Chapter 3 #2
My likeness, on the other hand, is somber and staid by comparison, my posture rigid, a book lying open on my lap, brown hair braided and looped below each ear, one arm propped on Papa’s desk, my modest, high-necked dress draped with the Carmichael tartan.
I’ve always been practical. Stoic and reserved.
Rebecca was the vanguard. The charming rebel.
Though she was frail of health, her beauty gave her an advantage in life, one she capitalized upon.
Her name was always above mine on any invitation, her wardrobe steadily documented in the social papers.
She had her first marriage proposal at fourteen, well before she was out.
Were it not for Papa’s insistence that I, as the eldest, be the first to marry, Mother would have likely entertained the thought.
When William broke our betrothal, Papa did his best to comfort me.
Your mind is your greatest treasure, Lil. Beauty fades. But you are a keen and canny lass. It will serve you well.
I look up at our portraits again. Our likenesses reflect our opposing temperaments. If Rebecca was a wild rose, I am a thistle. Hardened by life. Bitter and sharp.
But thistles are strong. Resilient.
I cross to my wardrobe, where my gowns, underthings, and day dresses lay folded neatly on the shelves, my poke bonnets hanging from the hooks at the back.
I find my carpetbag under the bed and hastily stuff it with my most practical clothing: shifts, drawers, woolen stockings, petticoats, and two of my favorite dresses.
I sit on my bed and replace the satin slippers with my winter boots, my hands shaking as I lace them.
I shove the ruined slippers beneath the wardrobe, toward the back, where Siobhan shouldn’t find them, and smooth the coverlet.
I take most of my jewelry, including my jet mourning brooch, my gold locket with miniatures of the twins inside, which I fasten around my neck, and a sapphire ring Mother gave me for my debut.
My pin money is still inside my dressing-table drawer: three dollars and some change.
I pocket all of it. I briefly consider rifling through Rebecca’s things—I could take some of her jewelry, too—but guilt stops me.
My sister and I weren’t always the best of friends, and we were often rivals, but I will not steal from her, even in death.
I already have more than enough. As I pass her bed, a memory accosts me, sending another stab of guilt into my gut.
I imagine I see Rebecca sitting there, fingers running idly through her long hair as she watches me, her eyes filled with unspoken hurt.
I secure my traveling cloak over my shoulders and close the door softly behind me.
A familiar cough comes from downstairs. My muscles tense.
Papa. I flatten myself against the wall and watch the soft glow of candlelight swell on the main stairs as he shuffles up the creaking steps.
Thankfully, when he reaches the top, he turns right instead of left, toward his study.
I remain hidden in the shadows until he enters the study, leaving the door open a crack.
A cone of yellow light bleeds into the hall.
Damn it. I’ll have to pass his door to get back to the servant stairs.
I shoulder the carpetbag and pad silently forward—not easily done in my heavy boots.
As I pass the study, I glimpse Papa’s reflection in the mirror above the mantel.
He’s hunched over his desk, inspecting his ledger.
I watch him for a moment—his soft jowls hanging above the collar of his nightshirt, his face lit with candlelight.
He smiles at something he reads and lifts the book nearer to his eyes.
It’s not his ledger. He’s looking at one of my old journals.
I recognize the cover—a small, red book stamped with a gilded daisy.
I thought myself a poet in my younger years and filled several little books with my childish scribbling.
He turns the page and chuckles. I wrestle my threatening tears into submission.
I long to go to him, to sit at his side, as I so often did in the past, watching him as he wrote clandestine letters to senators and congressmen, pleading with his words and money to end the abomination of human slavery and the things he’d borne witness to.
I win the fight against my foolish heart and back away from the door.
Downstairs, in the kitchen, I quickly gather half a loaf of bread, three tins of kippers, a jar of jam, and a good, sturdy knife—something I can use for protection, if need be.
With another pat to Walter’s head, I leave, closing the door soundlessly behind me.
I replace the key beneath the rosemary pot and rush across the garden.
In the lane, I turn and take one last look at the home where I was born.
Papa’s study window glows in the darkness. Comforting. Warm with his love.
I hold back my tears until I’m halfway down the block, then sink onto a stranger’s tabby stoop and cry for everything I’ve lost and can never have again.