Chapter 9: The Weight of the Name
I was already thirteen, often going with Mom and my third sister, Julia, to parties at other families’ homes. Lately, I noticed that Julia, who used to dress simply, now took extra care with her looks. Her plain hairpin was swapped for a gold one, her pearl studs for sapphire drops. At a summer garden party, she wore a cherry blossom hairpin, turning every head.
Under the willow trees, the seats were filled with bright young men. During a poetry contest, Inspector Matthew Jennings wrote a poem in seven minutes, winning everyone’s praise. I noticed Julia’s hand tremble as she held her fan; though she tried to hide it, her eyes gave her away. I also caught Matthew’s lingering, heated gaze as he sipped his drink.
On the ride home, Mom tapped the window frame and suddenly asked, "Is that cherry blossom hairpin new?"
Julia bowed her head, ears turning red. I saw Mom frown, just a flicker, and that night she went to talk to Dad.
Within six months, Dad arranged Julia’s engagement. The Farr family had been prominent for generations; the current head was a Harvard professor, a perfect match. Mom took Julia’s hand, sliding a pair of jade bracelets onto her wrist. "You love books; the Farrs have a whole library. In the future, reading by lamplight with your husband—how lovely."
Julia knelt on the marble floor, her forehead to the ground, the cherry blossom hairpin trembling in her hair. When she got up, she swayed; I went to steady her, only to feel the torn skin at her fingertips. Mom took out a new golden hairpin from her jewelry box, replacing the cherry blossom one in Julia’s hair. "This one’s old—it’s time for a change."
Caroline lowered her eyes, watching Mom hand the hairpin to a maid. Faced with Mom’s warning, Julia mumbled her assent. But as she turned, she caught her foot on the threshold and stumbled.
The wedding was set for the following fall, but Julia was sick for a whole season. Her room was filled with the smell of medicine; rare herbs came in like water, but nothing helped her sadness. When I went to check on her, Mom was staring at the falling leaves outside, her voice tired. "Go comfort Julia. If… she really can’t handle it, send her to the lake house to recover."
I saw the reluctance in Mom’s eyes, quickly replaced by resolve. It was the last bit of motherly kindness, and the final test. It’s the kind of moment you only notice when you’re old enough to understand the difference between love and duty.