Fool’s Assassin

I looked over at Molly. There were lines at the corners of her eyes and lines framing her mouth. Her rosy full lips had faded to pale-pink arcs. I suddenly saw her not as Molly, but as a woman of some fifty-odd years. Her lush, dark hair had thinned, and gray streaked it. But she looked at me with such hope and love, her head turned just slightly to one side. And I saw something else in her eyes, something that had not been there ten years ago. Confidence in my love. The wariness that had tinged our relationship was gone, worn to nothing by our last decade together. She finally knew that I loved her, that I would always put her first. I had finally earned her trust.

I looked down at the little booties in my hand and slipped my two fingers inside them. I stood them up on my palm. I danced them a couple of steps on my hand. She reached to still my fingers, and slid the soft gray boots away. “Soon enough,” she told me, and leaned against me. Nettle looked up at me and such gratitude shone in her eyes that I felt I had suddenly won a battle I had not even known I was fighting.

I cleared my throat and managed to speak without huskiness. “I want a hot cup of tea,” I told them, and Molly sat up, exclaiming, “You know, that would be exactly what I want right now, myself.”

And despite our weariness from travel, the afternoon passed pleasantly. Much later that night, we shared a dinner that met Cook Nutmeg’s standards, and a jot of brandy that exceeded mine. We had retired to the estate study, where Nettle had refused to look at my careful bookkeeping, saying she was certain all was well. Nettle had insisted she must leave in the morning. Molly had tried to dissuade her to no avail. I was nearly dozing in a chair by the fire when Nettle spoke softly from her corner of a settee. “Seeing it is much worse than hearing about it.” She sighed heavily. “It’s real. We are losing her.”

I opened my eyes. Molly had left us, saying she wished to see if there was any of that pale sharp cheese left in the larder, as she suddenly fancied it. She’d put her desire for it down to her pregnancy and, Molly-like, had disdained the idea of ringing for a servant at such a late hour. She was beloved by our servants simply because she spared them such thoughtless abuse.

I looked at the place where Molly had been sitting. The imprint of her body was still on the cushions, and her scent lingered in the air. I spoke softly. “She’s slowly sliding away from me. Today was not too bad. There are days when she is so focused on this ‘baby’ that she speaks of nothing else.”

“She makes it seem so real,” Nettle said, her words faltering away between wistfulness and dread.

“I know. It’s hard. I’ve tried to tell her it’s impossible. And when I do, I feel like I’m being cruel. But today, playing along … that feels crueler now. As if I’ve given up on her.” I stared at the dying fire. “I’ve had to ask the maidservants to indulge her. I’d seen them rolling their eyes after she’d passed by. I rebuked them for it, but I think it only—”

Angry sparks sprang in Nettle’s eyes. She sat up straight. “I don’t care if my mother is mad as a hatter! They must be made to treat her with respect. You can’t indulge them in any smirking ‘tolerance’! She is my mother and your wife. Lady Molly!”

“I’m not sure how to deal with it without making it worse,” I confided to her. “Molly has always taken care of the running of the household. If I step in and start rebuking the servants, she may resent me usurping her authority. And what can I say to them? We both know your mother’s not pregnant! How long must I order them to maintain this pretense? Where does it end? With the birth of an imaginary child?”

Nettle’s face went pale at my words. For a moment the planes of her face were white and stark like the frozen flanks of a mountain under snow. Then she abruptly dropped her face into her hands. I looked at the pale parting in her gleaming dark hair. She spoke through her fingers. “We’re losing her, Tom. It’s only going to get worse. We know that. What will you do when she no longer knows you? When she cannot take care of herself anymore? What will become of her?”

She lifted her face. Silent tears gleamed in streaks down her cheek.

I crossed the room and took her hand. “I promise this. I will take care of her. Always. I will love her. Always.” I steeled my will. “And I will speak to the servants privately, and tell them that regardless of how long they have worked here, if they value their positions, they will treat Lady Molly as befits the mistress of this household. No matter what they may think of her requests.”

Nettle sniffed and drew her hands free of mine, to wipe the backs of her wrists across her eyes. “I know I’m not a child anymore. But just the thought of losing her …”