Antebellum Awakening (The Network Series #2)(38)

“Why do you need to know more about Miss Mabel?”

“I-I just do, Miss Celia. Please help me?”

“I don’t know,” she said, fidgeting with a small bag labeled basil leaves. Her eyes flitted around, avoiding me. She stuffed the bag back inside and shut the cupboard. “I just don’t know.”

“We both know what Mabel really was,” I said in a low tone, although no one could overhear us. “I need your help if we are ever going to make right what she’s done.”

Miss Celia looked at me. I let her search through my eyes, silently pleading. She finally capitulated.

“Oh, fine!” she muttered with a familiar snap in her voice. “But only for a few minutes while I finish my rolls. Then I have things to do. Heaven knows I hate talking about her. What do you want to know?”

Relieved, my shoulders dropped back.

“Thank you,” I said. “Tell me what she was like. Anything you can remember.”

Miss Celia let out a huff, making it clear once again that she wasn’t happy about it, grabbed a can labeled cinnamon and pattered back to her pastry dough. I walked back around the oak table to face her and leaned against the smooth wood, giving her my full attention.

“She went by May. She had hair like a raven, black and shiny, just like yours. Her eyes were sharp.” Miss Celia gave a little shudder. “I remember her wearing a lot of black, though she was as vain as a peacock.”

Miss Mabel’s sultry beauty drifted through my mind. Miss Celia, sprinkling a generous helping of cinnamon and sugar on the dough, continued on.

“She wasn’t a warm witch. She was very business-like and demanding. Luckily she didn’t care much for simple matters like groceries and kitchen work, so she let me manage it and left me alone to handle the meals. I didn’t have to interact with her much, really.”

“How did she treat Miss Mabel?”

“The same way she treated everyone else,” Miss Celia said, shrugging. “She had high expectations and little compassion. Miss Mabel and May were far too much alike. By the time Miss Mabel could talk, the two of them were in a continual power struggle. Miss Mabel didn’t want to listen, and May wouldn’t tolerate anything but total obedience.”

“That explains a lot,” I muttered.

“They constantly fought. Miss Mabel grew to be a very bitter young woman because of how difficult May was to live with. May was always spouting off big ideas and plans, but she rarely followed through with them. I could never decide which of the two of them had more vanity, and which one wanted power more. ”

I perked up. Vanity was a given. But their mutual desire for power had me intrigued.

“What do you mean by power?” I asked.

“May loved controlling things, and people. Unfortunately, so did Miss Mabel. The two of them were constantly trying to control the other one. Even as a young child, Miss Mabel could be extraordinarily manipulative to get what she wanted. The good gods know I tried teaching that child the right way, but she just didn’t care. Once Evelyn appointed May as her personal assistant it was a welcome relief. Miss Mabel took over the school and May left to live at Chatham Castle.”

I thought that over while Miss Celia cut the large rectangle into smaller sections. A little residual flour and cinnamon dusted her hands and apron. My gaze drifted over the warm brick walls of the kitchen, past the large hearth and fireplace, to the windows edged in black and the sky beyond.

“Did you ever meet Miss Mabel’s mother?” I asked, knowing it would be tenuous ground. Angelina seemed to be an apparition, a ghost. The lack of information about her made me curious.

“Angelina?”

“Yes.”

“No. I was here the night Angelina left Miss Mabel on the doorstep. I was the one that heard her crying first. May had already kicked Angelina out by the time I arrived. She was a wild child.”

“What do you mean?”

“May had a hard time controlling her. Angelina was quite talented with magic, according to some of the teachers that knew her. Far more powerful than her mother, and May didn’t like it.”

“Sounds like May didn’t like anything,” I muttered. Miss Celia agreed with a little hum. Her fingers flew over the dough, deftly accomplishing their goal.

“Miss Mabel told me that her mother looks just like May,” she said in a musing tone. “Black hair, a curvy figure, and eyes that could cut right through a witch.”

An unusual jolt hit me in the gut, leaving me breathless.

“Miss Mabel knows her mother?”

“She must.” Miss Celia shrugged. “Although she never really talks about Angelina. Maybe she saw a painting of her?”

“Is there a painting of Angelina?” I asked, leaning forward. Although I couldn’t explain why, something told me that Angelina had something to do with this.

“No. May wouldn’t allow it.”

“And you never met Angelina?” I confirmed and she nodded. “Do you know who Miss Mabel’s father is?”

Miss Celia shook her head. “No, and I doubt she knows either. If she does, she’s never mentioned him.”

My thoughts churned like the foam of a wild river as I watched Miss Celia roll the pastries into small buns and set them in perfect rows. The buttery little blobs would soon swell, a little like how my brain felt with all this new information.