The daughters of Clara would never be as slender as her, or as beautiful. They had inherited their father's frame – broad in the shoulders, meaty in the thigh; the kind of bulk a man with a touch of arrogance could carry off, but on a woman, looked matronly. They had her lips though, perfectly pursed and plum-coloured, and her pale blue eyes. On Clara the effect was enchanting. With her alabaster skin and high cheekbones she looked like an Eastern princess. But the daughters did not possess such delicacy.
Clara had always wanted more children even though she had been forced to keep to her bed for the duration of both pregnancies. Her daughters arrived in a similar fashion – after hours of struggle, mute, blood-drenched. When they were swaddled and laid against her breast Clara could scarcely believe that they had come from her; that such pain was possible in the world. The daughters always heard it from their father, "For you, your mother suffered much."
Clara sometimes forgot that a year separated her daughters. They were so similar in appearance, so consistent in their demands. At school they insisted on being in the same class together. They wore matching dresses and bonnets. When the elder one got thrown off her pony and sprained her leg, the younger walked around with an exaggerated limp. At night, when they dreamed, it was the continuation of one thought, their sturdy bodies twitching in unison from the same nightmare.
The daughters grew into shy, adept girls. They went about their chores without complaint, but afterwards closeted themselves in the barn to play secret games. Clara spied on them. She never admitted it to anyone, not even to her husband, but there was so much about her daughters she didn't understand. They never cried, didn't care for her embraces, didn't even show affection towards other children in the village. They were shrewd about protecting each other, and they lied. Clara once caught them trying to stone a rabbit to death. She could have sworn they were laughing. They said they'd found it like that, mangled by an owl. They were only trying to put it out of its misery. Her husband had to wring the poor thing's neck and drown it.
As the daughters approached puberty they grew more sullen. Clara rarely touched them. When she did, it was to press her fingers in the smalls of their backs to remind them that a woman's posture was her greatest gift, or to cut a stray piece of thread from their ever-expanding bodices. Clara wanted to send them to boarding school so they could have a chance to flourish. But her husband wanted them close at hand. He tutored them himself and took to spending more time at home. To help with his business, he hired a young man, Mr Lowry, who made calls on his behalf, and spent Friday afternoons in the study going over the books.
When Mr Lowry visited the daughters were expected to wear their crispest crinoline dresses and bring in pitchers of lemonade and iced tea so Mr Lowry could take note of them. It was generally assumed that Mr Lowry would marry one of the daughters. For a while he was seen taking long walks around the village with the younger daughter. There were rumours of a spring wedding. It was the time Clara felt closest to her daughters. There were no conversations about wedding preparations or motherly advice about what to expect from marriage, but there was a division between the sisters, and that space was enough for Clara. It lasted six months, while Mr Lowry continued to call on the younger daughter. Then, just before the start of the Great War, Mr Lowry vanished. No one in the village seemed surprised. He had been smitten by Clara, they said. Who wouldn't have been?
Continues in issue 19. Order now.
