Mother Hates Her

Abigail stopped on the moonlit landing to peer up into the stern gaze of Lady Agnes De Vandelay. The oil painting of her grand-mère hung in a row of ancestors along the dark paneled wall. When Henry, her younger brother, stumbled up beside her on the grand staircase, Abigail could have sworn the portrait’s severe expression relaxed into a benevolent smile at the eager young man.

“Mother hates her,” Abigail whispered conspiratorially.

“How could she? Lady De Vandelay died before Mama and Papa even met.”

“Even so--” her words were interrupted as their effervescent mother bustled up the stairs carrying a three prong candelabra.

“I sent the two of you to bed and here you are lollygagging about. Shoo-shoo. That old lady isn’t going anywhere. You can stare at her sour puss in the morning.”

Obediently, the two shuffled up the stairs, their mother in tow.

“Getting a bit heavy in the caboose, Deloris,” came a creaky voice from the landing.

Deloris De Vandelay, reigning mistress of the ancient manor, waited until her children turned the corner before swinging around to meet the former Lady eye-to-eye.

“What was that, Agnes?” Deloris leaned forward, letting the flames flicker dangerously close to the portrait. “Couldn’t quite hear you. Should I come closer?”

A tendril of smoke curled from the gray wig painted atop Lady Agnes’s astonished face, the eyes wide.

“I didn’t think so,” Deloris snapped and turned to follow the children.

“Harlot,” came a creaky retort.

“Old Bat,” Deloris muttered.

Photo by Cody Board