112 
Mother and Daughter

That evening, spirits at the Hall were subdued.

It had been a long day. Even the ride out to the cottage, in its own way, had wearied their hearts. Amanda especially had a myriad of new emotions to face. The realization that Bobby McFee was gone, and that she had not known it, added an extra weight to the burden she bore concerning father and brother. As the evening progressed, she grew especially quiet.

“How are you, my dear,” said Jocelyn, “—tired?”

“I am, Mother. And very drained,” replied Amanda with a thin smile. “This was a very hard day for me.”

“I know,” nodded Jocelyn. “I am tired too. We have all been through a great deal.”

A peculiar look came over Amanda’s face. She seemed to be trying to say something.

“I was . . . I’m sorry . . .” she faltered.

“What is it?” said Jocelyn.

“I’m so sorry—but I was afraid to come home. I . . . didn’t know if you would—”

She began to cry.

Jocelyn was on her feet, sat down next to Amanda on the couch, and had her in her arms in seconds.

“I know it must have been one of the most difficult things you have ever done,” whispered her mother softly. “But I am so glad you did . . . if ever we need to be together, it is now.”

“And with Daddy—I feel so awful . . . so guilty . . . I don’t know if I will ever be able—”

Amanda’s voice broke.

Jocelyn held her, gently stroking her hair and patting her softly on back and shoulders. On the other side of the room, Catharine quietly rose and glided out, sensing again the need for the two of them to be alone.

It was for Jocelyn a moment of healing almost greater than anything the day had already contained. To hold her daughter again, and to have her at peace, able to receive her comforting embrace without twisting and squirming away, was a privilege she had not allowed herself to imagine she would ever experience. It lasted but a few seconds, but Jocelyn thought she had never felt such inner contentment as in those precious moments, such that she almost briefly forgot that Charles and George were gone.

For several long, precious moments Amanda allowed herself to weep in her mother’s arms, more relaxed and at peace than she had ever been in Jocelyn’s embrace. It felt so good to let her mother hold her.

Slowly Amanda sat back away, wiped her eyes, and smiled.

“Thank you, Mother. I am just very, very tired,” she said. “I think maybe I need some time alone . . . and then a good long sound night’s sleep.”

“You are home, Amanda dear. Your room is still as you left it. However you can be comfortable, whatever you want to do . . . I want you to feel that . . . I think you know what I am trying to say—this is your home too.”

“I know, Mother—I realize it now . . . thank you.”

“Good night, my dear. We’ll have a good big breakfast together in the morning.”

Amanda stood but hesitated a moment as she gazed into her mother’s eyes.

“I love you, Mother.”

Jocelyn’s eyes filled.

“Thank you so much,” Amanda went on, “for being the mother you have been to me . . . thank you for everything. I am so sorry I didn’t see all you did for me, and all you have been for me sooner.”

“We all have to grow, Amanda,” replied Jocelyn tenderly. “I have had to grow myself. Perhaps now we can begin growing together. I love you, my dear.”

Amanda smiled again, then turned and walked toward the stairs. Jocelyn watched her go, then turned back into the sitting room, found her chair again, sat down, and wept freely.