Death of a Duchess

by Nellie H. Steele

  Questions raced through my mind as I rocked Samuel to sleep. My thoughts settled on a conversation overheard between my mother and an acquaintance days before she left me at the convent. I had always considered it my undoing, though I suppose the problem began long before that conversation.

  My mind wound through the memories of my sixth year on earth, the year that would change my life. In the spring before my sixth birthday, my father and mother spent an extensive amount of time shouting at each other. I did not understand the source of their argument. I only knew that their voices often passed through the walls of our home. I would listen to them after my bedtime, voices raised in an argument that would last for hours on some nights.

  During the summer, my father departed for India. As a doctor, he traveled for the Crown to provide medical care to British citizens living abroad. On the day of his departure, he sat me on his lap and told me of an exotic land where he would spend two years. “Why must you leave?” I questioned. “Why are you not taking Mum and me?”

  He stroked my hair. “It is very different there, Lenora. I shall go first and if it is suitable, I shall return for you and your mother,” he promised.

  After we concluded our talk, he set me down and proceeded to gather his belongings. My mother sobbed, begging him not to go. “Please,” she cried, “please do not leave.”

  “Helen,” he answered, grasping my mother’s shoulders, “pull yourself together.”

  “Please,” she whispered again, tears rolling down her cheeks.

  My father released his grip on her, pulled on his jacket and donned his hat. He grasped his traveling bag in his hand and exited into the outside air toward the waiting carriage. My mother raced after him.

  “Please, John!” she screamed after him. “You cannot leave me here! You cannot leave me with this child!”

  Without a word, my father climbed into the carriage. It pulled away as my mother stood weeping on our front walk. I followed her out. She bent over, grasping her thighs, gasping as sobs wracked her body. I put my hand on her back. “’Tis all right, Mum. Father will return for us. Until then, I am with you.”

  My mother groaned, glancing at me. She stalked into the house, leaving me alone in the front yard.

  After my father’s departure, my mother’s behavior took a bizarre turn. She roamed the house, her eyes glazed over, clutching her Bible. She mumbled to herself before locking herself in her room. With each passing day, Mother grew more despondent and fretful.

  As she served my breakfast one morning, she said, “Lenora, if anyone asks, you were born on 1 November. Do you understand?”

  “But why, Mum?” I queried, before spooning porridge into my mouth.

  My mother spun me to face her, dropping to her knees in front of me. “Listen and do what you are told, Lenora!”

  “But I was born on 31 October!” I insisted.

  “Stop this nonsense, Lenora. From this day forward, you were born on 1 November and not a moment sooner. Now, do you understand?”

  I nodded, not understanding but not willing to disturb my mother further. I rarely experienced a warm moment with her, but I still loved her. And I tried to be an obedient child. I came to realize my birthday suggested some defect in my character. I did not understand what deficiency existed, but my mother considered it wicked for some reason. When I was grown, of course, I realized the lore surrounding the day, but as a child of five, I reacted by working to please my mother.

  On several occasions, she would lock me in my room. From my window, I would spy her leaving the house. She would return several hours later and conduct bizarre undertakings. After one of her trips, she insisted on serving only white foods to me. This lasted for two weeks before she, again, left for the day after locking me in my room.

  After the second trip, she told me she had “special plans” for us, that we were to play a special game. She instructed me to tell no one of the details or else we would not be able to play. After I promised to never tell a soul, she led me to our small library. The curtains were drawn, plunging the room into darkness despite the days’ waning light. The area rug had been rolled back. Strange chalk markings decorated the floorboards. A ring of saltpeter was positioned in the center of the room. Candles rimmed the saltpeter ring.

  The scene frightened me. I clutched my mother’s hand, glancing to her for reassurance. She pulled her hand from mine. “Get inside the ring,” she instructed. “Lie down and do not move from inside until I instruct you to. Do you understand?”

  I nodded. I climbed inside the ring, careful not to disturb the salt or candles. I laid back, staring at the ceiling. My mother consulted several sheets of paper. She stretched her arms over me and repeated some incantation in a language unfamiliar to me. Her voice raised, she continued shouting.

  She glanced down at me. I shook with fear, not understanding the meaning of the ceremony. She shouted again the strange words, her voice raising to a fever pitch. She stared down at me again, her eyes wide. The expression on her face frightened me more than the strange ritual. Raw panic shone in her eyes. Her face twitched and her mouth contorted into an odd shape.

  “Mum?” I whispered.

  The small sound caused her to descend further into her frenzy. She climbed on top of me, straddling me with her legs. She raised a candle toward the heavens, shrieking strange words before she began to shout, “DEVIL, LEAVE THIS CHILD!” over and over.

  The hot wax began to drip on me as her frenetic rantings continued. I squealed in torment as the hot wax scalded me. Tears ran down my cheeks and I begged for my mother to stop.

  I managed to wriggle free from under her. I crawled from the circle, gaining my feet as I reached the door. I clutched the doorjamb as my mother stared at me. “You are an evil child,” she growled at me. “I shall stop you!” she screamed as I ran.

  I sprinted to my room and crawled under my bedcovers. I clung to the sheets, weeping until I fell asleep.

  The next morning, my mother ignored the incident. I found the library restored as though nothing had happened. I began to wonder if I had imagined or dreamed the entire incident. Life returned to a semblance of normal for several weeks.

  As the leaves began to turn to fall colors, however, my mother locked me in my room and disappeared for hours. When she returned home, she fed me a meager supper of water and white bread. After, she lured me into the yard behind our home, telling me we would spend the night gazing at the stars.

  A large oak tree stood several feet from our home. My mother led me there and stood me against it. “Do not move,” Mother instructed.

  “Will not the leaves block the stars?” I questioned.

  “Hush, Lenora,” Mother warned. She reached and grasped an object from the ground nearby. As she approached me, I noted she carried a thick rope. “Put your arms at your sides and do not move.”

  She disappeared around the tree. When she reappeared, she pulled the rope with her. She wrapped it around me, pinning me to the tree. “Ouch!” I complained. “Mum, this hurts!”

  “Hush, Lenora!” she shouted. She secured the rope, testing its tautness. Satisfied, she glanced to the full moon rising overhead. She returned her gaze to me and, with a smirk, she spun on her heel and returned to the house.

  “Mum!” I called after her. “Mum!” She continued walking as though she never heard my pleas. I wriggled in my bonds but found myself unable to move. In the distance, an owl hooted, lending an eerie tone to the quiet night.

  As the night wore on, I wept. In a panic, I thrashed around, earning myself only brush burns as the taut rope tore at my flesh.

  My mother returned for me at the break of dawn. My head lolled as I dozed from exhaustion. I snapped my head up and my eyes open as I sensed movement. My mother carried a large knife. She clutched it in her fist, staring at me for a moment. A tear spilled down my cheek.

  “Mum?” I questioned, my voice hoarse.

  She tightened her grip on the knife, then moved to my side. She sawed th
rough the rope and I collapsed to the ground in a heap. Weary, I did not move. My eyes followed my mother as she stalked away from me. “Come in when you are able,” she muttered, leaving me sprawled on the grass.

  I fell asleep there, dragging myself into the house only after the lunch hour. I longed for my father to return. Perhaps that would correct Mother’s odd behavior.

  The only comfort I gained was from the arrival of my maternal grandfather one week after Mother tied me to the oak tree. I hoped his presence would settle Mother. Another three weeks passed without incident before the ill-fated tea with the woman whose name escaped me.

  I recalled the woman arriving for tea. I played nearby with a doll gifted to me by the woman upon her arrival. My grandfather hovered over me as I played, teaching me a new game.

  My mother served tea, chatting with the woman. After a time, the conversation turned to me. “How much longer will John be away?” the woman inquired of my father.

  “Oh, until next summer,” Mother answered. “His last letter noted the beauty of India.”

  “Does he plan to move you there?”

  “Oh, I certainly hope not!” Mother exclaimed.

  “Quite right,” the woman agreed. “The environment is far better here for raising a child. And Lenora will make a better match here than there when the time comes.” My mother offered a brief smile, staring into her teacup. The woman continued. “I realize it seems far off, but her eligibility to marry will arrive before you know it!”

  “Hmm,” my mother responded.

  “She seems a lovely enough child, Helen,” the woman said, glancing to me. “Very pretty. She can make an excellent match.”

  My mother’s eyes slid sideways to glance at me for the briefest moment. “Oh, yes,” she murmured before trying to change the subject.

  The women persisted in her inquiry. “Is not her birthday soon? Turning six?”

  My mother waved her hand in the air as to dismiss the comment. “Yes, yes, a few days, give or take,” she responded evasively.

  “All Hallows’ Eve, isn’t it?” the woman pressed.

  “No!” Mother responded; her voice raised.

  The woman’s brow crinkled. “My apologies, Helen,” she said. “I thought…”

  “No, no, no,” my mother interrupted. “No, quite wrong. I went into labor on All Hallows’ Eve. Oh, I did panic! But Lenora was not born until 1 November. All Saints Day!”

  “Ah, I see. My apologies. Not that it makes any matter, though Eleanor told me the child was born on All Hallows’ Eve. You should correct her. She is spreading some rather nasty rumors about the girl. And all based on her incorrect birthday.”

  My mother set her mouth in a grim line. “Yes, I am aware of the falsehoods Eleanor whispers behind my back. She is quite mixed up! It was a difficult birth, and I was in labor for quite a long time. But I assure you, Lenora’s birth occurred on 1 November, mid-morning, in fact. After all, I was present!” My mother offered a nervous chuckle. “Oh, how I wish John was here to confirm this. I grow tired of defending myself!”

  I stared at the women as they spoke, recalling the conversation with my mother. If asked, I should clearly tell the woman I was born on 1 November. Then Mother would be proud of me. Perhaps then she would cease her odd and frightening behavior. I waited for my opportunity. My grandfather’s hand rested on my shoulder. I glanced up at him, a smile on my face. Grandfather would be proud, too. I would obey my mother, and this would please both of them.

  “Even the child herself will tell you! She knows her birthday! Lenora, come,” Mother called.

  I stayed seated for a moment. My grandfather’s hand still rested on my shoulder. He leaned forward and whispered in my ear. I crinkled my brow and glanced to him. He nodded in encouragement. I swallowed hard.

  “Lenora!” Mother said again, impatience showing in her voice.

  I rose and approached the table. “Tell the nice woman your birthday, dear,” Mother instructed.

  I stood straight, my hands clasped in front of me. I took a deep breath and said, “31 October.”

  My mother’s eyes went wide. “Lenora! What have I told you about lying? Nice little girls do not lie. Now, tell the truth. When is your birthday?” My mother smiled nervously at the woman across from her.

  I bit my lower lip. I glanced back to my grandfather, who nodded at me again. I turned to face my mother and her guest. “31 October,” I repeated.

  The comment vexed my mother. She drew her mouth into a thin line, her jaw set. “The child is confused. She overheard our conversation,” my mother said as an excuse. “You realize how silly children can be.”

  “I am not lying,” I insisted. “And I am not confused. Grandfather Murray said I should tell the truth. Never lie about who you are, Lenora, he said to me.”

  The woman’s face expressed utter confusion. My mother’s face reddened with fury. I did not understand her anger, though I detected it. “Go to your room!” she shouted.

  Confused, I ran to the top of the stairs but did not proceed to my room. I slumped to the floor behind the banister, peering over into the foyer below. I overheard my grandfather speaking before he ascended the stairs to comfort me.

  “You did nothing wrong, child,” he told me.

  Voices from below drew my attention before I could respond. “… should be going.”

  “Oh, please, stay. Do not allow the child to ruin our tea!” my mother said, chasing after the woman who appeared in the foyer below.

  “Oh, Helen, I am sorry, but I must go.”

  “The girl is merely playing a game. You know children!”

  The woman placed her hand on my mother’s arm and shook her head. “Take care, Helen.” She stepped toward the door, turning back before exiting. Her hand lingered on the doorknob. “I hadn’t realized your father was still alive. I thought he passed years ago, before Lenora was born. I am so pleased to hear he is well and taking an interest in Lenora. Goodbye, Helen.”

  The women exited, pulling the door closed behind her. My mother leaned against the door, her forehead resting against the door jamb. Her shoulders slumped, and she pounded against the door with her fists.

  After a moment, she whipped around, glaring up the steps. She spotted me peeking between the banister’s spindles. Her face twisted and contorted as she thundered up the stairs. “You wicked brat!” she screamed at me.

  My grandfather stepped in front of me, shielding me from her fury. “Do not blame the child, Helen!” he pleaded with her.

  She stormed toward me, passing through him as though he was only air. I scurried backward on my rear. “Grandfather told me to tell the truth!” I cried.

  “No more, Lenora! Stop this talk!” she screamed. I backed to the wall where I was pinned. She continued toward me. I attempted to dart to the side to escape down the hall. She grasped my ankles, dragging me back. Her hands pounded against me, striking multiple blows to my legs and back. “You are a devil child! Your lies have cost me more than I can calculate! First your father and now my friends! You little demon! No more!”

  I squealed with sobs. “I am not lying. Grandfather is right there!” I shrieked. “Please, Mum! He’s begging you to stop and listen to him.”

  My comments further incensed my mother. She grasped hold of me, carrying me like a sack of wheat. She tossed me into my room and slammed the door shut. I heard the lock engage before her footsteps retreated down the hall.

  I collapsed on the floor, still sobbing. My grandfather stroked my hair as I laid there in tears. “Poor child,” he whispered. “There, there, Lenora.”

  I grasped his hand in mine, squeezing it. He tugged on it and I rose from my position on the floor. He led me to my bed, and I climbed onto it, cuddling into my pillow for comfort. I fell asleep there, only waking hours later after the sun had set.

  I glanced around, finding myself alone. I rubbed my sore eyes and climbed from my bed. Outside, the moon already rose overhead. I shuddered, reminded of my experience th
e month prior. I wandered to my door, turning the knob. I discovered the door remained locked.

  With a sigh, I trudged to my small trinket box and retrieved a hairpin. After months of being locked in my room regularly, I had found a means of escape. On several previous occasions, I had witnessed my mother use her hairpin to open my father’s liquor cabinet. I tried the technique on my door lock, finding it worked there too. My delight over my success caused me to clap my hands as I bobbed on my toes.

  I used my trick to unlock my door. As I stepped into the hallway, I found the house dark. Mother must be in her bedroom, I concluded. I traversed the hallway, arriving at my mother’s room. The door was ajar, but the room was dark. I pushed it open, stepping inside. “Mum?” I called softly.

  I received no response. “Mum?” I questioned again. In the dim light, I made out a lump on the bed. I crept forward and stretched my arm out to touch her shoulder. “Mum?”

  She jolted when my fingers grasped her. “Go away, Lenora,” she groaned. Her voice was raspy, thick with phlegm from weeping.

  I pressed on, despite her cold response. “Are you hungry, Mum? I can fetch some bread for you.”

  “No.”

  “I am sorry, Mum. I only wanted to tell the truth. I did not mean to upset you. I shan’t do it again,” I promised.

  “Go AWAY, Lenora!” my mother said, raising her voice.

  I swallowed hard, choking back my tears. I backed from the room. The moment I cleared the door, I spun and raced back to my room. I threw myself on my bed and wept. My mother remained angry with me. I was a terrible child who had disappointed my mother. I deserved to be punished.

  After half of an hour, I quieted and lay staring out the window. My stomach growled with hunger, though I did not seek food. I fell asleep after a time despite my hunger, exhaustion overcoming me.