Chapter 60
Chapter
Sixty
THREE AND A HALF YEARS LATER
“Sit still, my cherub.”
Mary squirms in Lizzie’s lap beneath the wisteria in Granny Maggie’s cottage garden. My garden.
“You’ve been so good,” I continue. “I’m almost finished.”
Lizzie lifts a thigh from the stone bench. “Thank goodness.”
“You too, Mummy,” I scold, and Mary giggles, repeating the admonishment back to her mother. Who responds by tickling her.
I laugh, wait for them to still so I can finish their portrait—a lovely piece of mother and daughter surrounded by a waterfall of soft purple. It’s been unseasonably warm in the southlands, and even now at the end of March, the flowers have opened.
I feel a bit like those flowers myself, overeager to spread my petals after a cold, harsh winter.
Three years ago, something terrible happened to me. To this day, I have no memory of what it was.
Lizzie’s husband Charles found me in the woods behind Stillwater, babbling and confused, dressed only in a damp chemise and asking if I had missed the ball at Bolton manor. An event which had occurred more than two years prior.
I was carrying a pink sketchbook, covered in bruises, my wounds bandaged. Which was odd because I was completely alone.
I spent months convalescing at Stillwater, subjected to a rotating cast of William’s colleagues from Harbridge. None could discern what caused me to lose two year’s worth of memories.
And a marriage, apparently.
When Lizzie told me I had visited Stillwater with my husband the week before my strange arrival in those woods, you could have knocked me over with a feather. She blushed as she scrolled through the pages of my sketchbook.
“His name was Lachlan Cathal.” She held up a drawing of a very handsome man with unbound auburn hair, a literal knight in shining armour, sleeping against the trunk of a weeping willow.
Unmistakably drawn by my hand. “You were quite enamored with each other. Do you really not remember him at all? Nor what might have happened to him?”
I cried myself to sleep that night, crippled by a grief so tectonic, my hollow mind could barely comprehend it.
Uncle Edward solicited King James to launch a nationwide manhunt.
He even contacted a few of the dukes on the continent, trying to find the one for whom Lachlan had claimed to work.
But no trace of Mr. Cathal was ever found.
If Lizzie and Charles and William and Imogene hadn’t been so adamant and consistent in their memories of him, I might wonder if I hadn’t just made him up.
I’d pore over the sketchbook sometimes; it held the most prurient, wonderful illustrations. It was hard to believe the woman in them was me. Though on long, chilled nights that winter, I wanted nothing more fervently than to remember even a snippet of one.
On many of the pages, and depending on the angle, Lachlan appeared to have elongated ears and very sharp incisors. I wondered what would have inspired me toward such an artistic choice.
I did get better. There was nothing wrong with my body; the bruises faded short weeks after my misadventure, as Lizzie and I had taken to calling it. And when I began yearning for those specific reassurances of life that come from contact with one’s fellow humans, I knew my spirits had caught up.
I attended a few Seasonal balls the next spring, but found I had absolutely no desire to marry.
Or re-marry, I suppose. I still don’t—not even at my far-past-marriageable age of thirty-two.
I had a few sweet, simple affairs with sweet, simple men.
None lasted more than a month or two. It’s as if there’s some barrier around my heart, a fortress protecting a secret so fragile I dare not even share it with myself.
I spent three full turns of the Season at Stillwater, leaving only to visit Cranford Manor, the lodge a few towns over that Charles built for Lizzie and their family.
They’ve only Mary, but are eager for more little ones.
Charles is a nurturer at heart; he cried a little when I mused over taking back custody of Esmeralda.
In the end, it felt too cruel to force him to part with her.
It was a pleasant time in my life, marred only by a simmering, ever-present panic; like I had forgotten something gravely important. Something I never wanted to forget.
This spring, I decided I was ready to leave Stillwater, reclaim my inheritance, and make a life for myself in Granny’s cottage in the southlands.
I’ve spent the past three years perfecting my craft; my portrait skills in particular have vastly improved.
I created one for Charles; it’s displayed proudly at Cranford and has earned me several large commissions.
Enough to sustain myself for a little while, at least.
It will be a small life. But it will be my life. I am quite looking forward to it.
Lizzie and Mary accompanied me on the trip down and have been here for the past two weeks helping me get settled.
Lizzie is anxious to return home, especially since the Season opens this evening.
She’s going to miss the ball—she’s told me no less than twenty-four times.
The same number of times I’ve expressed my gratitude.
This portrait is my thanks.
I only make them suffer the stillness for another ten minutes or so. I can add the final touches once they’ve gone. And it will be nice to have an excuse to visit when the piece is finished.
Wheels and hooves thump down the dirt road leading to the cottage, and the time has come to say goodbye. Though I’m reluctant to lose their company, I am looking forward to some time alone.
Over the past three years, I have been poked and prodded and coddled and encouraged and interviewed and accompanied and feted and monitored and, god help me, included in everything. It was wonderful. I am quite over it.
I am ready to familiarize myself with that particular cadence of solitude. Ready to let my mind wander. Perhaps within the idleness, I might find a few of my lost memories.
The carriage stops before the cottage, and Mary waves at the driver.
“Are you sure you’ll be alright?” Lizzie asks, pressing her hand to her bonnet to keep the wind from stealing it. “We can stay a few more days, if you’d like. Midnight is the equinox; what if a beast emerges from the woods to snatch you?”
The curl of her lips tells me she’s joking, while her furrowed brow reveals she’s only offering out of politeness. She’s desperate to return north before she misses more than the opening ball.
“I’ll be fine.” I grab her hands. “Having you and Mary with me has been wonderful, but I’m sure Charles misses you both terribly. Esmeralda is not the most engaging company. It’s time for me to give you back.”
She wraps me in a hug, relief softening her features. “Come visit us at Cranford whenever you’d like. You’ve an open invitation; I mean it.” She turns over her shoulder. “Mary! Come say goodbye to Auntie Charlotte!”
I am not her aunt, but Lizzie insisted on the title. It’s sweet, really.
Mary toddles over on carefree limbs and I squat down as she leaps into my arms. “Oof!” She wraps tiny hands around the back of my neck, her sweet breath stirring my curls. “Be a good cherub for your Mummy, yes?” I say loudly, then whisper, “But promise me you’ll be a wicked one sometimes, too.”
She giggles before pressing a wet kiss to my cheek, then scurries over to terrorize the horses.
Lizzie’s conferring with the driver, who rounds the carriage struggling with a large, wrapped parcel. She smiles impishly as he lugs it into the cottage.
“What is that?” I ask.
“Mother bought a hideous neoclassical battle scene from some Gaulish artist that will span the entire back wall of the south gallery. She’s re-arranging everything at Stillwater, but I convinced her this one belongs here with you. You were quite fond of it, weren’t you?”
I hug them both once more, then send them off in a swirling cloud of dirt.
When I re-enter the cottage, the silence knocks me sideways. It’s what I wanted, but the lack of laughter and chatter will take some getting used to.
The wrapped painting leans against the wall, and I stare at it for longer than perhaps could be considered normal. I’m not afraid to unwrap it, per se, it’s just … I don’t have a name for the churning emptiness I’m feeling. Is it hunger, perhaps?
I make some tea and arrange a platter of cold chicken, crusty bread, and the last of the pickles Lizzie brought from Cranford. I eat, staring at the painting even longer, trying to ascertain where this odd, uncanny ache in my chest is coming from.
Lazy afternoon sun crawls up the table legs when, at last, I gain the courage to unwrap it. I cut the twine, then carefully slice through the paper.
The Knight Departs has the same powerful effect on me as always. I am overcome by the poignant tenderness between the knight and his lady. But there’s a note of bitter, bone-deep melancholy that I swear I’ve never felt before. My fingers shake as I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear.
I pull The Knight Departs away from the wall, intending to examine the hardware on the back, and find a letter nestled in the bottom corner of the frame.
It’s less a letter and more a booklet, thick and brown with age. On the cover, in Granny Maggie’s familiar, forward-slanting scrawl, is written:
To Margaret, From Margaret
I frown at the strange manner of her address, then walk back to my tea and begin reading.
It is nearly midnight when I finish my third re-read of the letter. Which is more like a short novel.
Granny Maggie’s—Margaret Bowles’s—original faerie story.
An epic adventure of magic rings and celestial courts and handsome dukes with pointed ears and horns. I have the strangest sense of déja vu as I’m reading.
Has she told me this story before? And why can I hear certain passages, smell and taste others, as if I’ve lived them myself?
Several times within the text, she makes mention of friends she made there, though she never names them. As if to do so would be too painful.
There’s a sarcastic, devastating woman with night-dark hair and pool-blue eyes.
There’s a tall, gruff duke with ram’s horns whose exterior is as hard as his interior is soft; it’s very obvious that Granny Maggie was in love with him.
And there’s a handsome knight with hair the color of autumn leaves who offered her protection in one of the courts.
His description cramps my chest so fiercely that I have to pause to catch my breath.
The ending is the strangest part of all. No matter how many times I read the words, I cannot make sense of them.
I stole it for you, though I haven’t even met you yet. The seer showed me how terribly the Otherworld’s story would end if I hadn’t. How terribly your story might end. Oh my dear Charlotte, you are in for an adventure.
I fall back, blowing out a long, slow breath.
A branch scrapes the window and I nearly fly out of my chair. The candles are nothing but sad, lumpen faces of wax and the room has grown terribly cold. I’ve been so engrossed, I haven’t even lit a fire.
I rise to correct the oversight, and something taps on the door. Another branch, surely. I pull a blanket around my shoulders, ignoring it.
But it sounds again. So faint, I could almost convince myself I’m hearing things.
Almost.
I gather my courage, then fling open the door before I can second-guess myself.
Sitting on the stoop, glinting in the moonlight, is a small, silver box.
There’s not a soul to be found in the dark night, no movement save a few leaves dancing across the dirt lane.
I bend down to pick up the box, which is unnaturally warm given the chill in the air. I close the door, turning the box over to find an etching on the bottom; one of those strange, beautiful moths from The Knight Departs.
Hushed whispers overtake my mind, a susurrous of voices. Some are so close they prickle the hairs on my neck, while others seem to shout from miles away.
Inside the box is a simple, silver band, also heated. I pull it out; there’s an engraving on the inside.
One of the voices crystallizes in my mind. A low, lush voice that sounds like the answer to every question I’ve ever asked, the blessing of every prayer I’ve ever sent to an indifferent god.
The voice says my name as the clock strikes midnight, and I read the engraving.
For My Favourite.
I slip the ring onto my finger and open the door.