I made my way down to the river and sat watching the herons and pelicans walk along the marsh area. The scenery was so different from Jasper Island. I missed the enormous whalers out on the sea, I missed the seagulls hovering above the beach, and I longed to hear the waves crashing against the rocks of the island. I craved the smell of salt air and the cool ocean breezes. I pulled my legs up against my chest, closed my eyes, and envisioned the tall lighthouse again. I could almost see Daddy up there in my mind; cleaning the Fresnel lens and oiling and winding the clockworks. I pictured Heath and Ayden and baby Elizabeth. I imagined they had acquired a healthy summer glow, unlike the sickly, pale, prisoner’s white that covered my face like a veil. It saddened me to think of them, to imagine all I was missing, and to see how much had been taken from me.
Afterwards, I realized, as I lay on the warm ground and began to cry, that I was more fortunate than Abigail. After all, Heath, Ayden, and Elizabeth were alive; I hadn’t lost them for good. Someday, when life turned good for me, there would be a day when the door to my prison would be permanently unlocked and I could leave the place where the devil lived and return to Jasper Island. With any luck, I would get there before Edward and Opal moved away to take Elizabeth to the school for the deaf. But if indeed they were gone, I would stay on as lighthouse keeper, just as Daddy said I could someday.
It felt good to have a plan; it gave me something to hold on to and think about in my most wearisome times. I knew better days were ahead of me, though my life had turned into a cruel joke, and I no longer believed there was a God. Maybe Grandmother was correct; maybe I was full of sin and it was all because I didn’t want to believe God could leave me so desolate and wretched. From everything Momma had taught me, as far back as I could remember, we were all God’s children, and if we prayed hard enough and were good servants to him, all of our prayers would be answered. None of mine had ever been answered. I had been good; I lived according to the Ten Commandments. Was it because I loved Heath and longed for Warren to desire me that God, if he indeed existed, had turned his back on me and believed I was the devil’s spawn? I wasn’t sure, and there was no one, no minister to guide me through my troubles and doubts about God and myself.
With a weary heart, as the day spilled into another sweltering evening, I returned to the mansion. I was just turning the corner when Abigail ran over, her hands flailing over her head in a panic.
“Miss Lillian, hurry,” she said, out of breath, taking my hand and pulling me through a back door into the mansion to a dark, mysterious stairway.
“Abigail, what is it?”
“Mrs. Arrington. She’s come home early. You need to get back to your room.”
We ran up the narrow stairway and threw open a door to the second floor. We hurried down the hall and got to my room just before we heard voices down below.
“Who is here?” I asked as she began to close the door.
“She brought back Mr. Arrington.”
“My grandfather?” I asked, shocked. I thought he was dead.
“He’s been sick in the hospital. He’s home now, and I have to be tending to him.” Abigail scurried off, and I ran to the door and put my ear up against it to hear what was going on. However, the mahogany door was thick, and I couldn’t hear a sound. All the months I had been locked away, I had no idea my grandfather was alive and returning to Sutton Hall.
As I sat back on the bed, I thought about what he might look like and if he was anything at all like Grandmother. Maybe he was a kind old man, and once he found out I was kept locked away, he would demand my freedom. With rekindled hope, I got up, went to the armoire, and took out the brush and mirror Abigail had given me. I pulled off my bonnet, and with the mirror in one hand and the brush in the other, tried to fix my hair so that when Grandfather came up to see me, I would look my best. My hair had grown back to the top of my shoulders, but the ends were dull and uneven. I did the best I could; I brushed one hundred strokes, then sat up and waited for the door to be unlocked. I kept my eyes on the door knob, waiting to see any sign of movement. But as the hours passed, and light no longer seeped through the cracks of the shutters, I fell onto the bed and sighed heavily. The room was dark; the one candle I had was burnt down to the wick. The only time considerable light came into the room was when someone walked along the corridor carrying a lamp. On that night, no one came, not even to bring me supper.
When I woke the next day, there was a plate on the floor with my one hard boiled egg and a glass of water. I went to rise from bed to retrieve the plate, when I doubled over in pain from a stomach cramp, and felt wetness trickle down my leg. I lifted my dress to see my legs covered in blood. I couldn’t see where it all was coming from, and I began to panic. I went to the door and peeked through the keyhole, then yelled for help.
“Please, someone; I’m bleeding!” I screamed. “Abigail? Someone!”
Before long, a key was shoved into the lock and I stepped back. It was Grandmother.
“What is going on? Why are you screaming?” she demanded. I was filled with so much terror that I couldn’t speak. In the dimness of the room I stood, so frightened of her I couldn’t move. She stepped in and saw the blood then she stormed inside and slammed the door.
“Don’t you see what this is?” she said in a tone that made me tremble. When I didn’t answer, she lifted my dress and pointed, then said, “You are bleeding from the place where babies come. Now, for certain, if any man touches you or kisses you, you will grow a baby inside your stomach and when it is ready to be born, you will lay on the bed in anguish and die before it comes out.”
Just the thought of what she said made me sick, and I ran to the chamber pot with dry heaves.
“Abigail will bring up rags for you so you don’t stain the floors,” she spat, then took her lamp and left. I was confused and terrified; I didn’t understand what she meant. She didn’t explain why I was bleeding, when or if it would ever stop, or what it had to do with having babies. I only knew that a man, with even the slightest touch, could put a baby in me. Daddy had touched Momma, and she never had a baby after me. I fell to the floor and bawled, afraid and perplexed, and wanting more than anything not to have the burden of shame that womanhood put upon me.
Abigail found me on the hard floor, lifted me, and handed me the rags to put between my legs to keep the blood soaked up.
“It’s going to be fine. Only few days, and it will pass,” she said as I sat up, then she hurried out as Grandmother hollered for her return.
I used the rags to stop the mess then pulled myself onto the bed. I wasn’t able to eat and could only lie still and moan over the terrible cramps that plagued my stomach area. The pain lasted and I used rags for five days. I realized in the weeks ahead that it would happen again, every month. I didn’t understand why, but it was just another burden, one of the many dreadful things that became commonplace while I was at Sutton Hall.
My days and nights were endless, with no light or meaning or prospect of a better day. Grandfather never once came to see me; he didn’t appear at my door to save me and hand me my freedom. He was obviously as evil as Grandmother and wanted me locked away from the world. I wondered how two such vile people could have created or even known Momma. She was kind and sweet and didn’t have a mean bone in her body. She wasn’t dark and unsightly like Grandmother. In fact, she resembled her not at all. When I first arrived at Sutton Hall, I was ready to put the pieces of my family’s history together, thinking that somehow, the walls of the ominous mansion would speak to me and reveal all the secrets and tales of years past. I would find out why Momma had run away, how she met Daddy, and why Grandmother felt driven to take me in, only to keep me locked away forever.
Then, as the summer melted into fall, then winter, I finally surrendered in defeat to my horrifying destiny, and made a discovery so unexpected and urgent it altered everything about my existence and gave me a small piece of my life back—only to be shattered all over again.
_______________
Chapter Seventeen
A wicked hurricane blew through the eastern coast line and gave me the gift of light. The brutal winds blew off one of the shutters, allowing sunlight to fill my once-dark room. I could now look out the windows and gaze down below to see the comings and goings of Sutton Hall. Although I still had no fresh air because the window was sealed shut, I had enough sunlight to brighten even my worst days. I could see into the armoire once again and pull out the books that I had put back inside the day before I ran away.
After taking out the dresses and placing them, one by one, on the bed to get a better look inside the armoire and see if I had missed any books, I noticed something brassy sticking out of the corner, partially hidden by a book. I reached all the way in and pulled out the book to reveal a key. At first, I presumed it was a key to the wardrobe, but when I tried to put it in the key hole, it wouldn’t fit. It wasn’t nearly the right size. Slowly, I turned to the bedroom door. My hands shaking, in slow motion, I placed it in the keyhole, and to my elation, it fit! I quickly snatched it back out and placed it in my pocket so it wouldn’t be discovered. I had a way out, but I feared the same thing would happen—I would run, be found, and be mercilessly beaten. I didn’t want to go through that again. Undecided about what to do, I put the key back in the armoire.
Grandmother hated that I could see out, but only grumbled that her inheritance was taking longer than expected, and she couldn’t afford to replace the shutter. She only entered my room on rare occasions—to inspect my cell and make certain I wasn’t up to no good or planning another escape. When she strolled around the room, I wondered how she had forgotten to look in the armoire. She had gone as far as looking up into the chimney, only to have soot fall and cover her face. I contained my amusement, afraid of her wrath, and she stormed out, screaming for Abigail to get up to the room and sweep up the mess.
Abigail had been an infrequent visitor in the many months after Grandfather returned. She was busy tending his needs, she told me once. He was wheelchair-bound, sick, and frail, and Grandmother had endless tasks for her outside of her everyday household duties.
The last time Abigail had been up to my room was to give me more rags for my monthly curse. This time, she was much more rushed, and I didn’t expect her to have a moment to stop and look at me after she had swept, let alone hand me a piece of paper before she flew back out. With great curiosity, I opened the folded piece of paper, and as I read the letter, fell onto the bed and began to sob, not out of sadness, but out of pure happiness. It was from Warren! It was brief and rushed, but it told me everything I needed to know. He was alive and well, and he was working on finding Daddy. I brought the letter to my heart and smiled and breathed a heavy sigh of relief. For the first time in my whole life, I actually felt lucky. I would have never guessed Warren’s life could be spared, that Grandmother, the devil herself, didn’t have the power to destroy the man who, once again, was coming to my rescue. Only this time we were going to be careful not to get caught. Warren had found a way to get correspondence to me through Abigail. I didn’t know how or why and didn’t need an explanation. I was happy to know I had Warren on my side, along with Abigail and Hamilton. A first step had been made to contact Daddy and fill him in on the details of my imprisonment.
Once he found out, Daddy would not waste another minute; he would board the first train he could. I began to imagine possibilities for why Daddy hadn’t come for me. He must have been hurt or sick, and Warren would track him down, contact every hospital to see if he was in their care.
I hid the letter in one of the books, and stood and gazed out the hazy window of my room. Warren was near, maybe even watching me from somewhere in the woods. I tried to see if there was any sign of him, but it was difficult to make out anything with great clarity.
I wasn’t able to sleep a wink that night. All I thought about was that I had a key to leave my room any time I thought it safe, and there was a man who would put his own life on the line for me. I recalled our last moments together. I thought about how we laughed and how close we sat on his bed. I had developed so much more since he last saw me; I had officially become a woman. And with that burden I hated, came the ability for me to win any man’s heart. I was as curvy and voluptuous as Momma had been, though I knew that could also be dangerous. I still feared what Grandmother said, and worried that if and when Warren and I met again, something terrible would happen if he touched me. I would keep my distance from him; he could not touch me again, even if it was a moment of innocence.
Letters from Warren came at least one a week. Mostly they were delivered under my door sometime during the night, when Abigail had a moment to sneak up to my room—a total of eight letters, all of them telling me he thought of me every waking minute and missed my lovely face. He vaguely described his search for Daddy’s whereabouts, but he was having no luck. He wrote for me not to worry, that he was not giving up. I was anxious to meet him face to face and wrote that I had a key to escape my room and asked him to meet me by the river at the first light of the moon, exactly two days from receipt of my response. I used the chalk to write back. When I knew Hamilton was to empty my chamber pot, I left the note near it. I watched him come in, see it, then put it in his pocket without looking my way. When he returned after a short while, he signed Abigail’s name with his fingers, then left.
It was all coming together for me, and I finally had a reason to wake each morning. Not only was I happy inside, I was outside, as well. My hair had grown back to reach just past my bosom and the dull sunlight that penetrated my prison was just enough to bring back the color to my once-pale face. Though I was severely underweight, I was the healthiest I had been in almost a year.
Abigail came to see me just before I snuck out to the river.
“You need to be careful. Mrs. Arrington is still awake. I don’t like this,” she whispered, helping me button up my skirt.
“I will be fine,” I said, giving her a quick peck on the cheek, and placing my hand in my pocket to confirm the key was there. I crept along the shadows of the wall until I made my way to the back stairway. It wasn’t long before I was outside, under the light of the early summer moon, making my way to the river to meet Warren. I hurried with soft steps through the woods, past the slave cemetery, and to the edge of the river, where I spotted him peering out around a thick, mature willow tree.
I hurried to him and wanted more than anything to throw my arms around him, but I was still afraid of what Grandmother had instilled in me. Instead, I stayed a step back as he appeared before me.
“Lillian, is that really you?” he said, staring closely at me.
“Of course it is,” I said.
He reached out to touch my cheek, but I pulled back. “You look different,” he said. “You have grown so much.”
I blushed, though I knew he couldn’t see. “Thank you for coming to see me,” I said as he led me to a spot under the tree where we could sit and talk.
“Nothing could keep me away. Tell me, Lillian. Tell me all that has happened since you were taken from me.”
His eyes were troubled, and again, he reached out to me. My mind told me to resist his touch, but my heart told me to allow it. I didn’t pull away when he reached for my hand and placed it in his. I began my story from the moment I looked back and saw him lying in a pool of blood and believed him dead, to the day I found the key in Momma’s armoire. He was fascinated and distressed—his eyes full of tears.
“But I am all right now,” I said, reassuring him.
Warren had already written in his letters that a friend had come by to see him and found him half-dead from a stab wound to his stomach. He had been taken to the hospital in Savannah, and it took him months to recover.
Then, when he was well enough to make his way to Sutton Hall, he had confronted Grandmother. She told him I was long gone, that Daddy had come for me, and I was far away. She warned him never to step foot on her plantation again. That’s all he revealed in his letters, and it
was under the moon and stars that he explained how he learned I was still locked away.
“I was crushed when I learned you had gone back to Maine. It wasn’t because you were happy and where you belonged, but because I knew I would never see you again. You kept me from dying, Lillian,” he confessed, then he took a long breath, looked out onto the river that glistened with brilliant moonbeams, and continued. “I was in Savannah when Hamilton spotted me. He was waiting for your grandmother beside the carriage, and as I walked past, he grabbed hold of me. I thought he was going to strike me, and I went to defend myself, but something in his eyes told me to hold my punch. He released me, brought his hands up, and began to move them. I was perplexed until I remembered you telling me about Elizabeth and teaching her sign language. Hamilton was trying to spell something.”
I was mesmerized by his story. He told it with such fervor, it was as if I were really there when it happened. Warren brought his hand up and repeated the hand signs. It spelled “Lillian.”
“I asked if you were still here, in the mansion, and he nodded. I was grateful, as selfish as it was, to know I had a chance to see you again. I arranged to have a letter delivered, and Abigail met me in the woods.”
It was all so fortunate in many ways. Out of so much despair, torture, and pain, we were brought together. Neither of us had known the other was alive and longing to be reunited. I had believed Warren killed, and he was convinced that Daddy had come and taken me home. Neither was true. I asked him if he had word about Daddy, if he had found what lighthouse station he was keeping.
“No word yet, Lillian, but I am trying. Please be patient,” he said, squeezing my hand. His eyes were earnest. He was trying his hardest.
“I will be. I suppose there is nothing but time,” I sighed, looking down to hide my disappointment.
There was a long silence between us. We had divulged most everything that had occurred over the bitter, long year, and now we were emotionally exhausted.
The Girl in the Lighthouse (Arrington) Page 20
