The Girl in the Lighthouse (Arrington)

by Roxane Tepfer Sanford

  Warren gave me his hand and helped me up; it was time to part ways. I had to return to my room before it was discovered that I was gone.

  “Will you keep writing?” I asked before I turned to go.

  “As long as each full moon, you come out to see me,” he said, in a voice just above a whisper.

  I smiled, and said, “Of course, Mr. Stone.”

  “Warren. Call me Warren, from this moment on.”

  I practically floated back to the mansion; it was almost as if it were all a dream. He was dashing and kind and he had lived for the day he would again see me. He had noticed I had matured, and he couldn’t help but to reach out and touch me. In his eyes, I saw his adoration, and I felt the same way. Warren gave me everything I had always wanted and longed for from Heath. Warren didn’t hold back his feelings and confessed that he spent every day with me in his thoughts.

  I didn’t want to fall asleep that night. I returned to my room and locked myself in. I was afraid I would wake to the light of a new day and realize it was all a wonderful dream, none of it real. I would be devastated. I tried to keep my heavy lids from closing; I fought sleep as long as I could, but finally, my tiredness won out and I drifted off.

  The morning didn’t bring the cruel reality to which I had come accustomed. Instead, I sat up and stretched and didn’t notice the barren walls and stale smell of my room. I didn’t care that I had the same breakfast every day and no one to wish me a good morning. I had my freedom back, and I’d had love fix my broken and battered heart. I woke that morning madly in love with Warren Stone, and I couldn’t wait to receive his next letter.

  Fortunately, I didn’t have to wait long. Hamilton managed to sneak one to me by early afternoon.

  “Thank you,” I said, and he returned my thankfulness with a smile.

  I jumped on the bed, anxious to read his letter.

  My Dearest Lillian,

  What has become of me I can barely describe in words, but I will try. The moment I saw you last evening made me realize how much I adore you. You are the reason that my heart beats; you are the reason I live. I live for only you, Lillian Arrington.

  Until we meet again under the light of the moon,

  Warren

  I was flabbergasted! I had received my very first love letter. It was mine to treasure, and I quickly put it away in the book where I kept all of his letters to me. I was so happy I couldn’t contain my smiles. All day I stayed locked away, but I wasn’t bored or miserable. I spent my waking hours thinking of him, seeing his handsome face before me. I fantasized about someday being his wife. We would run away together and live on a lighthouse station, the way Momma and Daddy had.

  With a renewed passion for life, that night, when all was settled, I found the courage to venture out of my room, to wander the long, shadowy halls. The love Warren gave me, just knowing he was near to help protect me, made me strong. I was willing to take more chances; I wanted to find all the secrets that lay behind the dozens of closed doors, down hidden passageways, and around dark corners.

  I silently stole out of my room into the dimly-lit corridor and made my way along the walls until I came to the first door across and checked the knob; it was locked. I went on, from one door to the next; all of them were locked. I enthusiastically continued, into another wing of the house. My steps were light, though the floor still creaked beneath me. I stopped, held my breath, and turned to look around. Still, I was safe, undetected. I wandered on, checking every door I passed; they, too, were all locked. I tried my key in each of them; it didn’t work.

  Then I found myself in the last wing, and as I walked in, a cold shiver went through me. I instinctively knew it was where Grandmother resided. I sensed her evil; it was all around. I didn’t want to be there. I became tense and afraid, so I slowly backed up, eased my way out of the corridor, and then I bumped into something—or someone. I gasped and held my breath, and slowly pivoted around, my mind scrambled with visions of the torture I would endure because of my escape. I was terrified until my eyes lifted to stare directly into Grandfather’s face.

  He wasn’t angry or filled with hatred. His blue eyes were old and tired; his expression soft and gentle. He wasn’t as frail as he looked when I occasionally caught a glimpse of him from my cloudy window. And he was walking, not in his wheelchair, though he did hold the side of the wall for support.

  “Why, Amelia, you should be in bed. What’s the matter? Did you have a bad dream?” he asked, placing his bony, ancient hand on my head. I had been holding in my breath and let it slowly out as he smiled down at me. He thought I was Momma! I went along with his confused state of mind. It came natural to me, as I had done it so many times with Momma.

  “Yes, Daddy, I did. But I feel better now; I will return to my room,” I said in a voice just above a whisper and eased past him. He shuffled around and waved as I hurried back to my room.

  When I was behind my own door and locked back away, I closed my eyes, and began to shake uncontrollably with sheer panic and excitement.

  I had done it; I had escaped, and though I was seen by Grandfather, I was elated. I had met my grandfather, and he wasn’t the monster I imagined he would be. He was just an elderly man, who I believed had loved Momma. I saw it in his eyes; I felt his adoration in the way his hand pressed softly on my head. But as much as I longed to become acquainted with him, I knew I had to be extremely cautious. There was a chance he would tell Grandmother that he had seen Amelia. Then my freedom could be at risk, and perhaps, my life. I wasn’t certain I wanted to play with such danger. Not yet. Patience was my greatest asset, something Daddy had told me long ago, and time was certainly on my side.

  Grandmother had no suspicions; she was unaware of my escape. Though at first I was petrified when she came in for her inspection that grandfather had revealed our encounter, I soon realized she knew nothing about it. She took notice of the room, as usual, made me stand at attention as her eyes scanned me up and down, though she had longed since stopped making me undress to uncover any baby that might have been growing inside of me after she found me hiding in Warren’s cabin.

  Each time I stood at attention, her eyes focused on me with such scrutiny, I was satisfied and delighted with my secrets, and she was completely unaware. She still believed I cried every day for Daddy, that I was dejected and glum and thought I had no purpose in life. If she was as assured as she pretended to be, if she had looked deep into my brilliant eyes, she would have seen the passion for life that burned within me. My eyes were there, right in front of her, to see and give it all away—my love for Warren, the hope that he would find Daddy, and the confidence that I would survive my imprisonment and return to the sea. But she was a coward, and never once looked at me, Lillian Arrington, the person. It was her greatest weakness; it was what would someday allow me to destroy Sutton Hall and have it come crumbling down around her.

  Though long letters were sent back and forth, it seemed forever until the moon shined high in the midnight blue sky and I could see Warren again. Abigail managed to steal away some paper, a quill, and an inkwell for me, and I spent hours writing to him. I confessed my affections for him, and although I was uncertain he would accept my undying love, I felt that it was safe to listen to my heart and believe in true love. After all, Momma had; she had run off with her one and only love. I wanted to be just as lucky. I hoped Warren wanted me as much as I wanted him.

  In his letters in return, he proclaimed his commitment to me, he pledged he would find Daddy, and he told me that my beautiful face filled every inch of his heart, however there was something missing in his words to me; he never once mentioned that he wanted to take me away and make me his wife. So after many letters, I decided to ask him, face to face, near the river, under the willow tree, by the light of the moon.

  As the giant mansion settled in for the long night, I made my way to the river, where I expected to see Warren waiting for me. I had spent hours brushing my long hair, thinking of seeing him again. I wore Momma’
s favorite dress and suspected I looked just as pretty as she had when she wore it. It was only a matter of time before Abigail had to let the dress out; I was now years older than Momma when she ran away. I was rapidly out growing all the dresses she left behind.

  I waited impatiently for Warren to appear, but as the night moved on, the clouds rolled in and covered the moon. It grew dark, and the wind kicked up, and the heavy rain began to fall. I huddled under the tree to keep dry, my eyes locked to the darkness. My hair that I had worked so hard to make pretty was wet and pasted against my head, and my clothes were drenched. When I had all but given up, shivering from the brisk winds, about to go back with a heavy, dejected heart, he appeared. He was hours late, and we didn’t have much time before sunrise.

  “I’m sorry I’m late, Lillian,” he said. He was as drenched as I, and the water from the rain spilled over and off his hat. I didn’t care why he was late and moved into him so we were merely inches apart.

  I expected him to sweep me up and bring me close; I wanted him to place his lips on mine and tell me he was there to take me far away. Instead, his face was somber; he was distraught and kept his hands to his side while the rain continued to fall.

  “What is it, Warren?” I finally asked, breaking the long, uncomfortable silence. It wasn’t the meeting I had anticipated; he didn’t greet meet with loving arms and tender kisses as I had fantasized in my mind all the weeks we were apart.

  Warren held his stare and his breath, until he could no longer contain the horrible news that sent me to the saturated ground with relentless, grief-stricken wails of anguish. Daddy was dead; he had drowned while rescuing a sinking fishing vessel.

  Warren came to me then, shielding me from the pellets of rain, and hushed me by caressing my dripping hair.

  “I am so sorry, Lillian,” he said, with unadulterated compassion. I let out angst-ridden moans and uncontrollable sobs, and there was little he could do to comfort me. Above us, the lightning lit up the threatening sky and sent bolts to the ground near to us.

  “Take me away, Warren,” I begged through my cries. “There is nothing for me now.”

  “Not just yet, Lillian. Please, be patient,” he said kneeled on the ground.

  I lifted my head, looked at him, and asked, “Why?”

  He wouldn’t answer me. Instead, he took my hand and brought me up, then said, “You need to get back.”

  I didn’t want to go, but I saw the urgency in his face. He thought it best to wait and not rush our escape. Warren pleaded with me to understand that we would be together, in time. He placed his lips on my wet cheek and tenderly kissed me, then pulled away and wandered through the rain and into the darkness, vanishing like a ghost.

  Devastated, I managed to get back to my room before sunrise. I was weak and emotionally exhausted, and wasn’t sure even Warren’s love could keep me from drowning in my own despair. I was sickened to think of how Daddy had suffered and died, the way so many sailors had before him. I hated imagining him struggling for air, fighting the enormous swells to keep above water. The vision I had of him washing up onto the shore aged me beyond my years. All the color I had gained, the newfound glow from Warren’s love, drained from me. I sat, empty and lifeless, on the bed, with no more tears left to shed.

  _______________

  Chapter Eighteen

  I didn’t tell Abigail that my daddy was dead, but she knew something was wrong when I didn’t bother to sit up and take the letter she snuck in.

  “What’s wrong with you?” she asked in a whisper. “This here letter is from Warren.”

  Not even Warren’s letter could get me to lift me head and face the day. She heard Grandmother coming and quickly shoved the letter in her skirt, then hurried to the plate on the floor.

  “What is this? Why is there still food left on her plate?” Grandmother demanded.

  Abigail didn’t know what to say.

  “Well, if she won’t eat her morning meal, she won’t get her evening meal—not only for tonight, but for the rest of the week,” she barked, then flew out.

  Abigail had no time to come to me, but I wasn’t concerned. I didn’t want to be bothered. I found my safe place by staring off into the distance again with glazed eyes. It was easy to fall back into a dark place in my mind; I had been there so many times before. It was familiar; it took away all of the pain I couldn’t face. There was no way for me to deal with Daddy’s death, other than shutting my mind off to the world. I wasn’t going to mourn him and move on; I was not going to allow grief or elation to ever touch me again. I was content to simply wither away like a dying flower.

  Day after day, for weeks, Abigail stole up, taking great chances to see me, begging me to tell her what was wrong. Even Hamilton tried to bring me back to my former happy state; he came and knelt down, as large as he was, and signed to me. I couldn’t bring myself to care, and I just looked through him. I continued to ignore Warren’s letters, and as much as my mind told me not to push him away, that he was the only man that had ever wanted me, my heart had nothing left to give.

  When Grandmother saw me so despondent and refusing to stand at attention when she entered the room, she grew furious. She called for Abigail and demanded to know what was wrong with me.

  “I don’t know, Mrs. Arrington. Maybe she is sick.”

  Grandmother peered closely at my face then said, “She is not sick. Get up, girl!” She took her cane and poked me in the ribs. I didn’t react, just stared out the window.

  “I said get up!” she commanded.

  Abigail covered her mouth as she watched Grandmother lift the cane high above her head. Just as she was about to strike my legs, there was a loud crash from outside my room. I was spared, as she hurried with Abigail out of my room. Then I heard Grandmother call for Hamilton.

  “It’s Thomas; he has fallen!” she yelled. Her cries caught my attention.

  There was so much commotion I couldn’t help but blink away my foggy trance. I rose up and looked to the door; it had been left open. It was the fact that I might never get to see my grandfather again that made me slide out of bed and go down the long hall to the grand staircase. I peeked around the corner to watch Grandmother cradle Grandfather’s head in her lap, sobbing like a child. Hamilton rushed in to take him from her and carried Grandfather out, while Abigail tried to help Grandmother off the floor.

  “Get off of me,” she barked. “I can do it myself.”

  She stood, adjusted her skirt, and placed her thick, wooden cane beside her as her head rose, high and dignified. She had broken down for only a moment, and pretended it had never happened as she pivoted and marched out to the carriage. Abigail retrieved a brush and bucket and began scrubbing Grandfather’s blood off the wood floor. He’d fallen down the stairs and smashed his head on the hard floor. I couldn’t imagine how he could possibly survive such a fall. They were rushing him to a doctor, and I was certain he would be dead by the time they arrived.

  Abigail was sobbing quietly, and she didn’t notice me when I came down and stood over her. I reached down and touched her shoulder then she lifted her head to look at me. Her eyes were filled with woe, her concern for him overwhelming.

  “He won’t make it,” she said as the tears streamed down her face.

  I didn’t understand why she was so distraught over a man who kept her for so many years as a slave. What was it about my grandfather that kept her weeping throughout the following days?

  Out my own sadness over Daddy’s death came compassion for Abigail. I saw my own melancholy through her, and it became apparent that I didn’t need to hold on to such a state of despair. Abigail didn’t lie down and want to waste away, longing for a man. She continued with her duties; she brushed her tears away when she came to bring me my meals, though I knew she was hurting inside. Grandmother screamed at Abigail every time she caught her with eyes full of tears. I heard her bellows all the way up to my room.

  “You wipe that pitiful look off your face, Abigail, before I take it o
ff for you! How dare you cry for him!”

  Grandmother’s ranting and raving continued through the week that Grandfather was gone, somewhere in a hospital, until the sweltering, late summer day came that he was sent home in a coffin, to be buried in the family cemetery at Sutton Hall. I was predictably kept locked away during the funeral. Grandmother gave me no moment to pay my respects to him. I could, from my window, see them all out there. Hundreds of people came to Sutton Hall, for he must have been a very well-known man, a prominent member of the community, and one of Georgia’s most highly praised plantation owners. There were carriages scattered everywhere and men and woman in formal black attire saying goodbye to Thomas Arrington. I wanted so very much to sneak down, to blend in with the crowd, but I hadn’t a proper dress to wear, and I would stand out.

  I stayed glued to my window all day; it was my way of feeling included. When the mourners left, just as night fell, I unlocked my door and crept down the back stairway and outside. It was my turn to say goodbye to Grandfather, and I stood over his fresh grave, closed my eyes, and bowed my head in respect. I thought about the moment, the only moment we met, the one night I stole out of my cell to see what was around every corner of Sutton Hall. I expected to find locked doors and perhaps even another secret passageway, but never thought I would have the good fortune to meet the man that obviously loved Momma, the man she called Daddy and probably worshipped as much as I had my own Daddy. And as Grandfather’s spirit soared into the heavens, mine lifted as well, the heavy suffering of my loss diminished. I was finally ready to end my grief-stricken days the way that Daddy taught me years ago, by filling my heart with things that made the sun rise each day, the birds sing, the sweet fragrances that filled the air, and the ardent love that inundated every part of me.

  Warren could no longer wait for my letters to come. Only a day after Grandfather’s burial, I was sleeping lightly when I sensed I was not alone and slowly lifted my lids. Warren stood beside my bed, holding a candle that gave his face a soft, warm glow. At first I believed he was a figment of my frequent dreams, but then he spoke in a faint voice, just loud enough to wake me.