Box Set: The ArringtonTrilogy

by Roxane Tepfer Sanford

  With the key in hand, I went into Grandmother’s wing and stepped into her room. It seemed so hard to believe Momma’s life began in that room, with the callous woman who resided there. It was easy to remember Grandmother’s sinister eyes, horrid voice, and menacing authority. It was impossible to forget the terrible day I was tied to the bed and whipped; I could still feel the blood ooze from my back.

  I shivered and left the room. At the end of the hall was the door to the attic. Upstairs was showered in the light of day, and I could see all the way to the end and the last wall. No ghosts roamed; I heard no eerie laughter while I walked the wide planks, looking at the floor to see if anything had been left behind. But there was nothing. The attic was as barren, as stripped, as I remembered.

  My last stop was the cemetery. First, I visited Grandfather’s grave and noticed a tombstone down from his that I had overlooked. It read “Beatrice and Violet Arrington 1851-1862.” I had no idea who the girls were, and possibly would never know. But I knew of Hamilton and wanted to say goodbye and thank him for saving my life. Hamilton was responsible for my freedom and the opportunity to finally go home to Jasper Island.

  I walked through the waist-high weeds, and just as I passed the slave quarters, I stopped in my tracks, thinking I saw Abigail. I closed my eyes and opened them again, and she was still there. But as I drew closer, I realized it wasn’t Abigail, but a woman twenty years her junior. The slender woman was standing before Hamilton’s grave, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. Her clothes were modest, though she wore a beautiful burgundy bonnet that I admired.

  I stayed back and waited, allowing her some private time until she sensed my presence. The attractive Negro woman slowly lifted her head and turned in my direction. “Are you a ghost?” she called.

  “No, ma’am. My name is Lillian.”

  She shadowed her eyes with her hand and extended her neck so she could get a better look at me, and when she did, she brought her hands to her chest and gasped so loud I could hear it from where I stood.

  “It’s like looking back fifteen years!” she exclaimed. “Come over to me.”

  I did as she asked, and when we were face to face, she did look as though she had seen a ghost.

  “You’re Amelia’s child,” she announced, her eyes big and filled with amazement.

  “I am. And you—you are Hattie!”

  Hattie threw her arms around me and began to cry with joy. “Oh, my goodness,” she repeated, over and over. “You’re the spitting image of your mother, with the exception of your sunny hair.” Her eyes went dark, her brow creased with distress, and for a moment, her thoughts went far into the past, then she asked, “Your momma?”

  “She’s dead.”

  Hattie shook her head in pity then reached out to console me with the touch of her hand.

  “She spoke of you in her last years. Her mind was clouded with days of yesteryear, of childhood memories. She was so fond of you, Hattie,” I said, holding back my tears.

  “Your momma and I were like sisters. We grew up here, on the plantation, before and during the war. We had a kinship that lasted in our hearts for all time.”

  “And Jacob-Thomas?”

  “My brother—my half-brother,” she sighed.

  “Why are you here, Hattie?” I asked.

  She looked at me, and in her eyes I saw the past and present collide.

  “I came to look for my momma, and to leave this here where it belonged, just in case your momma ever came back,” she said, reaching into her skirt and pulling out a small book.

  “Abigail is gone. I think she went to find you.”

  Hattie nodded, then handed me the book.

  I gently opened the worn front cover of what appeared to be a journal, scanned the pages inside, and noticed a photograph. She pulled it out and gazed at it before handing it to me. Hattie was giving me all of the secrets that Grandmother thought she had buried before she abandoned Sutton Hall. Hattie was the key I needed after all, not the brass one I found in the wardrobe.

  Hattie gave me the photograph and held her breath, waiting and watching my mind scramble to understand. My heart pounded so hard in my chest that I swore it shook the ground beneath us. My hands trembled, and the world stopped spinning for the few seconds that I stared at the family in the photograph and read what was written on the bottom. “The Arrington’s—Thomas, Eugenia, Amelia, and Patrick-Garrett.” Though my eyes blurred with tears, I could without any doubt, identify my parents—Amelia and…Patrick.

  “Hattie, what does this mean?” I cried. “Dear God, what does this mean?”

  I lost my breath and fell to the ground, clutching the photograph as my mind screamed out in anguish and terror. My mother and father were brother and sister! I was the child of the devil; I was everything Grandmother claimed me to be.

  Hattie came and put her warm hands on my shoulders, then said, “There’s more.”

  “What more could there be? How many more secrets have been hidden? How many more lies have the Arrington’s made?” I moaned.

  Hattie lifted me and made me look at her. She took the handkerchief and wiped my face, then said, “He was her half-brother.”

  “Half-brother?” I repeated.

  “And he isn’t your father.”

  “Then who? If Daddy wasn’t my father, and only my half-uncle, then who is my real father, Hattie?”

  Her nostrils flared, her peaceful, composed face filled with fury and bitterness. She saw my desperation to know the truth; she was aware that the truth, not lies or deception, would set me free. She struggled to find a way to tell me so I wouldn’t break down and shatter into a hundred pieces.

  “Your father took your momma without her consent, and out of that came your creation,” she said, her voice forceful and laced with animosity. “Your momma told me when she knew the baby was growing inside her. I thought—we all thought—it was Patrick’s. They had become secret lovers, but were caught by Mrs. Arrington.”

  “Then how do you know I’m not the consequence of the love affair between my momma and her half-brother?”

  Hattie sucked in a breath of air, then slowly exhaled, about to let out the tragic and appalling secret.

  “Amelia found a wounded Confederate in the woods; he was on the verge of death when she brought him back to Sutton Hall, where my momma tended his wounds. He stayed in the big house for months until he became well. Patrick had come to Savannah just before he began his service in the Confederate Navy. Amelia had never met him before. He was from your granddaddy’s first marriage. Your momma instantly fell for Patrick and spent every waking moment making him jealous by flirting with the handsome officer. She took it too far. He was captivated with her, and she became irresistible. He took her down in the woods, not far from here, under the weeping willow by the river and—”

  I interrupted her. I didn’t want to hear the details—it was all too frighteningly familiar. “What was his name, Hattie?” I asked, choking out my words. I trembled with fear and stood frozen, as if waiting for the cannon to fire.

  “Colonel Warren Stone was his name.”

  Memories of my days on the river, sitting under the willow tree with Warren came flooding back. That’s where he took Momma’s innocence; that’s where my life was created, out of lust, desire, and rage. It’s where Warren allowed me to fall in love with him, to win me over, the worst part…

  I slammed my eyes shut and gasped for air as I leaned my head back and let the hot sun bake my face, then I opened my mouth and screamed at the top of my lungs, “Dear God, my own father!”

  Hattie brought me into her embrace and hushed me while I wept onto her shoulder. I managed to sob out my story, revealing what Warren had done to me.

  “Not again,” Hattie gasped.

  I clung to her as if I were about to fall off the edge of the earth. While Hattie comforted me with soft words of compassion, a man came through the weeds and called for Hattie. “We must get going,” he said.

  Hatti
e released me and introduced the tall, well groomed man as her husband. He tipped his hat and said to Hattie, “We have a long trip ahead of us.”

  She turned to me, cupped my face in her soft hands, and said, “Read the book. They are your momma’s words; she gave it to me to keep safe the night she stole away with Patrick. I have kept it with me all these years. Now it’s yours, Lillian.”

  “Thank you,” I sobbed, and we hugged one last time.

  “You take care,” Hattie said, kissing my wet cheek. I watched her walk away, her arm tucked in her husband’s, and disappear into the light of day.

  I zealously searched the surrounding buildings. I found some lamp oil, a near-empty box of matches, and piles of rags from one of the slave cabins and carried them into the grand foyer of the mansion. My mind riddled with the madness of it all, I soaked the rags in oil, and without an ounce of hesitation, threw a lit match to them. I watched from the doorway as the flames grew higher and higher, climbing up the walls and creeping over the huge plaster ceilings. Black smoke quickly filled the rooms, and I moved outside, choking and hacking, my skin burning from the intense heat of the fire that engulfed all of Sutton Hall. I stayed back for a while and watched in awe as the intense yellow and orange flames poured from every window and finally made its way to the roof. I stayed back near a tall oak that dripped Spanish moss down over Grandfather’s grave and stared for hours, watching Sutton Hall burn to the ground.

  When the great walls of the house that embraced pure evil were a pile of ash, I had one more piece of business to finish, one more bridge to burn, one last piece of the tragic past that had to be destroyed.

  Warren ran into the cabin where I stood like a statue, arms crossed over my chest, my expression cold as stone.

  “Sutton Hall! Have you seen the smoke? It burnt to the ground; all that remains are the chimney stacks. It’s all gone!”

  Warren’s eyes blazed, and I wasn’t sure if it was from terror or delight. When I didn’t respond, shooting daggers at him across the small cabin with my stare, the fine hairs on the back of his neck stood straight up. I wasn’t sure exactly what I wanted to say, though I knew whatever I did manage to get out would forever destroy his heart; there would be nothing left of it when I was done.

  “I sent Sutton Hall back to the fiery hell from which it was built,” I said, my tone laced with venom.

  “You set the mansion on fire? Why?”

  I took several steps forward and watched his rosy lips turned pale and begin to quiver. “I needed to send the demons that filled every corner of that house back to hell. You know what hell is, right, Mr. Stone?”

  “Lillian, what is this all about?” he asked, swallowing hard.

  I stepped up to him, no longer afraid of the sinful, dirty deeds he had done to me, to Momma. I was in control now, and he knew it.

  “I despise you. Just looking at you sickens me. I know what kind of sadistic man you are; I know what you did. I know all about it!” I screeched. My high-pitched voice made his ears ring, and he winced in pain.

  “Please understand. I am not the man you hate. I love you, and I know—I know I hurt you,” he began, eyes welling with tears as he scrambled for excuses. But I had no sympathy for the man that had violated everything that was sacred.

  “You more than hurt me. How dare you have me fall in love with you? How dare you make me believe in you or convince me you were my friend, when all this time you—” I stopped myself, remembering the night he forced himself inside of me. Warren tried to embrace me.

  “Get away. Don’t you ever touch me again,” I commanded. “I know your secrets. I know who you really are!”

  Warren was stunned, my words were like a slap, and I watched all the blood drain from his face.

  “I know you’re my father,” I choked out. I stood defiant and refused to look away as defeat claimed him. All the lies, all the deception was now out in the open. However, I wasn’t going to succumb to the sins of my father; I would rise above it and turn my back on the man who had almost taken my soul.

  Warren begged, pleaded, and asked for mercy. “I love you more than life itself. Just the way I loved Amelia. Don’t you see that, Lillian?”

  “You love me the way you loved my mother?” I spat in disgust.

  “No, I love you more than I loved her. You make my world alive; you fill my heart and every part of my being. I have been in love with you since the moment my eyes fell on you, you are even more captivating and breathless than your mother. I tried to fight off my love; I know what you are to me. I just can’t help it. Please, Lillian; stay with me. Marry me. No one will know.”

  His pleas for an immoral and unholy union sent my mind spinning in astonishment. Warren fell to one knee and extended his arm and said, “Please, be my wife.”

  “You are completely insane.” My words came out as a hysterical laugh. “All of you, every one of you—from my momma to the man who told me to call him Daddy since the day I was born—are crazy!”

  “We can live just as Amelia and Patrick did. No one will ever know,” he continued, and it was apparent he believed and accepted the madness. There was no way to make him see how absurd his suggestion was, and I had heard enough.

  Warren ran and jumped in front of me as I hurried down the road towards Savannah. I wouldn’t spend another night in the cabin. I would wait all night at the train station for Richard and his wife to arrive.

  “You can’t leave like this,” he cried, walking briskly beside me.

  “Yes, I can,” I replied, not looking at him.

  Then he seized me and made me stop. “I can’t lose you the way I lost Amelia. This can’t happen to me again.”

  “Let go of me!” I insisted, snatching my arm away.

  Warren’s face turned deep red, full of rage. “She came to me; she undressed and made me lust after her, just as you did,” he spat. “I’m a man. I’m only human!”

  “So this is my fault?” I cried.

  Warren pulled me into his embrace and placed a long, wet kiss on my lips. I struggled to free myself and pounded against his chest. When he pulled back, he smiled—a disturbing, sinister smile that made me shiver.

  “You are just like her. You wanted to be violated,” he whispered into my ear, then placed his hands around my neck and began to squeeze. “I need you. You will stay. Do you understand?”

  I tried to pry his fingers off my neck, but they wouldn’t budge. I was choking and believed he would kill me if I didn’t agree. I nodded, agreed to stay, to be captured again, just to stay alive.

  “That’s a good girl,” he mumbled, taking hold of my hand. “Now, let’s go.”

  I walked with him a only few yards before I saw a wagon flying up the road. In an instant, without thinking, I yanked my hand away and pushed Warren with all my might right into the path of the horses. He let out one long scream, and was trampled. The driver stopped but wasn’t able to catch sight of me before I disappeared into the woods.

  _______________

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Dawn arrived to a sun-drenched sky with gentle and fragrant southern hospitality. The day was like no other I had ever experienced. Though tragedy always seemed to loom over my world like a perpetually dark cloud, on this day, I saw only clear skies, smooth sailing, and an uninhibited future. The chains that bound me, figuratively and literally, were lifted, and all I kept in my mind were visions of home—the lighthouse, the sea, and the people I loved to greet me.

  The local newspaper’s front page included the tragic story of Warren’s death—a first-hand account, the full details of what happened. The only witness, the driver, stated Warren died instantly, which put my mind at ease, for there was a part of my heart that had once truly loved him. The article mentioned a young girl, with Mr. Stone at the time of the incident, who was being sought after for questioning. The driver did not have a good description of me; his eyes had been captured by the gruesome scene.

  So I was confident as I strolled about the
train station with only the newspaper I’d purchased in my hand, waiting for Richard and his wife Judith to arrive. I was only slightly skeptical, suspicious, and concerned that Richard had lied to me. I honestly believed he was going to show up and buy me my train ticket that would take me all the way up to Maine.

  The station quickly began to fill with morning travelers, and I was shoved and bumped enough times to put myself in a corner, where I kept a keen eye out for them. And when there were barely fifteen minutes to spare before the train departed, I saw him trailing behind Judith to the ticket counter. I let out a long sigh of relief and proceeded over.

  “Lillian, you’re here,” he exclaimed when I tapped him on the shoulder. “One extra ticket,” he said to the ticket taker.

  Judith turned her head slightly and gave me a forced smile. After she had the tickets in hand, we gathered on the platform. I waited for her to hand me my ticket, but she immediately gave it to the conductor, then Richard ushered me onto the train and my mind was transported back years before, when Daddy put us on the train and my life took a dramatic turn for the worse.

  It was still almost impossible to believe that the man who raised me and loved me so unconditionally was an imposter. Daddy wasn’t my daddy after all, and it hurt beyond words. The feeling of loss would be forced to the deepest depths of my soul—covered and buried, just so I could go on.

  When we were settled in our seats, in the private car meant for rich travelers exclusively, I looked at Richard and Judith and smiled in appreciation. The train began rolling, and I felt fortunate to have met a man who valued me, even if it was only because of my attractiveness.

  Judith was much older than Richard, by at least ten years, I suspected. I could tell she must have been beautiful in her day, though she now covered her filled-out face with layers of makeup. I had never seen a woman with so much makeup on, and it was revolting. Her expensive French perfume, was heavy, lingered, and crept into my nose. Judith wore expensive clothes. Her dress was pastel, a lovely cuirasse, v-shaped collar bodice with pleated cuffs and lace trim, and the bustle skirt was so pronounced I wondered how she sat comfortably. I felt plain in the simple dress Warren had bought me.