Fortune's rocks_ a novel - Anita Shreve [94]
“Lisette,” Olympia asks, “do you suppose we could go now for our walk? My legs are nearly bursting for want of exercise.”
“It is not Lisette,” her father says quietly.
Olympia turns in her chair.
“Do not get up,” he says. He walks to where she is sitting and draws a chair near to her. Her chest is tight, for he has not voluntarily entered into conversation with her alone since the day she told him of her pregnancy. Her father has lost considerable weight and has passed in his appearance, over the past few months, from a middle-aged man to an almost elderly one, and this is but one more thing for which Olympia blames herself. He has on an ordinary wool frock coat, and he has shaved his mustaches. Since he has lost some hair as well, he seems altogether smaller than he was in the summer.
“There are some matters which we must discuss,” her father says, and although his pronouncement is formal, his tone is not. It contains a softness she has not heard in some time. Perhaps, she thinks, even her father cannot sustain the intensity of his anger.
“You have borne your punishment with grace, Olympia,” he says to her, and her heart begins to ease at the words. “I have been too harsh.”
“Father — ,” she begins.
He holds up his hand. “There is no more to be said about that.”
Although he draws himself up and strains for his former nearly military bearing, she notices that the center, the heart of his body, has slipped, so that he is now somewhat hunched in his posture, even as he sits.
“I have made arrangements,” he says, unable to help himself from glancing at her swollen body.
“And what are they?” she asks.
He averts his eyes, turning his gaze toward the window.
“It is better if we do not talk of specific arrangements,” he says.
She starts to speak, but he shakes his head.
“There can be no thought of your keeping the child,” he says quickly. “It will be well taken care of, I assure you.”
Though Olympia has known that such an outcome might be possible, she has prevented herself from fully imagining an absolute separation. “But, Father,” she says, leaning forward, “I wish to keep the child.”
“There can be no thought of your keeping the child,” he repeats. “Your mother will not permit this, nor will I, and you must see that you cannot possibly survive without our support.”
“But, Father — ,” Olympia protests.
“Olympia, listen to me. You must trust me. In time, this entire dreadful episode will be behind you. By the fall of next year, I predict you will have recovered from this disaster entirely. And while some damage has been done that can never be repaired, I have been thinking that you can have a life for yourself. It is, after all, the modern era. Young women do go off on their own and make their own way. It is not entirely unthinkable. But you will need some schooling, some training for future occupation.”
“The child is mine!” Olympia cries out. “He is mine and John Haskell’s! It is we who should decide what happens to him.”
Red blotches appear on her father’s cheeks, and it is some moments before he can compose himself.
“How dare you mention that man’s name in my presence,” he says coldly.
She opens her mouth to speak further, but he holds up a hand.
“In the fall, I will send you out to the western part of the state, to the Hastings Seminary for Females,” he says, and it is clear from his tone that he will not listen to opposition to this plan. “The best course for you — the only course for you — is to become a teacher. There is a severe need for good teachers, particularly in the rural parts of New England, and in this way your life will have some value to others.”
“Father, do not do this to me.”
He looks long and hard at his daughter’s face. Olympia can imagine what he sees: an overplump sixteen-year-old girl whose judgment can no longer be trusted.
“There is nothing more to be said on this subject,” he says.
She bites her lip hard to keep from crying out further. She holds the arms of her chair so tightly that she later will have cramps in her fingers.