by Wendy Reakes
Apart from the fact I had no more money to start a new life for Rain and me, I had begun to wonder about how pleased I had felt when we were given another excuse not to leave the safety of our secret home. It was a curious notion, because the welfare of my daughter was the most important matter in my life. How then, could I be happy about never leaving the attic? Was it my way of keeping her safe from harm, from the world out there, so wicked and dangerous. Look what had happened to me…and to Porter…look what had happened to him! Maybe I was right to keep her shut away from that cruel world.
With a notion like that in my head, I was always prone to think about the black-haired lout and the image I had seen that night three years earlier when I’d found the little bird and I’d left Rain on the Mistress’s bed. I couldn’t make head or tail of it, but I was determined to find out why the Mistress had a likeness resembling the man who effectively, by his dastardly deed, had changed my life.
When Celia and I had a good hour together in the comfort of my attic parlour, I shared my thoughts about the curious incident. “Have you ever noticed the picture, Celia?” The small hand painted image had been set among several other family pictures all grouped together in various shaped gilt-edged frames.
“No, never, but I shall go and look when I go into the Mistress’s boudoir later,” she said with those wide eyes of hers. “You probably just saw someone who looked like the black-haired lout, that’s all. Because, Marley, what on earth would a picture of that terrible man be doing on the wall of this family’s house?”
“Well, it wasn’t a man. He looked about three or four years old. A proper portrait done in a studio.”
“So, most babies look the same, don’t they? And not many end up as they looked when they were babies. My mam told me I was blonde when I was born, but look at me now.” She prodded her dark brown hair beneath her mob cap.
“Yes, I suppose so. But…it was that smile…it looked so much like the black-haired lout, at the time it had startled me good and proper.”
She shook her head “I don’t think you’re on the right path with this one, Marley.” She looked so serious, I’d chuckled out loud.
“Okay, Celia. But I would like to find out more about William. Who was he and where is he now?”
She gave me a familiar look of assurance. “Don’t worry about that, I can find out all sorts from me mam. Although she does chastise me sometimes, saying she’s never known anyone to gossip about other people’s business as much as I.” She smiled as she thought about her dear mother.
“Speaking of my mam,” Celia said, “She’s been curious about where I go when I have time off.”
I gasped. “What did you say?”
“Well, lucky for me, we rarely spend our relaxing time together. My mam never stops, or so it seems, but when she does she always stays in the servant’s hall.” Celia’s eyes were wide with mystery. “Anyway, I told her I go up to our room to read -she was very happy with that one- and I told her that sometimes I just go for a nice brisk walk.” Celia smoothed the creases from her apron as she talked. “Then she asked me what I was reading since we possessed no books of any kind. So, I said I had permission to take suitable novels from the Master’s library as long as I looked after them and put them back in the right place when I’d finished. The Mistress really did tell me that,” she finished with a nod.
“But what if she asks you about the story you’re supposed to be reading? Won’t she get suspicious if you can’t tell her anything about it?”
“That’s where you come in,” Celia said in her best sleuth-like manner.
“What,” I gushed, anxious to hear her plan.
“I’m going to bring it up here for you to read and then you can give me a brief summarisation when I pop in.”
I thought about her logic. “But what if she asks where the book is?”
“I’ll have a different book lying around and when you finish the first I’ll replace it with that one, like a rota system,” she said, satisfied she’d thought of everything. It just means I’ll have two books out at a time but no one will notice, considering the size of the master’s library.”
“Well, I’d be very keen to read some good novels.”
“There you are, then. And he has an excellent collection from Mr Author Conan Doyle.”
“I think you should be careful, Celia…about your mam asking questions and all.”
“Don’t worry about me mam, Marley. I will make it look like I’ve got my head in a book whenever she sees me, and she’ll soon lay off. And in the meantime, I’m going to find out as much as I can about baby William.”
I Too went in searchof my own evidence. Long ago I had cause to suspect that the reason all of George’s belongings were up in the attic was because of some deep family secret which could bring shame down on Wilbury House. At least that’s how my suspicious and often overly-dramatic mind thought of it. Lying before me, under the eaves somewhere, could be something I had perhaps overlooked.
It was a windy day in October when, during Rain’s regular afternoon nap, I went wondering around the attic I now knew like the back of my hand. I had a quick rummage through Elizabeth’s packing trunks and found nothing new to enlighten me, although I did happen upon some coloured threads I’d missed the last time when putting together all the needlepoint material I needed to finish the embroidery. I was still sewing the whites and pale pinks of the face with some darker shades outlining the contours of the cheeks and nose, but even now, three years later, I still had no way of recognising William’s features. If indeed it was William at all. One day I would know, but the project could take me years.
With the extra threads stuffed into the pocket of my winter coat, I went amongst George’s things, to see if there was something I had missed. I shook my head when I saw the box with the empty sections. Each year I promised to return the silver items, but each year, as my attempts to escape the attic were ruined, the items were once again brought out for my special uses.
As I went rummaging around the bottom of George’s wardrobe, I pulled away the hatbox containing his shiny black top hat and delved deeper into the back of the robe, hoping to discover a secret panel or something, but there was nothing. Then, just when I was about to give up, I stumbled on my bended knees and accidently tipped over the hat box. As the lid slid across the wooden floor and I went to retrieve it, there, between the white tissue paper, I saw something odd. I reached inside and pulled out the hat and that’s when a bundle of letters tied with red ribbon fell to the floor at my feet.
When Celia came up to the attic that night, I still hadn’t opened the bundle.
“Go on,” she urged, staring at the letters resting on my lap. “Read them.”
I turned to her with a frown on my face, revealing my untold guilt. “They’re private.”
“Marley, that won’t matter much now. George is dead and so is Elizabeth.”
“Did you find anything out?”
Once again, Celia’s eyes enlarged as she relayed the information she had gathered from her mother. “‘You’re a one for gossip, my girl,’ me mam said to me.” Celia spoke in a hoity-toity voice to demonstrate her mother’s admonishment. “She said ‘Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter since it was so long ago’.” Celia winked. I’d never seen her wink before. “Well, this is what she said…She said His Lordship…that’s George…married Elizabeth, a country girl from out Frome way. His father had been set against the match, since Elizabeth wasn’t a lady, nor connected to any noble blood of any sort.” Celia licked her lips as she relayed the story. “When George insisted that Elizabeth was accepted into the family as his wife, after she fell pregnant with his Lordship…that’s the current Lord…George’s father agreed to keep George as his one true heir in favour of his brother who had gone off to fight in the Boar War.” Celia took a long deep breath. “When the brother was killed at the front, and the old Lord passed on, George rightly inherited everything. That’s that. Not much else to tell.” She
paused. “Oh, and Elizabeth died in childbirth when she had His lordship.”
“So, who’s William?” I asked.
She shook her head. “My mam made no mention of a baby called William.”
“And why are all of George’s things still here in the attic, instead of passed on?”
Celia shook her head. “I don’t rightly know the answer to that.”
We both looked down at the letters. Maybe now was the time to open them.
The following morning, Celia whizzed in with a new book for me to read. I’d just finished Swiss Family Robinson and had relayed the premise of the story to Celia in case she was quizzed by her mother. How odd that I had related so well to Johann David Wyss’s story, even though it had been written almost a hundred years before, in 1812. I was a castaway like the characters in the story, living on my own precarious island.
As we swapped books, I stared at the beautiful leather-bound novel of Jane Eyre, published in 1847 under the pen name of Currer Bell. Of course, the nom de plume belonged to no other than Charlotte Bronte as the world discovered later on, and now I longed to begin reading it, wondering if I would once again relate to the characters in the book? A lone woman, in a lone house, living a lone life. Yes, that was me to be sure.
We opened the first letter together. It was the only one we would ever read, since we found out all we needed to know in that one, dated 1874. It went like this:
My darling Elizabeth,
Finally, father has agreed to our marriage. I have dreamed of this moment for so long, ever since we met at the tailgate. Do you remember, darling, how my horse nearly ploughed you down? I was in such a rush and a fool to have spoken so harshly to you, my future wife. You didn’t mind. You were and still are the sweetest girl and the privilege of marriage belongs only to me, honoured and deeply endeared that you would take on an old fool such as I.
I have had many gloriously happy days since we met, but this one today, as I have only an hour ago received the blessing of my father, is one to top all days. Of course, together, our happiest days are to come, after I watch you walk down the aisle towards me, your love, your friend and your lover.
Darling, we have talked at length about William, how much I shall enjoy being his father in the true sense of the word. I shall love him as I love his mother and he will never again be treated as an outcast for as long as I am here to protect him.
Father has requested we wait to bring William here to Wilbury House and thank you for agreeing to leave him, just for a short while until our marriage is accepted and acknowledged. He will be well cared for by your good parents and I shall set up means for them so that, as long as you are apart, dearest William will want for nothing.
Soon, we shall bring him here and he will be a treated as the son of a Lord, as our future children shall also.
Oh, my darling, how I long for you, to share our lives together, to become a family as we have dreamed.
Tonight, you will come to the house and we shall officially announce our engagement. I will send a carriage for you, my love, my angel.
Until then, Yours, George, Earl of Wilbury.
“So, there we have it, Marley,”Celia had said quietly,as she watched me slide the letter back under the red wax seal. “William was Elizabeth’s love child. A bastard. It must have been quite the scandal.”
I nodded my agreement, but something was playing on my mind and I couldn’t shake it off. “Celia, did you say Elizabeth was from out Frome way?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Oh, my God, Celia. Is it possible that baby William became the black-haired lout?”
Celia’s wide eyes remained fixed on my quivering lips. “No…that’s impossible. He couldn’t be.”
I got down on the floor and pulled something out from underneath the bed. It was the picture wrapped in brown paper and tied up with string. I’d found it between the two sea chests years ago. At the time, I’d been rightly ashamed for rummaging through the family’s personal items and so, I’d decided not to unwrap the paper; not to go snooping into something that wasn’t mine to snoop at. At the time, it had been my saving grace, something less to tug at my conscience.
“Do you think we should I look at it?”
Celia looked as unsure as I. “Perhaps it won’t harm, as long as we wrap it back up again.”
I nodded as I untied the knot. The string fell off and I opened the picture. Inside, was a picture of a family surrounded by a gilt frame. The people were dressed in early Victorian attire, their faces glum and their bodies in rigid poses.
I pointed to the man and lady, “George and Elizabeth, perhaps?”
Celia nodded. “Yes, that would be a fair assumption. There is a portrait in the main hall and they look like these people.” Elizabeth was holding a baby dressed in a laced shawl. “That must be the current master.”
We turned the picture over where we saw a faded date, 1875. “That would tie in with the letter. If they married in 1874, the baby was born a year later.”
I pointed to a youth standing in front of the handsome couple, a boy of about four-years-old. “That must be William,” I said. “Elisabeth’s child before she married the George.”
We both paused to ponder the family’s history. “William would be about twenty-six now.”
“Celia,” I said as my breath faltered, disgust surging though my bones. “If the black-haired lout is William, that would make him Rain’s father…
Celia gasped. “…and that would make Rain, Elizabeth’s granddaughter.”
We observed a good five minute’s silence as we both contemplated the implications of such a revelation.
Chapter 24
April 1903
Rain was five years old.Her paintings had become more impressive as she’d aged and as she practiced. My favourite, not Celia’s, was of the green meadows she had painted from the terrace outside the attic. My clever daughter had spent hours looking out across the balustrade to see the view across the fields. At first the picture seemed child-like; flat with different shades of green running into each other in blocks and random lines. The thick lumpy black and dark greens streaked across the canvas as if the paint had been scraped on without care, but when the painting was hung, when the light reflected upon them, the fields came alive with hedgerows and trees standing above the canvas as if they were alive.
That painting was the largest she’d ever been allowed to use. The sheets were a gift from Celia when she had been told by her mother to put them into the linen cupboard in the servant’s quarters. I had been wary at first, until Celia explained they were to be used as dust sheets, when they had so many of them anyway. “They won’t be missed,” she’d said handing me a bundle of starched white sheets. “Do you have more frames?”
I’d pieced together three different size frames to stretch the sheets and nail them as tight as I could with tacks. “We have to re-use the frames each time, which was a shame since the finished paintings can’t be seen without a frame to stretch them on.”
Celia chuckled, “But, at the rate she’s going, you wouldn’t have much more room to hang them.”
We’d both laughed at the notion of the attic being filled with Rain’s paintings. A true give away should someone come looking.
It was true. As each picture was completed and enjoyed for a number of days until Rain needed the frames again, they were taken and stored in Elizabeth’s trunks so that they were properly preserved. I told Rain that one day, when we were free to leave, we shall display them all at once as if we were living in a proper art gallery. She’d nodded her understanding, and offering a smile and a silent embrace to her mother, she locked away the paintings in the trunk and turned the key.
Last Christmas, Celia had presented Rain with a selection of coloured oil paints, bought from the village out of money she had saved from her monthly earnings. I had broken down and cried at the thoughtful and most useful gift and as a gesture to Celia, for everything she meant to us, we gave her on
e of Rain’s pictures. The one Celia had preferred out of them all.
The picture was almost all black and dark blue with streaks of yellow and white and splatters of orange. Despite her appreciation of the gift of oil paints, Rain had been troubled by the softness and density of them. She made gestures to me, which at first, I couldn’t understand, until I finally realised she wanted to get them all lumpy, like the old paints she had used in the beginning. When I tried mixing some sand with them, Rain had still been unhappy about the texture. Finally, we drained the excessive oils and left them to dry. When they were good and weathered, we mixed them up, before adding the oil to achieve the desired effect of textured paint.
When the black painting with its streaks of white and orange and splattering of blues and reds was hung, the candle light in the attic made it come alive, and we saw how she had depicted a midnight sky with a violent storm. The work was genius, so said Celia when she accepted it as a gift the following Christmas.
Life in the house below continued as normal, but our existence, or lack thereof, was threatened once more by unexpected visitors to the attic. It was summer, so our Bedouin tents had been taken down in favour of having air circulate about the three sections. We had long ago named the first section at the front where the attic door was situated. We called it the ‘danger zone’ and it had been there, one evening, when we were almost discovered.
I had been playing with Rain on the carpet on the floor of my parlour. We had the building blocks out, the ones I had once discovered in an old packing chest, years before. They were made of wood and covered in paper with coloured letters on the sides. Rain had been using them since she was just a few months old, first by building them up and knocking them down and then when she was older, using them as a learning tool to spell out words.
