"Oh, my darling girl," Isabella murmured, her own eyes instantly filling with sympathetic tears. She crossed the room swiftly, the thick carpet silencing her footsteps. She didn't hesitate; she climbed right onto the large bed, the silken covers shifting under her weight.
She moved close to her daughter's huddled form and, with infinite tenderness, wrapped one arm around Esralda's trembling shoulders, using her other hand to try and gently coax the hidden face from its refuge against her knees.
"Dear, please, you must tell what is burdening you so," Isabella pleaded, her voice a soft, worried murmur close to Esralda's ear.
She stroked her daughter's golden hair, which was coming loose from its elegant style. Isabella's face, aged yet still strikingly beautiful and lined with kindness, was etched with deep anxiety as she stared at the crown of Esralda's head.
"I hope it's nothing too serious. Whatever it is, Mother is right here."
For a long mont, Esralda continued to sob into the fabric of her own gown, the sound dampened but no less desperate for it.
Then, slowly, as if the words were being dragged from a great, dark depth, she raised her head. She turned her face, ever so slowly, to gaze at her mother.
The sight was like a knife to Isabella's heart. Esralda's eyes were puffy and red, swollen nearly shut from the force of her crying. Tears had carved clean tracks through the light powder on her cheeks, her nose was flushed, and her lips trembled uncontrollably.
"Mom…" she whispered, her voice hoarse and cracked, trembling on the single syllable. She swallowed, a painful-looking motion. "Am I… am I pathetic?"
The question, asked with such raw, vulnerable hopelessness, took Isabella's breath away. "Of course not, darling!" she exclaid imdiately, her arms tightening protectively around her daughter.
"Why would you ever, ever say such a dreadful thing about yourself?" A flash of maternal fury, swift and fierce, lit in her eyes. "Did one of the servants say that behind your back? Tell this instant, and they will be out of this house before the hour is gone!"
But Esralda just shook her head softly, the movent feeble and utterly exhausted. More tears spilled over, but they were silent now, hopeless.
Isabella's angry expression softened back into deep, probing concern. She cupped her daughter's wet cheek, using her thumb to wipe away a fresh tear. Her voice dropped back to that gentle, coaxing murmur.
"Then who, my love? Who made you feel this way? Who has hurt my precious girl?"
She waited, holding her daughter, the room silent except for the occasional hitch of Esralda's breath.
The stars outside watched, cold and indifferent, as within the warm, rose-scented room, a daughter teetered on the edge of confession, and a mother prepared to hear a truth that would shatter the carefully maintained peace of their ho.
All due to the effects of one man.
"It's all Victoria's fault." The words burst from Esralda on a fresh sob, her body trembling anew in her mother's embrace. The declaration was so sudden, so unexpected in its target, that Isabella actually drew back a fraction, her brow furrowing in profound confusion. One must admit, whether she was faking it or not, her performance was a spectacular one, a perfect display of grief, accusation, and wounded innocence.
"What are you talking about?" The Viscountess's voice was laced with bafflent. Victoria? Her eldest, her steady, composed Victoria, who had never in her life raised a hand or, to Isabella's knowledge, a cruel word against her younger sister? The girl was practicality personified, sotis to a fault, with a sense of duty as ingrained as her bone structure. To picture Victoria as the architect of this emotional ruin was like accusing a marble statue of committing arson. It simply did not make any sense to her.
"What do you an it's all because of your sister?" Isabella pressed, trying to reorient the conversation. "What has she done?"
Esralda took a shuddering, theatrical breath, as if gathering the strength to voice a great betrayal. "Mother… I finally found a man of my choosing," she began, her voice quavering with a poignant blend of heartbreak and longing, "and my dear older sister has decided it would be best if she took him away from , all for herself."
"A man of your choosing?" The Viscountess was even more taken aback. This was new terrain. Esralda had always been flirtatious, enjoying the attention of many suitors, but she had never spoken of a definitive 'choosing.'
Isabella's mind, always pragmatic, began to race. This was no longer just about comfort; it was about marriage, alliances, and even possibly, the future of her family. "Dear, please, you must explain all this in detail. I'm afraid your dear old mother can't keep up." She kept her tone light yet encouraging, trying to play it safe due to the unexpected confession.
Esralda sniffled delicately, looking like the picture of wronged virtue, before nodding her head softly. Her beautiful erald eyes, still swimming with tears, seed so vulnerably, authentically hurt. "Okay, mother," she said in a voice no different from a whisper, as if the truth itself were a fragile, shaful thing.
"The man I'm talking about is the sa one who saved my life and escorted back ho, the very one who's helped Father escape his current dilemma." She let the significance hang in the rose-scented air.
Esralda wasn't trying to portray him as any man, but a man of value, as if he was a hero and a savior, twice over.
"But Esralda…" Her mother spoke up, a skeptical look inevitably creeping into her eyes. The pieces were beginning to form a picture, and it was a complicated one.
"Mother, I know he's not nobility," Esralda interjected quickly, sensing the hesitation, her voice taking on a persuasive, urgent tone. "But you can't deny that he's shown remarkable promise. He has wit, and ambition, and Father himself had even invited him to the gala without showing any signs of displeasure."
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