The Story She Left Behind

Chapter 33 Clara

CHAPTER 33? CLARA

Lake District, England

I sat at the desk overlooking the lake and continued copying over Mother’s remaining words and definitions in alphabetical order. A light rain arrived, and it pattered on the window. Outside, on the land that Charlie had told me was a working farm, a herd of sheep nestled against a stone wall, keeping the slanting rain from hitting them, clever little things. I thought of how we protected ourselves, whether from rain or pain, of how these words had been with Mother since she was five years old and how they might be the only thing that never abandoned her and that she never abandoned.

I was alphabetizing them with a need to keep my mind and hands busy, a desire to make order of disorder. This action, simple and consuming, prevented me from thinking about what might be going on downstairs with the Jameson family, about secrets Callum Jameson took to his grave, and about Charlie.

I thought of the woman Brian Davis thought he knew, one who was different from the wife and mother Dad and I knew. Maybe the woman Brian Davis described—the one with the mad affairs and self-destructive drinking and running—was who Mom really was. Would she truly be another man’s mistress and leave behind everything that appeared to matter the most to her? I needed someone to talk to—to untangle this whole mess along with the feelings that were flooding me every time Charlie came near.

Only Lilia knew me well enough to hear all of this.

Abandoning the task at hand, I pulled out a piece of stationery with the Jameson family crest on it and started a letter to Lilia.

My Dearest Lilia,

I wish you were here with me. I’d love for you to see this land that looks oddly like the one I paint in my pictures. It seems a land carved of streams and filled with lakes, a land of light and shadow. This family has something to do with Mother, and I can’t see how just yet. I miss you terribly and I wish you were here to help me unravel the mystery.

I sat back and remembered playing Nancy Drew with Lilia, creating mysteries while we left each other notes around the house and garden. How lovely it would have been to bring her here.

I was putting pen back to paper when the door flew open.

“Mama!” I held out my arms and Wynnie rushed into them. Moira stood in the doorway.

“I have such a good game to teach you,” Wynnie told me.

“I can’t wait.”

I looked to Moira. “Thank you so much for helping with Wynnie. I’m sure I’ll be back to full steam by tomorrow.”

“It is my pleasure. She is a delight.” Moira smiled. “May I bring you both up some tea or would you like to join us downstairs?”

“I think we’ll stay right here,” I told her. “I think some tea and a nap are in order, right, Wynnie?”

Wynnie eyed me because tea and a nap were not for her, but she knew my looks and she nodded in agreement. Moira bowed out and shut the door.

“What a family,” I said to Wynnie.

“Mama, they are so nice! Can we please stay a long while?”

“Most assuredly not,” I said in a very bad British accent.

The afternoon passed lazily as Wynnie and I stayed in our room and devoured the tea and biscuits, the scones and clotted cream and raspberry jam. She read Swallows and Amazons as I continued to copy over Mother’s words and definitions in alphabetical order until my head was woozy with sleep. Wynnie then regaled me with tales of the beautiful land outside, the mythical hedgehog, and the names of trees and birds that Charlie had taught her. I told her she must show me everything, all of it, tomorrow.

“Mum?” a deep voice called out just as Charlie, Mrs. Jameson, Wynnie, and I sat at the gleaming mahogany table in the dining room for dinner. Bone china plates edged in pink roses were set at each place, along with sterling silver flatware with the same crest I’d seen on the doorway the night we’d arrived, and milky-colored linen napkins pressed flat and crisp.

In the doorway stood a man who looked a bit like Charlie, but taller, a shaved face and hair tamed by hair gel and comb instead of Charlie’s curly mop of hair. He entered the room in his three-piece suit and tartan ascot, Adelaide next to him, her long hair falling over her sweater sewn with tiny rosebuds.

Archie approached me and held out his hand. “Well, you must be the mystery woman whose luggage needed retrieving.”

Charlie stood and greeted his brother with a warm hug. “Hello, Archie. Please meet Clara and her daughter, Wynnie.”

I stood to face Archie. “Hello. Nice to meet you. I’m very grateful for your kindness in bringing our belongings here.”

“And this is my wife, Adelaide,” he said.

“We’ve already had the pleasure,” I told him, and smiled at Adelaide and then asked Archie, “Is the fog clearing?”

“Slowly,” he said. “But everyone has a terrible story to tell. I am so pleased to be here with clean air and soft beds not covered in soot. That horrible Churchill and his bloody cheap coal.”

“Oh, darling,” Mrs. Jameson said. “Forgive Churchill. He brought us through the war, and he’ll bring us through this.”

We all sat, and Wynnie looked to Adelaide. “I think we are in your bedroom.”

“Yes, that’s just fine,” she said with a smile. “I hope you find some rest here. I do know you’ve been through quite an ordeal.”

The dinner was pleasant, with lively conversation and loads of questions from Adelaide about what it was like to live in America. Mrs. Jameson lit up in the presence of both of her sons and regaled them with gossip from the village while they chuckled about people that they’d known all their lives.

I didn’t feel an outsider; the Jamesons included us effortlessly and encouraged Wynnie and me to give them a picture of our life in South Carolina.

Somehow my mother had brought me here, even if this was not what she’d meant to do, and in every note of the conversation I looked for hints and clues of how we all might be connected: no matter how different we all seemed, I felt my mother hiding in the crevices of this family.