Triumph of Time
Page 3
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I thought these things the next night and the night after that. My mornings were spent dusting, sweeping and waxing the ancient floors. Windows were washed, brightening curtains bought and windows were thrown open to rid the house of the scent of musk that hung heavy over the antiquated fireplace and heavy carved wooden panels. In the afternoon, I’d consume a light lunch on the sunlit portico, on a peeling white wrought iron patio set then, sometimes take a walk along the sedge grass, the wind tousling my loose hair. It was on days such as those that the wind seemed to sigh with me. It filled me with breath and stole it in the same moment. My days were fleeting, blissful. I was happiest with the letters, brief and long that appeared in the split seam of wood at the bottom of the grand staircase.
It felt a secret, my secret. I kept the letters in a silver box on my vanity table. I was nothing special or remarkable reflected in the antiquated glass. My mother's face and softly curling auburn hair fell to my shoulders. I resembled a healthier, younger version of her than at her last illness. Sometimes, I dreamed those days when she held my hand so tightly, the bones of her fingers cut into my flesh. She sweated and cried out to God, to father, to her brother. No one answered her as I stayed mute at her side.
In those nights, awakening in the house my family had hewn from stone, I cried out, blindly thrusting my hands into the darkness, seeking to dry the tears flowing down her withered cheeks. But, of course there was no one. My tormented mind somehow knew that and would fall from the depths of hysterics to the wretched misery of sorrow. It was then, that I'd rise, padding quietly across the worn floorboards to the vanity reflecting a shaft of moonlight.
My silver box sat in shadow, cool to the touch. It was an elegant present from my sixteenth birthday; its tarnished beauty felt a comfort to my anguished heart. The lid would revolve back on some hidden mechanism and the papers carefully folded inside would be revealed for my perusal. Part of me deep down knew the fascination I held for the writer of the missives, was foolish, a flight of fancy. Infatuation came to mind. I'd rarely indulged my emotions, they'd never run rampant, the way I'd seen so many others succumb to the throes of love.
Still, I sat on the veranda, bathed in the light of la Luna, reading and rereading the familiar lines. The missives told of his remodeling that had begun in the cellar and moved up to the yellow wallpapered drawing room. Day by day, I seemed to understand the writer of the letters. His love for the old house, respect for its long, troubled history.
The full flush of summer heat had descended upon the coast when a letter came from the probate delivered in a creased envelope from their London office. Another heir had been found. I smoothed out the creamy white paper bearing the seal of the Pembridge firm. Over tea and sweet cakes, I read the terse message to the housekeeper who listened intently. "My goodness! Another claimant? Who?"
I glanced over the paper. "A woman said to have had close ties with my uncle’s close family. In any case, Mr. Stafford feels that her claim...if valid, gives her right over the future of the property, completely taking it out of my hands!" My heart gave a strange little flutter within my cold chest. Suddenly, everything I'd worked for, my days of sunlight and simple work, were blots of ugliness. Everything was being taken away from me...and for what? A woman's greed? Someone who'd heard of my cousin’s death and thought to take advantage by exploiting an old connection?
The housekeeper's expression soured; she was a righteous old soul. "There'll only ever be one heiress to this house, ma'am, if you don't mind me saying, and that's you! Lord Cartier always felt you had a touch of the gift."
Slowly, I lowered the probate's letter; the tea quietly steamed abandoned near my elbow. "What gift? What is this you speak of, Rosie?"
The poor old soul colored as she crossed herself, a forbidding gesture to my eyes. "Why, Miss, there are those who walk in this world ...and those who walk in the worlds of the past and present. Those people...are your people, Miss. The people who control Time.”