wasn't sure if she wanted to press the matter. She asked a lot of questions, but she was only five, and Father said that she was too young to know the answers. Like when she asked how Mrs. Belfour had passed away last year, and Father had said something likeoh Aurora, you're too young to be asking such morbid questions.
But this was about her mother. Even if it brought on the worst coughing fit in the entire world, she had to know.
So, hesitantly, Aurora asked, as she had asked before the fit took over, “if Mama really did die when I was born, does that make it my fault she's gone?”
Father's expression pinched in pain, his eyes screwed shut. Yet when he spoke, it was with purposeful calm. “Of course not, my dear Aurora. Nobody could have foreseen it, not even the physician who delivered you. Life has a nasty way of surprising us, but don'teverthink it's your fault.”
Aurora shifted awkwardly. She glanced down at her cooling tea, felt another tickle in her throat that told of another coughing fit. Before it had the time to grow, she took a gulp of tea and swallowed harshly.
“Slowly,” Father insisted, “don't drink it too fast, or you'll choke.”
The tea was sweet and bitter all at once, and Aurora would have been happy not to drink it at all. She knew that if she drank it fast then the taste wouldn’t have as much effect, but Father was right. Slow, steady sips were what helped most.
As she drank, another thought struck her mind like the painful stab of a needle. “Why did you never tell me about Mama before?”
Surrounded by their beautiful gardens, with chamomile growing wild and all kinds of healing herbs surrounding Aurora, it should have felt peaceful. Yet the look in Papa's eyes was anything but, his features twisted in pain. She wanted to help, but didn't know how.
“Aurora, you must understand that you were always a happy child. Carefree. You never seemed to care that you only had one parent, nor seemed to see how it was unusual. I didn't want to ruin that naïve happiness, because once you discovered the truth, I knew that things would change between us.”
He was using such big words, but Aurora thought she understood. He feared hurting her. The thing was, Aurorawashurting; her chest ached and she couldn't bare to think of her Mama, the woman she'd only ever heard about in stories. Yet it wasn't because of Father that she hurt, and it wasn't his fault that she had to find out the truth eventually.
“Aurora,” Papa said, a hitch in his breath, “I know I should have told you sooner, but I wasn't even sure if you would understand. You're soyoung...”
With a sigh, Aurora shuffled closer. The bergamot tea was now abandoned on the grass, forgotten, as she settled into Father's side. She was too young to think of the right words, or any words at all that would suffice, and so she settled for simply resting her head against his arm and hoping it was all the reassurance he needed.
And it must have been, at least a little, because he let out a great sigh — much larger than her own — and his entire body relaxed.
They sat in silence for a long moment. Each lost in their own thoughts, there was no need for spoken words. Ever since she was a baby first learning how to speak, Aurora had enjoyed the peaceful quiet.
And her thoughts lingered, of course. Of a mother she would never meet, of old stories she wasn't alive to remember, and the knowledge that while all of the other children had two parents to love, all she ever had was Father.
He was a good father, an excellent one, yet Aurora had spent her life wondering what was missing. She was never asnaïveas he apparently thought; Aurora hadknownthat her family were different.
That tickle grew again, tugging at the back of her throat. With a wince, Aurora tried to bite her tongue and shove the feeling away, but to no avail. She reached blindly for the now-cold tea, hand knocking into the saucer as the first cough forced its way past her lips.
Father swept in to save her, grabbing the tea with one hand while the other pressed against her back in a soothing gesture.
The pressure helped, as did the last dregs of tea, and Aurora sank back into his side with a grateful sigh.