I sat gazing at Warren, and noticed the sun’s rays revealed the same color streaks of platinum as I had in my hair, and replied, “I would love that.” His smile grew wide. “Someday, I want you to meet Ayden and Heath,” I said, taking a spoonful of macaroni. “You would like them very much.”
“Anyone you have a great fondness for, so will I. It puts my mind at ease to know that when you were growing up, there were people who loved you.”
It struck me odd. “Why does that put your mind at ease?” I asked.
He had been digging through the basket for an apple, and he suddenly stopped, thought intensely for a moment, then looked up. “Well, it means, that—” He didn’t know how to explain it. His eyes shifted away, then down to the ground. “Come, Lillian; let’s walk.” He stood and reached for my hand.
I put out my hand and allowed him to lift me. I tried to peer into his eyes, but he lowered the brim of his hat to hide them. Warren led me along the grounds and talked of the kind of house he wanted to build us. “I have been to Cape Cod. It’s a perfect place to build a one-and-a-half-story house along the beach, maybe even a house with a view of the lighthouse on the peninsula.”
The idea appealed to me. He saw it in my face; he knew the sea meant everything to me.
“Daddy thought I would make a good lighthouse keeper.”
“I suppose you would. You’re a smart girl.”
“Daddy taught me everything there is to know about working the light. I could do it in my sleep.”
Warren listened as I talked about the many nights, when Momma was sick in bed, that I was Daddy’s assistant.
“As young as I was, I was a quick learner. By the time I was six, I knew the entire workings of the light, and when I was strong enough, he even let me oil the clockworks. He never let Momma do that,” I chuckled.
“Your momma—was she as fond of living out at sea as you were?” he asked.
I leaned down to pick up some wildflowers and plucked their petals as we walked through the former plantation fields. I remembered that Momma used to love to be alone with Daddy up in the watch tower, and sometimes, when they didn’t see me hiding in the shadows, they became passionately engaged with one another. Daddy was enamored with her beauty, and she was aware it made him lose his concentration. He could think of nothing but taking her into his arms, kissing her neck, and whispering things in her ear that made her flush.
“Lillian?” Warren had stopped and taken hold of my arm.
“Yes?”
“Your momma—was she happy?”
I didn’t have to think about my answer and quickly said, “Of course. She loved Daddy and the sea, and me.”
“So your daddy gave her everything? He loved her up until the very moment she died?” Warren’s eyes burned with intensity, so much so it made me quiver.
“Well—yes. I mean, she was in the asylum; he wasn’t there when she died. But I know how broken he was. Life was not the same the minute he had to send her away.”
“Why would he send her away if he loved her as much as you say?”
I looked up at him and saw his skepticism and doubt that a man that loved a woman as much as Daddy loved Momma could just send her away to a cold institution far from his loving arms.
“I would never have sent her away,” I thought I heard him say.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I would never send someone I love away, no matter what,” Warren said firmly.
“But you don’t understand,” I cried.
“I do, Lillian. He didn’t want her anymore; she was a burden, a disgrace!” He was angry, mad at the thought of Daddy rejecting her.
“No! It wasn’t like that.” I was filled with tears, recalling the moment I heard Momma’s screams of pain and ran to where she was lying on the floor in a pool of blood from the stab wound she inflicted upon herself.
“Then what drove your daddy to leave her in such a horrible place to die alone?” Warren demanded.
By now, the tears were streaming down my cheek, but Warren was so overcome with anger that he didn’t see how distraught I was.
“Momma tried to kill herself, more than once. Daddy did all he could,” I shouted, sobbing. “Don’t you see? He had no choice.” I choked back my cries.
He shook his head in protest then said, “Then it was your own father that made her so miserable that she wanted to end her life.”
He wasn’t hearing me; he was so engrossed in his own distorted vision of what had happened.
“Don’t you dare say that!” I commanded. “Don’t you ever say another bad thing about Daddy again, or I will never speak to you again for as long as I live.” I ran off, leaving him standing in the field, his hat in hand and a tear in the corner of his eye.
I refused his letters for weeks after our argument. I tore them up instead of sending them back unopened. He even had Abigail plead on his behalf. “He is asking for your forgiveness, Miss Lillian.”
“Tell him I won’t.” I sat on the bed, my arms folded over my chest.
“He aint gonna stop trying,” Abigail said, and then she smiled at me. “That man’s in love with you.”
For only a moment, I thought of how his love had made me feel, how he filled me with so much joy, but then I remembered how angry he was, and the mean things he said about Daddy. I couldn’t forgive him.
Abigail sat beside me, and made me look at her. “You need to remember, Miss Lillian; he is going take you away some day, and he is your only way out of here.”
“Why don’t you go with Hamilton? Why do you stay in such a horrible place when you have your freedom?”
Her eyes softened, and she placed my hand in hers, then said with a heavy voice, “I can’t leave my boy.”
“But he’s gone. He died long ago.”
“No, Miss Lillian; Jacob-Thomas is sure here. You haven’t seen him yet? You don’t hear him at night, when all is still?”
I thought hard, but no, I hadn’t sensed a ghostly presence, ever.
“Well, he is sure here. And I aint leaving ‘til it’s my time to go. Besides, Hattie knows I’m here. She gonna come back here someday, and I’m waiting for her.”
I gasped and placed my hand over my heart. Momma had thought I was Hattie, but I never knew who she was.
“Hattie? Who is she?” I asked, on the verge of jumping off the bed in excitement.
“Hattie is my girl. She and your momma were best friends. Like sisters.”
I was elated to learn that Momma didn’t have a make-believe friend, but a girl she shared a real kinship with. “Where is Hattie now?”
“I don’t know. But when she wants to see me again, she knows where I am.”
I lay in bed that night and remembered how fond Momma was of Hattie. They must have shared a wonderful, close friendship if Momma had kept Hattie in her thoughts throughout her years of madness. I pictured her as pretty as I could tell Abigail once was. I suspected Hattie ran away to gain her freedom, just as Momma had. I hoped she would someday soon come back to Sutton Hall. I hoped she would share stories with me and tell me what Momma was really like as a young girl. Maybe she knew Daddy, too. And I hoped Hattie would be the one to reveal all of the secrets that Sutton Hall kept under lock and key, hidden from me for all the years I had been mercilessly abandoned and shut away.
_______________
Chapter Nineteen
Warren was relentless in his pursuit to win back my affections. It took nearly four weeks before he finally changed my mind and I was no longer angry at him.
I woke one morning to a small present left with a note beside my plate. I hurried and opened the small box to reveal a beautiful broach with a hand painted portrait of a beautiful woman on it.
In the note he apologized once again and told me he was going up north to buy the piece of land he would build our house on. He said he loved me and would be back in a few weeks, then ended the letter with, “I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me.”
> I was overwhelmed by the gesture and immediately regretted all the weeks I had harbored such animosity towards him. After all, he was on his way to Cape Cod to make a first big step towards our future together. We would have a house someday, up north, where I could sink my feet into the cool sand every day and watch vessels make their way across the ocean. The brisk, salty air would fill my lungs every morning and I would never again take that for granted.
I waited impatiently for Warren’s return. I couldn’t wait to tell him I, too, was sorry and that I never wanted to have another cross day with him again. I was relieved that he still fought for my devotion and refused to let go, though I had callously shunned him. And although the days went by at a snail’s pace, I kept busy with the few books I periodically stole from Grandmother’s library downstairs, off the sitting room. I was careful not to be caught, and when I took a book, I replaced one. Usually I took one in the middle of the night or when she went into Savannah.
Then there was the time I stole out of my room with only a small candle in the darkness of a mid-autumn night to try the doors of the dozens of rooms, to see if, perhaps, any had been left unlocked. The house had cooled off; the weather had been below normal temperatures all week. The nights were almost frigid and every fireplace but mine was burning and casting eerie shadows on the towering walls. I slowly wandered about on the first floor, then went back upstairs and proceeded to Grandmother’s wing. I hadn’t stepped foot in that hall since I had seen Grandfather.
The floor creaked, and I held my breath with every step. I moved slowly until I came to her door. I hurried past and giggled to myself. It was fun taking chances; it was my way of having an adventure of my own. I wanted to get to the door at the end of the hall, the one I was drawn to. I looked closely at the lock and realized it was broken, so I quietly turned the knob and crept up the dark, narrow stairway to the third floor, the attic. The top story covered the entire span of the mansion, and I could only see what was directly in front of me.
Clutter was everywhere; the attic filled with items I couldn’t wait to look through. I lifted my candle and gazed at the trunks that lined the thick beams that supported the roof. There were old, broken Windsor chairs scattered about and clothes everywhere. I spotted three crinolines, some old French hats, a pair of children’s gloves, and dozens of ball gowns. There were old, muddy boots in a small pile in the center of the floor, and near them, on a nail, was what looked to be a blood-stained Confederate’s uniform.
When I tried to open the trunks, all but one was locked. That particular trunk was filled with money! There must have been thousands of dollars inside. I picked up a pile and peered closely at it, then realized it was all worthless Confederate money. At one time, the Arringtons must have been wealthy beyond my imagination. Now they were virtually penniless, struggling to put a morsel of food on the table. I went back and tried to open one of the other trunks; I played with the lock and tugged hard, but it was no use. Then, underneath, I caught a glimpse of a photograph sticking out.
I reached down and carefully pulled the photograph out from under the trunk, then brought the candle up to it. The photograph was taken of Sutton Hall in its glory days; it appeared to be some sort of event or celebration from before the war ravaged the South. I couldn’t quite make out the people in the scene; the photographer must have been far away. Slaves and ladies and gentleman stood about. The women relaxing in front of the mansion, beneath the familiar magnolia trees, wore beautiful dresses with enormous crinolines that filled out their skirts. Their hair was done in ringlets and curls, and the men conversed with each other in frock coats, trousers, boots, and very dapper top hats. Two men stood on the front porch, side by side. I recognized my grandfather in the photograph, but no one else, no matter how I concentrated.
I placed the photograph in the pocket of my skirt and decided I had seen enough for now, and slowly made my way back to the staircase. I heard the door creak open and saw the glow from a candle coming up. Alarmed, I crouched in the nearest corner and hid behind one of the trunks. I watched Abigail creep up the stairs and stop at the landing. She walked further ahead, stopped in the center of the attic, and then placed the candle on the seat of a chair. For a moment she was silent, then, as if in some kind of a trance, she called in a whisper, “Jacob-Thomas, your momma is here.”
I waited anxiously, holding my breath to see what would happen next. She called out again, then straightened her spine and looked to the end of the expansive room, and I heard the childlike laugh for the first time.
“Come here, my boy,” she said, lifting the candle and sitting down in an old, worn chair.
I eased up a little to get a better look then froze as the ghost of a young boy appeared from the darkness. He appeared to float across the floor until he reached Abigail, then he stopped. With angst-filled eyes, she reached out for him then the spirit laughed again, and in a blink of an eye, was gone. Abigail lowered her head into her hands and began to weep. After so many years, she still cried for the boy who had been taken from her. I wondered what had happened to Jacob-Thomas. What had caused him to lose his life at such a young age? Whatever had left a boy dead at such a young age must have been horrible.
Abigail sobbed in silence as the night passed, and I suspected it might possibly have been a nightly ritual. Then she sat in the chair for several hours, singing hymns that Momma used to sing. Her voice was soothing and reminded me of my younger days, and began to ease me into sleep. I tried to fight my heavy lids, I didn’t want to lie down and close my eyes, but I was overtaken by exhaustion and in the cold, dark corner of the ghostly attic, I fell asleep.
My dreams were filled with my youthful, happy days on Jasper Island. Ayden, Heath, and I blissfully frolicked in the chilly, North Atlantic waters, laughing and splashing one another. Heath’s brilliant blue eyes were full of happiness when he looked at me, and Ayden’s smile lit up my heart. The sun shone high above and warmed our faces; we were happy and free, with not a care in the world. The day in my dream seemed endless, and I could almost taste the salt of the sea on my lips as the light sounds of laughter filled my ears and pulled me back into my dreadful reality like a slap in the face.
The boyish apparition stood over me as dull light filtered through the three dormered windows of the attic, then vanished in an instant. I gasped and shot up, nearly banging my head on the beam above. It was morning; I had to get back to my room before I was noticed missing. My heart in my throat, I hurried down the stairs until I reached the bottom, where I inched open the door and peeked into the hall. There was no one there, so I crept out and ran, as fast as I could without bumping into any walls. As I turned into the next wing, I stopped at the corner, looked all around, and then hurried on, until I reached my room. My heart beat fast in my chest, and when I finally made it to my room, there was Hamilton, a plate containing my hard-boiled egg in hand. I didn’t take the time to really look at him and breathed a sigh of relief. I was safe. I stopped to catch my breath, then the door slammed closed, and Grandmother stepped out from where she had been waiting behind the door.
I froze, and I will never forget the fury in her eyes as she took her cane and gave me a massive blow to the head, sending me hurtling to the floor. The room began to spin, and I felt blood gush from my head. I saw Grandmother lift the cane again from the corner of my eye. Hamilton, sensing that she was going to beat me to death, came to pull me out of the way, but the cane smashed down on his temple and sent him crashing into the wall. Then he slumped to the floor.
Piercing screams of terror shot through the mammoth house while I lay almost unconscious in my own blood. I remember Abigail’s deafening howls and Grandmother’s livid accusations. “It’s the girl’s fault. If she wasn’t the seed of the devil himself, none of this would have happened!”
“You need to get the doctor!” Abigail yelled.
When Grandmother didn’t respond, Abigail did all she could to lift me and drag me over to the bed, sobbing uncontrollably all the wh
ile.When she had me half on the bed, and only after she wrapped the wound on my head with her apron, she looked at Hamilton and fell over his body.
“Get off of him,” Grandmother commanded.
“You go get a doctor for Miss Lillian, or I’m going to the constable!” Abigail hollered through her tears.
Without a word, Grandmother spun around and left. I thought for sure she would leave me there to die, but hours later, she arrived with a doctor, who checked my wound, then offered me syrup that quickly sent the room spinning and made my body feel like it was floating up in the clouds. I had no memory of Hamilton’s body being carried out or any idea of what was going on around me until more than a week had passed.
In a foggy haze, I lifted my heavy head off my blood-stained pillow to find myself alone in my room, the door wide open. A small table had been brought up to my room, and on it, an empty bottle sat beside a spoon, bowl, and pitcher. There was a pile of bloody rags covered in flies on the floor.
It took a few minutes for my eyes to come into complete focus, and then I slid off the bed. I stood, dizzy, and leaned on the bed to keep from falling, waiting until the lightheaded feeling went away. It was difficult to remember the reason my head throbbed and why I had a large bump on it.
It took a great effort, but I slowly steadied my legs and proceeded from the room, wandering aimlessly down the hall, not knowing where exactly I was going. It was difficult to gather my senses, and I found myself spinning in circles, confused and lost. I was sure I heard voices, laughter, and then sobs. I decided to follow them through the dim corridor, down the grand staircase, and out the front door. As soon as I stepped outside into the rain I was drenched, and my bare feet sank into cold mud. I pulled the hair away from my face and gazed around. I looked for the light; if I could find the light from the tower, that’s where Daddy would be. There was no light, and I called for him. “Daddy? Daddy where are you?”
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