The sound of innocent bickering from the two youngest Ambroise children echoed throughout the overgrown yard, amusing the attentive ears of Edmund, who maintained a watchful eye over the playful children. Cecily sat beside her father and observed him in thoughtful silence with a gaze both curious and contemplative.
Though she’d never been one to shy away from expression, Cecily often found her thoughts speaking louder than her words. She possessed a meticulous nature, in which she preferred carefully weaving her words into coherent thoughts before they were vocalized—a trait notably distinct from her unrestrained siblings. Eugene, driven by an impulsive desire to articulate every mean thought, seemed driven by a need to release his critical opinions from his mind as swiftly as they entered. Josiah, on the other hand, remained indifferent to how others perceived him, prioritizing his own understanding above all else—an attribute that irked those around him, particularly his reluctance to repeat or rephrase. Once spoken, his words stood no chance of being altered or corrected—something Elaine had picked up on. “Think before you speak, Elaine,” Cecily said at least twice a day in response to improper sentences like, “When I’m old, I’ll do a bakery and plant pies” and unreasonable questions that follow such as, “Why can’t I plant pies?”.
Similar to improper conversational etiquette, Cecily held a very low tolerance for stuttering and mumbling. It was like chalk grating a pristine slate to her ears. At her young age, she knew she preferred momentary silence in thought as opposed to stutters from faltering lips and vacant minds. And so she sat, dedicating time to piece her thoughts and curiosities together into a narrative that reflected her intentions precisely.
“Father,” she began, “may I ask you something?”
Edmund, attuned to the gravity of her tone, turned his complete attention to his daughter. Carefully, he said, “You can ask me anything.”
"I was thinking about your lady friend," she confessed. "How did you come to know her?"
Though he had anticipated this very question—wondering which one of his eldest children would broach the subject first—he resented it just as much. There’d been a time early on in his reconnection with Imogene where he had considered sitting his children down, offering them insight into her presence in his life, and disclosing his entire history with her. Yet, he had balked at the notion, second guessing the necessity of such a conversation. If she were merely a friend and there were no further intentions, then perhaps there was no need for an "explanation"... or so he had attempted to convince himself.
“I knew her when I was a young boy… just before meeting your mother. Imogene was… a part of my past.”
He chose his words carefully. Cecily appreciated that, but it wasn’t enough. She pressed, “Did you love her? Imogene?”
Edmund’s shoulders sagged as he released a sigh before admitting honestly, “Yes, I did.”
He always thought discussing his past with Imogene to his children would stump him, and he’d be a sputtering lying fool. Yet, in that moment, he felt no such indulgence. The admission flowed with an unexpected ease—almost relieving.
A thoughtful pause lingered between them before Cecily ventured further, her voice barely above a whisper, "Did you love her more than my mother?"
He stared ahead. “No.” His response was swift and concrete. “Rosalyn—your mother… holds a place in my heart no one can surpass.”
Cecily was relentless. “Do you still love Imogene?”
“No.” It sounded so simple.
“Could you love her again?”
He returned his attention to his daughter—her wide eyes void of resentment or detest. “Cecily–”
“I don’t think Mother would be upset with you for loving her again. She would want you to be happy.”
Exhaling softly, Edmund carefully watched Cecily—a reflection of her mother in both demeanor and insight. “I am happy,” he expressed while looking at her side profile, her gaze now fixed ahead. “I’m happy. You four make me happy.”
She shrugged. “You could be happier.”
Cecily had no intention of shoving her father into the arms of any woman, but she wasn’t blind. She’d observed their interactions keenly—a bit foolish if she were to admit. She simply couldn’t imagine someone making her stutter and blush the way her father and Imogene did when in each other's presence. She knew she needed to make it clear to her father that if he decided not to pursue a relationship with the woman, it’d be his sole decision and not one influenced by herself and her siblings… (Addressing Eugene's bitterness would be a concern for another time, should it arise).
While she lacked deep perception of her mother, her memories painted a portrait of a woman akin to an angel. Cecily couldn’t imagine her mother being resentful of her father for seeking love after years spent in mourning.
Edmund, who prided himself on believing he possessed a more intimate understanding of Rosalyn than perhaps anyone else in the world, acknowledged that his daughter's insights held truth in more ways than one.
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