My Father's Gift

by Leanne Fitzpatrick

  *

  The days passed. People eventually stopped calling. Annalise rose every morning just as she had always done. She bathed and dressed, wandered through the rooms in her home, and realised that everything that had once been a comfort felt odd and out of place. She would catch herself expecting the click of the door when her father would be due home, and then she would feel out of sorts when it never happened. She missed small things- the sound of his humming when he cooked or the dreadful music he would play when he worked into the night.

  She found herself touching the items he’d used most. His fountain pen, the antique globe where he thought he successfully hid the best of his scotch from her. The gramophone stood on its stand, heavy with age and history and sometimes she wondered if she should play it, but could never quite bring herself to it.

  Her mother returned with suitcases and installed herself in the room she’d had when she was once mistress of the house. Still, it was gratifying to know that the staff deferred to her rather than her mother. More people came, looking and touching what wasn’t their concern. Annalise had rooms locked away. She cared nothing if they saw what was on public display, but none had the right to enter her father’s study.

  She became more reclusive, avoiding her mother rather than deal with the woman herself. Her mother held court in her public grieving, playing the doting wife to perfection, re-writing history as she went.

  Annalise wandered the upper halls, using the servants passages to avoid the newcomers. The house and household was unhappy. Annalise was unhappy. Her home was too small for all these people, but too big and empty without her father there.

  Still she could not shed a tear, and when she did find herself face to face with one of her mother’s wandering visitors, she was invariably treated as they believed she should be treated. She detested it, her words falling on deaf ears as they twisted her actions to fit their own narrative of her grieving process.

  By the second week she stopped leaving her room. Too many people came and went, and far too many wanted to help her grieve. She shunned them all, permitting only the household staff to enter. Even when her mother banged on the door demanding the keys to all the locked rooms Annalise ignored her. A miasma had overtaken her and the thought of facing her mother was exhausting.

  A month passed. Her mother ended her grieving widow routine and began to host parties. The manor was ideal for it really. Annalise knew the staff didn’t like it. She herself didn’t like it… but she couldn’t bring herself to care enough to do anything about it.

  Her appetite waned, and more often than not her meals were returned to the kitchen untouched. She missed her father. She missed the conversations they’d had. Literature, politics- nothing was out of bounds. He took the time to consider her views and enrich her mind. She missed the times they would play chess together, or when they would go to the theatre. Sometimes, when he wasn’t at work, he would even go with her to the public lectures on philosophy, humanities and science. Part of her ached to do those things again, yet she knew she was utterly powerless to change the facts. Her father was dead and rotting away, his estate held in purgatory, her mother working her way through as much of the allowance as she could. It wasn’t until stories of dismissal and tantrums found their way to her ears that Annalise stirred.

  She watched the girl setting the fire for a few moments.

  “Chloe?” she murmured at last. The girl turned and stood, bobbing a curtsey.

  “Yes miss.”

  “Where is Abigail- she usually comes in the mornings.”

  Hesitation, and a flush around the neckline.

  “She was let go miss. Lady Barrington was unsatisfied with her.”

  “Lady Barrington,” Annalise murmured, a bitter inflection to her tone. She turned her head to gaze out of the window. “Would you bring me fresh water, Chloe. It seems I have let too much time slip past without due attention.”

  “Yes miss.” The girl curtseyed and disappeared through the servants’ entrance. Annalise stood and moved to the window. She could see her mother walking through the grounds, a gentleman escorting her.

  “Is this the turning point?” A voice murmured.

  She spun round.

  “You!” she accused, staring at him. He smirked and stepped forward.

  “Me indeed,” he said, taking her hand and bowing low enough to kiss her knuckles. Again she was acutely aware that her hand was like ice in the heat of his grip. He raised liquid black eyes to hers and grinned, flashing his teeth again.

  Up close, without a hundred others around, he smelled of soap and spice. She noticed he wore the same perfectly tailored suit, only this time embellished with a more colourful waistcoat. His boots were again well polished. She could smell the conditioner that had been worked into the leather. She was pleased to see that he was clean shaven.

  “How improper of you,” she said, pulling her hand from him. He straightened.

  “You aren’t afraid of me?”

  “Do I have reason to be?” she asked.

  “No.” He looked her up and down, from her unkempt, unbrushed hair to her night gown and house coat. He was amused by her bare feet.

  “Is there a reason for you being here?” she asked him. “And I should ask how you managed to get in. My doors are locked.”

  “Doors have never been much trouble for me.”

  “I see. That is certainly interesting. It doesn’t answer my other question. Why are you in my room?”

  “To see you of course.”

  “A gentleman would have called ahead.”

  “I never said I was a gentleman.”

  Annalise smiled as she looked away. Her heart was beating as fast as it had the first time she met him. She could feel blood rushing around her body, warming her from within. She sat on the edge of her bed, and then looked back to meet his gaze.

  “And what is it you wish to see me about?”

  He remained standing, watching her. His gaze was unwavering.

  “Nothing in particular. I was wondering where the hellion your father spoke about was. All I have seen so far is a broken child allowing others to walk all over her.”

  She quirked an eyebrow.

  “You think you have the right to make such a judgement?”

  He grinned.

  “Do I anger you?”

  “You don’t mean enough to me to affect me so. I find you tiresome.”

  “Brave words, from a woman with a reputation to uphold.”

  She let out a short bark of laughter.

  “My reputation,” she snorted. “Now there’s a thing. Tell me, what need have I for a reputation? To whom am I now beholden? Who’s honour would be in question should I be found with a man in my bed chamber?”

  He was still smiling, even as he stepped back to lean against the mantelpiece and watch her, his arms loosely folded.

  “You truly care so little?”

  She opened her mouth to answer, but the servants’ door opening stayed her tongue. She watched Chloe return, a jug of steaming water in her arms. She seemed unaware of the man by the fireplace as she poured the water for Annalise.

  Annalise watched him. He was still grinning. Part of her wanted to step up to him and strike it from his face. Another part of her curled in excitement. Certainly there was nothing normal about this. He wasn’t hiding. She turned to Chloe and murmured her thanks. When she turned again he was gone. The door was still closed so he hadn’t left that way.

  It was a moment or two after Chloe had left that she felt the room was truly empty. Finally she loosened her gowns and let them drop to the floor before washing herself from head to toe, sitting naked at her dresser and brushing her hair until the knots were smoothed out and she could pin it up in its traditional curls.

  She dressed in black- modest and demure. It was a stark contrast to her pale skin, but it gave her a strength she had lacked the past weeks.

  Eventually, her face made up enough to not cause hysterics to any she might
encounter, she left her room.