by Edith Layton
Annabelle held on tightly, for she knew that she would soon arrive at her destination, and wished to present as clean and neat an appearance as possible. This time, she would be a lady. She had the fine clothes Leonora had given her and a little money put by, enough to hire this private carriage and some left over, for she was very careful with it. The maid and the landlord at the inn last night might have scowled at their meager gratuities, but Annabelle was tight-fisted and never gave money when she didn’t absolutely have to. It was a wonder that the viscount had given her any at all, but Leonora had asked him to, and they had all been so relieved to see her go that it was done and she was gone before anyone had second thoughts.
There was, after all, no one who would dare bring charges against her from her past, and she knew, in the unconsciously clever way that she knew so much, that so long as she left quickly, she would be able to leave quickly. Silly asses, she thought, remembering those she had just left behind, and then, because she had left them behind, she forgot them, as she did all things that did not immediately concern her comforts.
She would go to the Baron McAllister, whose name and address was in the family bible, for she’d remembered it exactly from the moment the butler had read it to her last week before she’d left London. Perhaps because it was so uncluttered with symbols, her memory was faultless. There was no need to read, just as she’d always known, just as she’d told her parents when the village schoolmistress cast her out in anger, and after the tutor they engaged cast her out in tears. Not when one could remember so much and so easily. As it had been simplicity itself to repeat a page immediately after Leonora read it to her, it was nothing at all to remember the direction of the McAllisters.
She would announce that her maid had gotten ill, and she would tell them a tale about London relatives who had attempted to marry her off, for her expected legacy, to an evil, avaricious old marquess. Yes. Then she would tell them of her sadly orphaned state, and show them the family bible so that they could see that they were very distant relations of her mother’s. Yes. Then she’d tell them of the dear old lady she’d companioned, who’d died and left her all the money that would come to her on her thirtieth birthday, or her wedding day, whichever came first. Yes, that would do, she was tired of being a poor relation. And as it hadn’t been successful again, it might now be unlucky besides.
She looked down at her neat and elegant blue walking dress, and her fine little ice blue satin slippers, and then she paused with a frown. For she’d splashed through mud this morning when she’d entered the carriage and some had dried in a clot on her left slipper. A fine young lady would not countenance this, and since whenever Annabelle became something or someone, she became it completely, she rummaged in her portmanteau on the seat beside her, searching for something to wipe the mud off with.
She found a lace handkerchief and hesitated, for lace was dear, and she was frugal. She put it back and fished out an old shawl a moment later, but it was good wool, and had no holes and might last a while longer. Finally her fingers closed upon something familiar and she smiled. She’d used this before, a few times before, on this long journey to Scotland, and with any luck, there was enough left of it to use now, for it was worthless.
Annabelle pried off her slipper, and frowning with concentration, scrubbed away at the caked-on dirt with one of the last pliable leaves she’d torn from the soft-covered volume. It was of such a high cloth content that it was easy to work into a flexible rag. When she had done, she sighed with satisfaction and put her slipper back on. She lowered the coach window and just before she let the bit of crumpled paper blow away on the wet wind, she looked down at it. A familiar, sad, and great-eyed dark face gazed back at her.
Annabelle considered it and then, as spray from the window blew back in her face, she smiled. Silly cow, she thought, and let the paper go, to journey down the wind.
It blew away from the onrushing coach, and a rainy gust carried it down the road for a fair way. Then it settled in a gully left by the lead horse’s right hoof, and lay trembling half in the brown water. The dark angel wept ink tears for a moment, and then slipped slowly down into the mud. At the last, only the title that Annabelle could never read and that had found her out, remained above the ooze. And then the proud signature of Mr. Blake, and then the words “Book of Moonlight,” sank to become one with the road that the hired carriage hurried away from.
Author’s Note
In 1809, William Blake had an unsuccessful exhibition of his pictures at 28 Broad Street, in London. Between 1808 and 1809, he is also believed to have written two works, “BARRY: A POEM,” and “BOOK OF MOONLIGHT.” Both are now lost.
About the Author
Edith Layton has been writing since she was ten years old. She has worked as a freelance writer for newspapers and magazines, but has always been fascinated by English history, most particularly by the Regency period. She lives on Long Island with her physician husband and those of her three children who are not involved with intimidating institutions of higher learning. She collects antiques and large dogs.
