The Wandering Heart

by Mary Malloy

  I am currently the last link in a long chain of events that culminated most recently some thirty years ago in the death of your aunt. Your father knows, of course, the sad story of his sister, but his more recent tragedies have clouded the memory. With the loss of your older brothers in the war, the responsibility will fall to you.

  Even though you probably do not wish to take this seriously, please save the statement that I will attach to this letter describing what I know of this story, and pass it on to the next generations. In time, your father will give you important family papers and my request is that you include this among them. If you do not believe me, John, at least humor an old lady who has seen too much tragedy in her life, and trust me that this knowledge will become important again one day.

  It was signed “Fondly, Elizabeth Hatton.” Two typed pages were attached, the top one entitled: “Statement of Elizabeth Hatton, Given at Birchington-on-Sea, September 13, 1921.” It was notarized by a London solicitor a few days after it was dated. It basically told the history as Lizzie now knew it, but added information from the personal experience of the author that was new to Lizzie. “I first felt the power of this legacy when I was eighteen years old,” she read. “Disappointed in love, I found myself captivated by this story of a love seemingly so grand that it made death seem like an eloquent gesture.”

  For each of these young women there were lovers lost to war, abandonment, misunderstanding, or family interference. Other families faced these same tragedies, but moved beyond them—such suffering was incorporated into the process of maturation. But in my family, the glorification of dying for love became legendary, even desirable.

  Though I do not know the specific details of each of the tragedies, I can relate the stories of two of the women affected, myself and my niece.

  She described her own engagement to a young man who was subsequently killed in a riding accident, and the deep depression that followed. Her parents sent her to London where she drifted into the artistic circle of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood. She admitted that part of her long affair with the artist Dante Gabriel Rossetti was based on a mutual interest in the relationship between love and death. That they never married led to an estrangement from her family and consequently a deep regret on her part that she had not been at Hengemont to guide her niece through her own period of depression.

  For a family so often touched by similar tragedies, the Hattons have been remarkably obtuse in recognizing the symptoms. I can only attribute this to the fact that the time between episodes was long enough to prevent rational people from expecting that such a history could apply to them. My understanding of my niece’s story is this: Her father arranged for her to meet and be courted by a young man from the north of England. His family had enormous wealth from the factories, but no position; the Hattons have position, but rapidly declining wealth. He was a dissolute and wretched creature whom she, nonetheless, was convinced to love, and once having been convinced, loved ardently. When her eyes were opened to his true character, and to his vile treatment of numerous women, she chose to end her life. There can be no doubt but that Elizabeth’s tragic death led her brother to the same horrible conclusion just a few years later.

  The statement concluded by saying that Elizabeth Hatton had compiled a list of the women affected, which was attached, and that she’d had the memorial stones placed in the church. Lizzie quickly read down the list; it was identical to the one she had prepared. She pushed the pile of papers back to George.

  “Thank you for letting me see that,” she said. “It helps explain things.”

  The three sat silently for a few minutes.

  “I think I’ll go to London tomorrow and do some of the research that still needs to be done there,” Lizzie said finally.

  George offered her a place to stay at his house in London but Lizzie refused. She did not want to encounter Richard, but used the excuse that she was expecting her husband to join her shortly and would prefer to stay in a hotel. George then offered Mrs. Jeffries’ assistance in making a reservation. Lizzie turned to see if Helen was still in the room, but the housekeeper had slipped silently out at some point in the conversation. Lizzie excused herself from George and Edmund and went to find her in the kitchen.

  Helen was sitting at the table, waiting for her. Lizzie refused the inevitable offer of something hot to drink and sat next to her.

  “I’m sorry, Helen,” Lizzie started, “that when I arrived here I was too thick to be able to appreciate the story that you had to tell me. I’d like to hear it now.”

  Helen looked somewhat surprised. “Did Sir George acknowledge his relationship to you?”

  Now Lizzie was surprised. “No. Do you think he knows? I found out about it in a letter that the priest has over at the Catholic church in the village.”

  Helen shrugged. “When I heard your name, I just assumed he must have brought you here to make things right.”

  “He hasn’t mentioned it, or even given a hint that he knows. I honestly think he invited me here because I have certain expertise that he needs.”

  “Well then it is certainly the biggest coincidence I’ve ever heard of,” Helen snorted.

  Lizzie smiled. She wasn’t certain what to think about George at this point. “Tell me what you know about that other Lizzie Manning,” she said. “Was your grandmother in contact with her after she went to the U.S.?”

  Helen shook her head. “From the day she left they never heard another word from her. It broke my gran’s heart with worry.” For several minutes they talked about the first arrival of the Manning girls at Hengemont.

  “How did Lizzie begin her relationship with Edmund?” Lizzie asked finally, feeling awkward again at the historical echo in the names and hoping that Helen wouldn’t notice her discomfort.

  “It started on the day his sister committed suicide.”

  Lizzie was glad that she was sitting down; she could not form any words in response.

  “Jumped off the roof,” Helen continued, “like so many of the Hatton girls.”

  She described how “that other Lizzie,” a parlor maid, had been in the library at the time. “According to my gran, she was always volunteering to dust the library, and then spent hours in there. The housekeeper knew she was reading the books but indulged her if there was no other pressing work.”

  “Oh my God,” Lizzie said softly, closing her eyes and picturing the event. “She landed right there on the terrace, didn’t she?”

  “She was still alive when Lizzie got to her, but died before anyone else had a chance to see her. The brother could not be consoled, and sought Lizzie out, always hoping there had been some message for him, but of course his poor sister had been all broken up and couldn’t speak.”

  A tear rolled down Lizzie’s cheek and she reached up to wipe it away.

  “When she found out she was pregnant the brother offered to marry her, and my gran thought that they had married, but then Lizzie was gone and he was still here.”

  “And did your grandmother know that her sister had emigrated?”

  “Yes, and that is all she knew.” Helen took out a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes, then returned it to her pocket. “When I heard you were coming and learned your name, I was expecting that something would happen, but you didn’t seem to know anything about this, and none of the Hattons made any acknowledgement of their relationship to you.”

  Lizzie felt quite sure that Edmund knew nothing about it. Of George she wasn’t so sure, but she couldn’t see why he would have brought her all this way and interacted with her on a daily basis if he knew they were related and didn’t mean to tell her. Could he have been looking to see if she knew it herself?

  It was obviously a topic designed for secrecy, and a house where deception rested very comfortably. Even Helen had not always been straight with her, Lizzie thought.

  “Why did you tell me that Bette wa
s dead?” she asked.

  “Partly to protect her, I think.” Helen paused. “I just blurted it out without thinking. No one has asked me about her in such a long time.” She paused again. “Maybe to protect you, too,” she added softly. “I didn’t want you worrying about her being insane.”

  “Because you thought I might be going insane as well?”

  Helen tried to smile. “It doesn’t seem to make much sense now, looking at you. You seem to be taking all this pretty well.”

  The two women rose and moved toward the door to the kitchen.

  “On a more mundane topic,” Helen said, “Sir George called just before you came in and asked me to make some arrangements for your stay in London. Where do you like to stay in town?”

  The first hotel Lizzie had ever stayed at in London was the Grosvenor, into which she and Martin had stumbled late one night from nearby Victoria Station. She began to mumble a sort of explanation of that trip years before, from which the housekeeper caught only the name of the hotel. That was enough for her to take care of the reservation and the next morning Lizzie was back on the train from Minehead heading east.

  She and Edmund had said the briefest of good-byes; warm on both sides, but more restrained than previously. There was much to think about. On the train she pulled out her laptop and began to go through her notes and files. She would have so much to tell Martin, she thought, and just as much to keep to herself.

  Chapter 19

  The suite at the Grosvenor Hotel was really elegant. Lizzie would never have splurged on anything so extravagant for herself, but she appreciated the gesture that Helen had made for her with George’s money. There were two rooms, a sitting room and the bedroom. The former had an expansive view toward Buckingham Palace and even a small gas-powered fireplace that Lizzie could turn on with a remote control.

  It had now been more than three weeks since she had talked to her parents and after she unpacked, Lizzie sat down at the desk and called them.

  “Hello dear,” her mother said as soon as she heard Lizzie’s voice. She wanted to know all about Hengemont, being enthusiastically interested in the house and its occupants.

  “Why are you such an Anglophile?” Lizzie teased.

  “Jane Austen,” her mother answered without hesitation. “The Anglophobe is here too,” she continued wryly. “Shall I put him on?”

  Lizzie had been wondering all this day and the previous one what she should say to her father about her new knowledge of their relationship to the Hattons. Was he entirely ignorant of it? Did he want to be? The sound of his voice brought back a flood of emotions.

  “Hi Pop!” she said, answering his greeting.

  He asked all the expected questions about her research, her travels, even getting to the weather. She answered all of them with an enthusiasm she didn’t feel.

  He did not mention the Hattons, so she did, reminding him of the name of her employer.

  “Oh that’s right,” he said, sounding surprised. “I had forgotten.”

  “It’s a pretty swell place they have,” she said, trying to make her voice sound cheery. “I don’t suppose there is any chance that we’re related?”

  He laughed. “Not a chance, sweetheart, sorry about that.”

  He didn’t know. It was clear from his voice.

  As she hung up the phone she knew that it would not make him happier to know and she decided then that she would not tell him.

  She took a long bath, stretching out in the big tub and pondering all the things that had happened at Hengemont. She felt entirely relaxed for the first time in three weeks, and though it was only about seven o’clock crawled into the bed and fell quickly to sleep. She woke around midnight to feel the weight of someone joining her. It was Martin.

  “Hello, love,” he whispered, wrapping his arms around her as she woke.

  “Oh Martin,” she said, turning toward him and rubbing her body against his. “I’m so glad to see you.”

  Martin looked at her for a long moment and then kissed her softly. “I’ve really missed you,” he said. “And I was worried.”

  She held him tightly, then kissed him passionately. Their caresses led to tender lovemaking. When it was over she fell into a deep and dreamless sleep, the best she had had since she’d arrived in England.

  It was still early when she woke. Martin was snoring softly as she slipped out of bed and padded across the carpet to the bathroom, and he was still sleeping soundly as she dressed and went down to get some coffee and baked goods for their breakfast. Martin wouldn’t be very hungry given the time change, but he would need the coffee and might appreciate something light to eat when he woke.

  The city was bustling as she stepped out the front door of the hotel onto Buckingham Palace Road. It was only a few blocks to the shops at Victoria Station where she had noticed a promising coffee shop the day before. She returned to the hotel room with coffee, cinnamon rolls, and The London Times. At ten o’clock she kissed Martin on the lips and whispered “Good Morning, love, welcome to England.”

  He managed a weak smile, rolled over and slept for another hour as she scanned the Times. At eleven she tried again.

  “Martin, sweetheart,” she said softly, “you don’t want to sleep too long or you won’t get over the jet lag.”

  He stretched out his arms, caught her in one and pulled her to him for a long kiss.

  “Miss me?” he asked.

  “Like crazy,” she answered, kissing him again.

  Martin went into the bathroom for several minutes and when he returned to the bed he had a cup of coffee in one hand.

  “Yuck,” he said, taking a sip, “this is cold.”

  “I thought you’d be up an hour ago,” Lizzie shrugged.

  “Come on, dear wife,” he said, “I’ll take you out for a real English breakfast.”

  Lizzie told him that he was too late, but could take her to lunch. She knew that he was anxious to hear about her adventures at Hengemont, and she was just about ready to tell him. He dressed quickly and before long they were walking arm and arm through the chilly London day.

  The both saw “The Ship” at the same moment and agreed that a pub lunch in an ancient-looking establishment was perfect for Martin’s first foray into English food. The pub had a low ceiling, lots of wood, dark recesses, and slightly tilting beams. It was still early enough that they could occupy one corner entirely by themselves. Lizzie slipped in along the cushioned bench and Martin followed, sitting close enough to slip his hand onto her thigh. A waitress took their order for fish and chips and salad, and Martin ordered a pint of beer for each of them.

  As he spoke with the waitress, Lizzie looked around at the advertising art, the dusty ship models, and the hundreds of coasters tacked to the walls, trying to decide where she should start. Martin anticipated her, asking what had led her to the Hengemont roof.

  She started slowly, telling him about the dreams and the poems, how she had matched them up with actual women. How she had seen the ruby worn repeatedly in the portraits, and how she had seen the memorial stones in the Hatton’s church. She told him about John and Elizabeth, about Rossetti’s lover, Bette’s diary, and the missing heart. When she finished they both sat silently for several minutes.

  Martin took a sip from his pint-sized glass of beer and looked at her over the rim. “What is bothering you the most about all this?” he asked.

  She was thoughtful for a moment. “I had these dreams,” she said finally. “They were so vivid, so filled with detail. I felt like I was in the past, not just viewing it from a distance, but then I can’t remember if I read those details, or saw them somewhere in some document or painting.” She took a long swig from the beer and put the glass down on the paper coaster. She wasn’t prepared to tell Martin of the erotic nature of the first dream and of Edmund’s role in it, or of the intense desire for her lover in the other
two dreams. “It’s a bit frightening,” she said finally, “because I feel like I learned much of what I know about this story directly from the dreams.”

  “And the Hattons knew this story and what it could do?”

  “George knew it primarily through the experience of his sister, and Edmund as a sort of interesting medical problem. I think the women in the family have always been more knowledgeable about this story than the men, and the only woman who qualifies right now is locked in a convent in France.”

  “How many did you say there have been?”

  “If you count me, twelve,” she said, “over a period of some seven hundred years.” She looked around the pub, hoping to find comfort in the “Olde England” decor. Carved faces emerged from the ends of the dark wood beams. Once she would have found them amusing, but now they just seemed sinister.

  “There’s something else,” she whispered. “I just found it out two days ago.”

  Martin took another sip of beer and waited for her to continue.

  “This is the strangest thing,” she said slowly, “and I’m still trying to come to grips with it myself.” She paused and took another sip from her glass.

  Martin looked at her with real concern. “What is it?” he asked.

  “I found a document in the local church down at Hengemont that seems to indicate that I am related to the Hattons.” Since she had visited with Father Folan, Lizzie had acknowledged this fact only to Helen, who had already known more about it than she had.

  Her husband waited for her to continue.

  “It appears that George Hatton’s great-uncle was my great-grandfather,” she said quickly. “He fathered the child of a young parlor maid—she was my dad’s grandmother.”

  Martin looked stunned. “Does George Hatton know this?”

  “I don’t know,” she answered. “I don’t think so.”

  They sat in silence for several minutes as Lizzie gave Martin time to digest what she had said.