The Story She Left Behind

Chapter 38 Clara

CHAPTER 38? CLARA

Lake District, England

Sweat trailed down my back beneath my wool sweater as I stood in the stuffy drawing room back at the Jameson house. The furnace and the fireplace chugged out heat against the chill of the night. But I was sure that the sweat had more to do with anger than warmth—anger at feeling left out, as if secrets were whispered behind my back.

Mother’s word on a garden sign; Charlie’s mother knowing Eliza Walker, who wrote the play for The Middle Place ; my mother’s language in this family’s London library.

Wynnie, Charlie, his mother, and I sat in that drawing room. We stared at one another, and finally Mrs. Jameson said, “What is it? What is wrong with all of you?”

“Mum…”

Moira interrupted Charlie, carrying in a tray of whiskey in cut-glass highballs. Apple juice for Wynnie. I took my glass and a long, burning swallow, and then finally spoke. “Charlie, allow me?”

He nodded.

“Mrs. Jameson, that play is an adaptation of my mother’s book.”

“Excuse me? Which book are you talking about?” Mrs. Jameson glanced around the room.

“ The Middle Place , Mum,” Charlie said. “Clara’s mother is Bronwyn Newcastle Fordham, the author of the book.”

Mrs. Jameson cupped her whiskey with two hands and her mouth dropped open. “Pardon me?”

“Yes,” I said. The room about me faded: the windows with dark-green damask curtains turned to smudge; the newly hung boughs of evergreen on the mantel transformed into a watercolor backdrop.

“Are you telling me that your mother is Bronwyn Newcastle Fordham? I need to be sure that is exactly what you are saying.”

“Yes. Bronwyn is my mother. She left us, me, over twenty-five years ago.”

She spun her head to her son. “How long have you known this?” she asked.

“Since I found Bronwyn’s papers in Dad’s office and called Clara in America.”

She closed her eyes for a moment. “You are the author’s daughter, and you came to retrieve your mother’s papers. Am I following?”

I looked to Charlie and nodded at him, an acquiescence that he might tell her the truth. “Mum, the story is that Bronwyn disappeared with a leather satchel that contained a dictionary of sorts, a key to words she created that are needed to translate the sequel to The Middle Place . She disappeared when Clara was eight years old. It was believed that she took these papers with her to the bottom of the sea, but instead they were in Father’s library with a letter for Clara. I summoned Clara here, or, more accurately, the letter inside the satchel summoned her here.”

Mrs. Jameson’s face went still as the lake outside the window. The only giveaway that she was alert were her fingertips rounding the carved edge of the armchair, around and around. “Excuse me? What was in your father’s library? Fordham’s language,” she said, and it wasn’t a question. “Why would your father have such a thing. It’s been missing for…”

“Twenty-five years,” I said.

Wynnie burrowed closer to me on the couch.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Mrs. Jameson muttered. “Not one bit.”

“Do you know anything about it? Anything at all? Do you know how those papers found their way into our home?”

Then the first sign of real emotion played across her face as if something moved under her skin, a wind blowing, a whisper told. “I know nothing of this,” she said so quietly that we all leaned forward. She looked at Charlie and then stood. “Why did your father have these papers?”

“That’s what we were trying to figure out when the fog descended.”

“Did Callum buy it at one of his auctions?”

“I don’t know.” Charlie clasped his hands. “But now they are mostly gone.” He told her what happened on the way here, the rough sleeper, the river, the papers lost.

Mrs. Jameson brushed her hand across her forehead as if a stray curl had fallen across her face but her hair was pinned back, lacquered in place.

“Ah yes.” She smiled at Wynnie. “Wynnie is from Bronwyn. I see. Clara, can you tell me about the papers?” She took a long swallow of her whiskey and set down the empty glass. She walked to the rear of the chair and held to it with her hands clenched on the back.

“The papers,” I said. “Well, as Charlie said, they are a dictionary of sorts, a list of imaginary words that my mother created. We came to retrieve them in order to translate the sequel.”

“I see.”

“And Mrs. Jameson,” I said. “There’s something else.”

She looked to Charlie, but he was watching me; I felt his soft gaze. “What is it?” she asked.

“I am an illustrator.”

“Yes, your darling daughter told me so.”

“I am the illustrator for Eliza Walker’s Harriet the Hedgehog. ”

Mrs. Jameson let out a cry and her hand flew to cover her mouth. “You are the lost author’s daughter. You are an illustrator who paints pictures for the woman who wrote the play about your mother’s book. You are…” She paused and her hands gripped the chair as if to hold herself steady.

Wynnie chimed in as her gaze moved back and forth between us. “And Mama won a huge award for Harriet. It comes with a big gold coin.”

I smiled at my daughter’s enthusiasm when Mrs. Jameson asked, “An award?”

“It’s called a Caldecott. It’s an American award for illustrators. But that’s not the thing here.” I held back tears. “Do you know anything about my mother or where she is or anything at all? Or how your theater gained permission to adapt the book?”

“We were granted permission from the estate. It’s been playing in the theater for five years or more. We had the rights over ten years ago, but it took that long to get it going, for Eliza to write it and…” Her gaze darted to Charlie, to me, and then back at Charlie. “Eliza wanted it staged here, and she was right—it is beloved.”

“The estate would be my father, and he has never mentioned this to me.”

“I didn’t even make the connection until just now. Yes, Harrington. Yes. I haven’t thought of his name in years. Thomas, is it?”

“No, Timothy,” I answered.

“Mum.” Charlie placed his glass on the coffee table and dropped his hands to his knees to bend forward. “Do you know anything about Bronwyn Newcastle Fordham’s whereabouts?”

“No.” His mother seemed unflappable, calmly looking between us; the only sign of tension was in the way she held to the chair. “I know nothing of a language or why your father came to purchase her papers or how Eliza was connected to you.” She took a deep breath. “I am incredibly confused, and your father isn’t here to help.”

“Mum, can you tell us why this book? This play?”

“Eliza. She was insistent. She gave it to me long ago, and I’d been fascinated with the novel. Back when you were a child. Do you remember?”

He shook his head.

She looked at me and patted her eyes with the lace doily from beneath her whiskey glass. “And Eliza.” She shook her head. “You are Eliza’s illustrator.”

“I am.” I stared at Mrs. Jameson and her stunned expression. “You know her well, it seems.” My voice shook and there was nothing to hide it.

“Yes, I do. She will soon be here for holiday. Eliza, I mean.”

“Eliza Walker is coming here?” I jumped up as if the couch had thrown me into the air.

“Have you met her?” Mrs. Jameson asked.

“No,” I told her. “I’m as stunned and confused as you seem to be. I didn’t know Eliza was British, but I’ve never spoken to her. We’ve only written to each other. I thought she was from Maine.”

Mrs. Jameson laughed, but it was weak. “Yes, she is from America, from Maine. But she married a local man, Thomas, a mate of Callum’s, nearly thirty years ago, I believe. Maybe twenty-five? They split their time between here and London. But, Clara, don’t you know that Harriet the Hedgehog lives here?”

“No, I thought it was Maine… the mountains and lake and…”

Mrs. Jameson shook her head. “Here.”

“Mama!” Wynnie jumped up and threw her hands in the air to face me, grinning. “You’ve been painting this place and land and lake all along. Oh, Mama, I knew it looked familiar.”

My mind turned fuzzy, and I couldn’t seem to find my grounding or the right things to say. “Mrs. Jameson, might you introduce me to Eliza Walker?”

“I can, but she’s not here yet. I think she arrives next week.”

“Can you… describe her?” I asked, my hands shaking as I clasped them together.

“Describe her? Goodness. She’s tall, brown hair. She’s… oh, I don’t know the right word, rugged? Outdoorsy in her way, but also elegant. Quiet and sweet.” She paused. “Do you think…”

“I don’t think anything. I’d just like to meet her and ask her how she came upon my mother’s book.”

Mrs. Jameson sat now and patted the chair across from her. “Sit, dear.”

I did, and she reached out and took my hands, held fast. “I am so sorry about your mother, Clara. I can’t imagine leaving my children, but terrible things happen to people. I am not hiding anything from you. If Callum knew her, then there will be a way to find her.” She looked to her son. “You shouldn’t have kept this from me all these days.”

“I’m sorry, I really am. Clara and I have been trying to figure it all out, and I didn’t want to aggrieve you in your mourning.”

She looked to me and smiled. “I am here to help.” Then she spoke to Wynnie. “I so hope you enjoyed the theatrical production of the book written by your grandmother.”

“It was lovely, Mrs. Jameson,” Wynnie said. “Even if Emjie doesn’t have that many freckles.”

I held my breath, and Mrs. Jameson laughed. “You are a darling child. Now I am going to retire, and together we will figure out this mystery of our families. Good night, everyone.”

She walked out of the room with her back straight, not a wobble in her gait atop patent leather pumps.