“Never mind, dear,” she said quietly. “We don’t have to learn everything there is to know right now.”
When they reached the manor, the girl ran up the steps, stumbling a little at the top, and then disappeared into the house.
“You really need to have a talk with that girl about what is to be expected of her,” Lord Somerville said. “I know her mother died, but you can’t indulge her forever. Eventually, you’re going to have to teach her how things are done,” He added, disappearing into his study
Margaret sighed and walked upstairs to the little girl’s room. The door was open, and in the window seat she saw Poppy’s impossibly small form curled up, her knees pulled up to her chin, her face buried. She was not crying or making any noise at all. But, somehow, the silent forbearance was worse.
Margaret came and sat across from her for a long moment in silence, searching for the words. Then she reached out and gently put a hand on the child’s knee. The girl shrank away from her.
“Penelope,” Margaret said, the name still foreign to her as well as to the child. “Please let me speak with you for a moment. I want you to know that I care about you and that I will be certain you are taken care of here at the manor. I know things have been hard –”
“I don’t want the manor,” the girl said in a voice that was quiet but hard.
“What do you mean, dear?” Margaret asked.
“I want to go home.”
Margaret’s heart seized within her. She had not been permitted to attend the funeral for Molly Smith, being both a fine lady of the town and a woman. But she and Poppy had gone to stand alongside the road and watch the procession. She had sat down afterwards to explain everything to the little girl, but she wasn’t certain she had been understood. Her words seemed to flow in and out of the child like the tide, causing no change.
“Penelope, you can’t go home. This is your home now,” Margaret corrected her.
“Home is Mama,” the girl said more gently this time, her head still buried in her lap. “I want to go home to Mama.”
“I told you,” Margaret said gently, reaching out to touch the girl again. “Your mother has gone to a better place. She isn’t at your home anymore. I know it is very, very sad. I know you must feel alone. But I will take care of you.”
“I don’t want you!” the girl cried suddenly, looking up at Margaret. For the first time, Margaret saw tears glistening in the small eyes and her heart broke. “I want my mama! Take me to my mama.”
“I can’t,” Margaret said, beginning to feel desperate. “Penelope, I want to, desperately. But I can’t.”
“I hate you!”
The girl leaned forward suddenly, her tiny fists balled up in front of her like a boxer, and she half-lunged, half-fell forward onto Margaret, pounding away at her chest in fury.
“Let me go!” she screamed. “Let me go home!”
Margaret hardly knew what to do with this ball of anger. The girl was tiny, and yet even then she landed a few worthy blows before Margaret had her arms wrapped tightly around the girl. Poppy struggled a few more seconds and then went limp, still crying angrily but no longer fighting. Margaret leaned back in astonishment, letting her go without a reproof.
She didn’t know what to say. She had never raised a child of her own, and yet she was beginning to suspect that personal experience would not have prepared her for this – raising a child who had lost so much at such a young age.
The little girl crept into the corner again, her hair hanging down over her face as though she were a feral animal. Margaret reached out, but she shrank away from her hand.
“I want my mama,” she kept saying over and over, rocking back and forth. “I want my mama, I want my mama, I want Mama…”
Margaret sat with her for a long time but there was no change. In the end, she slipped out of the room and rang for supper to be brought to the child, at a loss for how to help. She had done everything she could think of, and yet containing Poppy’s raw rage or assuaging her desperate sadness seemed beyond Margaret. She didn’t even know where to begin, but she had to start somewhere. She was catching the same panic