The Girl in the Lighthouse (Arrington)

by Roxane Tepfer Sanford

  I flew out the bed and ran outside, where I heaved up the contents of my stomach. When that stopped, I fell to the ground and shook uncontrollably. I wept continuously, and didn’t stop when Warren came out. He knelt and covered me with a blanket then in a remorseful and ashamed voice, said, “Can you ever forgive me?”

  I refused to look at him, and pulled away when he went to stroke my hair. Then, his head hung low in disgrace, he went back inside. He left the door open for me.

  Because of that one, single, unspeakable moment, I no longer saw life the same. The sun didn’t shine as bright; the sky was no longer as brilliant and beautiful. The birds chirped and sang sweet songs in the trees, but when their music reached my ears, the sounds were lackluster. The scorching days of summer seemed more oppressive than ever, and when I went to the well to soothe my parched lips, I found no relief as my mouth and throat reminded tight and dry.

  In the days after Warren took my innocence, I stayed quiet. I went to the creek to wade in the water to stay cool while he was at work, and I couldn’t help but add my tears to it. I hated everything about myself. I was so unhappy. Every fantasy I had about finally becoming a woman had been proven a sham. I wasn’t humming a tune, and my face didn’t glow the way Momma’s used to after she and Daddy shared each other. I felt dirty and soiled, tainted for life. I swore I would never want to be with another man, ever. I cursed every curve in my body; I hated the large bosom I once felt fortunate to posses. My beauty was a personal burden. However, I might have to use it, just to gain the funds to leave Savannah for good. There was no way I could stay with Warren any longer. I wanted to go home.

  Warren didn’t expect me to cook or clean, and he prepared his own supper when he returned after a long day’s work. He still had it in his mind that we would go to Cape Cod to live happily ever after. I could see the shame in his green eyes, and he believed he could win my forgiveness by taking me to the sea, but I was devising a plan that would take me far away from him. I would seek out Richard and offer to be sketched—and paid. Then I would have the money for the long train ride home.

  When Saturday came, I expected Warren to make the ride into Savannah, but that day he said he had extra jobs to do and would put off going into the city until next week. I was crushed. I didn’t want to wait another day and decided to walk to Savannah myself. I could get there and back before he returned to the cabin. But it was sheer luck, I thought, that I got two miles, and up the road came Richard! He stopped the buggy as soon he saw me.

  “How good to see you, Lillian.” he said.

  “And you, too, Richard. What brings you out this way?” I asked, looking up at him.

  “My wife sent me to look at some land she wants to acquire. It’s a few miles from here.”

  “I was on my way to see you,” I told him, getting straight to the point. I couldn’t bear to let him see the anguish I harbored inside, and I prayed he wouldn’t be able to tell that I had unwillingly lost my innocence.

  “Is that so? What, may I ask, for?” he asked, his white teeth gleaming as he smiled.

  “How much will you pay to have my portrait put in your magazine?”

  Richard looked at me and his eyes sparkled with delight, then he said, “How much do you want?”

  “As much as a train ticket is worth.”

  Richard climbed down from his seat, and when he stood before me, he narrowed his eyes. “And why do you need money for a train ticket?”

  “I’m going back to Maine. My father has sent for me, but he has fallen on hard times and couldn’t send me the money.”

  His eyebrows rose, his face twisted with doubt. “I thought you lived with your father.”

  “No, Warren is a friend of the family. He was looking after me until Daddy got better. He has been sick for nearly three years. Now he is well enough to have me again.”

  “Warren has no money to see you off?”

  “Do we have a deal?” I asked, extending my hand, avoiding his question.

  “Well, certainly. I’m not going to miss such a chance,” he replied, and we shook on it.

  “Do you have the time now?”

  “Well, I suppose I have an hour or so. Good thing I always carry my sketch book and pencil with me,” he chuckled.

  “Can we do it here?” I asked. I didn’t want to take him to the cabin. There was no way I wanted him to see where Warren had me.

  “Certainly. Let’s go by the creek. I see a rock you can sit on; the light is just right.”

  He reached for his things, and we walked a few yards. I sat and waited while he studied me. Richard kept a keen eye on me as his hand flew over the once-blank page of his sketch book. He told me how to hold my head and which way to tilt it.

  “Pull your shoulders back,” he instructed. When I didn’t do it just the way he wanted, he whisked over and went to put his hands on me.

  “No, please don’t,” I said in a panic.

  Richard took a step back and frowned, but respected my wishes not to be touched. “Just pull them back about an inch,” he said.

  “Is this better?”

  “Yes, that’s perfect. Stay just like that.”

  He sketched my image with passion; drawing was his true obsession. After everything that had happened to me, my body and face were the last things I wanted anyone to observe, admire, and capture, but I knew I had to use it, if only for a day, to get what I needed—money. I cringed every time he muttered how stunning I was, and that it was an honor to create my likeness on paper. Richard didn’t notice, and when he was done, he rushed over to me.

  “Well, what do you think?”

  It was a work of art. His portrait made me look angelic and virtuous; nothing like what I felt on the inside.

  “It’s amazing,” I said, quickly brushing away a tear before he noticed.

  “A job well done, Lillian,” he said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out an Indian head gold dollar. “This is for your beauty. I’m leaving first thing tomorrow morning, to return to New York. If you can, travel with us, and I will pay your way home.”

  The offer was too good to be true. I had some money, and now Richard was going to cover the cost of my ticket home.

  “I will be there; thank you.”

  “No, thank you, Lillian. It has been an honor,” he said, taking my hand to place a gentlemanly kiss on it, but I abruptly pulled it back and hurried off.

  “Bye, Richard. I will see you tomorrow,” I called, running back to the one place I had to make peace with before I left Georgia.

  _______________

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Sutton Hall loomed ahead, but its ominous presence no longer frightened me. The house stood just as lifeless as the day I left, but it still possessed a menacing aura. The gardens of the plantation were even more overgrown, and thick, green vines had begun to overwhelm the exterior.

  As I approached, I stopped for a moment to catch my breath and reflect on the past. Not one good thing came from my days locked away. I was left with scars inside and out, wounds that would never completely heal. I was no longer the naive, innocent girl that believed in fairytales, the bond of family, and the promise of true love. I was a shattered version of the girl I once was.

  With a heavy heart, I made my way up the gallery and inside. Weather had entered the grand house and left mud and rain-soaked floors. There was evidence of wild animals living inside. Over the walls grew ugly black mold that made it difficult for me to breathe, but I wanted to take it all in and headed up the grand staircase and down to the room that kept me prisoner for as many days as was chalked on the wall. I knelt and counted each day I had been locked away.

  The mattress that I had cried into and bled onto was full of holes from some critter that needed a place to call its own. All that remained of the blood-soaked rags were old stains in the wood floors. On the floor beside the bed was the dress I had on when I found the photograph under the trunk in the attic. I lifted the dress and put my hand into the skirt pocke
t to pull out the photograph. It was badly damaged; water stains covered most of it, but I put it back in my pocket; just to have. I then opened the doors to the armoire and gazed at Momma’s dresses and picked up each of her books, the books that got me through the most lonely, isolated, and dreadful of days. Then as I reached for a particular book, I felt the key that had given me freedom. I recalled the first night I stole out and bumped into Grandfather. I would never forget his soft, kind eyes.

  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 put the pieces of the puzzle together. 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.”

  Flashbacks to 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 screa
med 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.

  Hattie 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.