Cutler 05 - Darkest Hour

left it right on top. I sifted through all my papers in my notebook and shook out my reader just in case one of the chambermaids had stuck it in between the pages, but I didn't find it.
    My eyes filled with tears for a new reason as I returned to the dining room. Mamma smiled in anticipation, but I shook my head.
    "I can't find it," I said.
    "That's because you didn't have it," Emily chortled quickly. "You made it up."
    "I did not. You know I had it. You heard Miss Walker tell the class," I reminded her.
    "Not today I didn't. You're mixed up with another day," she said, and threw a smile at Papa as if to say, "Children."
    He finished chewing what was in his mouth and sat back.
    "Spend more time worrying about your lessons, young lady, and less about what happens to stray farm animals," he advised.
    I couldn't help it; I started to cry hard, to bawl like I had never bawled before.
    "Georgia," Papa demanded. "Put a stop to this behavior immediately."
    "Now, Lillian," Mamma said getting up and coming around the table to me. "You know the Captain doesn't like this sort of thing at the dinner table. Come on, honey. Stop your crying."
    "She's always crying for one thing or another at school," Emily lied. "I'm embarrassed for one reason or another every day."
    "No, I don't!"
    "Yes, you do. Miss Walker's spoken to me about you many times."
    "You're lying!" I screamed.
    Papa slammed the table again, this time so hard that the top of the butter dish bounced and rattled on the table. No one spoke; no one moved; I held my breath. Then Papa extended his arm and pointed his thick right forefinger at me.
    "Take this child upstairs until she's ready to sit with us at the table and behave properly," Papa ordered. His dark eyes widened with rage and his thick mustache bristled with his fury. "I work hard all day long and look forward to a quiet time at my dinner."
    "All right, Jed. Don't get yourself any more upset. Come along, Lillian honey," Mamma said, taking my hand. She led me out of the dining room. When I gazed back, I saw Emily looking very satisfied, a small smile of contentment over her lips. Mamma led me upstairs to my room. My shoulders rose and fell with my silent sobs.
    "Just lie down for a while, Lillian dear," Mamma said, bringing me to my bed. "You're too upset to eat with us tonight. I'll send Louella up with something for you, and some warm milk, okay, honey?"
    "Mamma," I wailed, "Emily drowned Cotton. I know she did."
    "Oh no, dear. Emily wouldn't do anything as horrible as that. You mustn't say such a thing, and especially not in front of the Captain. Promise you won't," she asked.
    "But Mamma . . ."
    "Promise, Lillian, please," she begged.
    I nodded. Already I understood that Mamma would do anything to avoid unpleasantness; if she had to, she would ignore the truth even if it was on the tip of her nose; she would bury her head in her books or her idle chatter; she would laugh at reality and wave it out of sight as if she held a magic wand in her hand.
    "Good, darling. Now you'll have a little to eat and then go to sleep early, okay? In the morning everything will look better and brighter; it always does," she declared. "Now, do you want any help getting ready for bed?"
    "No, Mamma."
    "Louella will be up with something in a little while," she repeated, and left me sitting on my bed. I took a deep breath and then got up and went to the window that looked out toward the pond. Poor Cotton, I thought. She did nothing wrong. Her bad luck was she was born here at The Meadows. Maybe that was my bad luck, too—to be brought here. Maybe that was my punishment for causing my real mother's death, I thought. It made me feel so hollow inside that every beat of my little heart echoed and pounded down to my stomach and up to my head. How I wished I had someone to talk to, someone who would listen.
    An idea came to me and I left my room quietly, practically tiptoeing down the corridor to one of the rooms in which I knew Mamma had stored some of her personal things in trunks and boxes. I had spent time in the room before, just exploring. In one small metal trunk fastened with straps, Mamma had some of her own mother's things—her jewelry, her shawls and her combs. Buried under a small pile of old lace petticoats were some old photographs. It was where Mamma kept her only pictures of her sister Violet, my real mother. Mamma wanted to bury any trace of sadness, anything that would make her unhappy. As I grew older, I would come to