by Amanda Deed
No matter how much Serena talked to herself, tried to convince herself otherwise, her conviction grew each day. And the more it grew, the more she prayed she was wrong.
‘What has you frowning so much?’ Rachel quizzed her one afternoon.
Serena glanced up at her. ‘Frowning?’ She shrugged. ‘Why, I’m just cross over the stain in this sheet.’
‘No, that’s not it,’ her sister argued with a knowing grimace.
Serena put the sheet she’d been about to fold back in the basket. ‘I cannot stop thinking about Mr King. I think something is wrong.’
‘Why do you think so?’
‘I don’t really know. Something in his letter. I’m not sure. I have this feeling that all is not right and I cannot shake it.’
Rachel picked up one end of the sheet and gestured for Serena to take the other end. ‘Perhaps you should go and see.’
Serena pulled the end of the sheet taut. ‘I don’t want to appear a silly worrier.’
‘Well, don’t.’
‘Don’t what? Don’t go?’
‘No. Don’t appear a silly worrier.’ Rachel pulled against her and then they folded the ends together.
‘Ha. Easy for you to say. Isn’t worry your middle name?’ Serena pulled a little harder than needed and made her sister lose balance.
They fell into each other, giggling.
‘Seriously, though, go there on the pretence of a friendly visit. Take a basket of goodies with you or something. Make subtle inquiries. If you are wrong, you shall soon find out.’
Serena opened her mouth to protest once again, but let out a long sigh instead. ‘Perhaps you’re right. Maybe I should go, just to put my mind at rest. Tomorrow morning.’
She reached out and gave her sister’s hair a gentle tug. ‘Thank you.’
‘You can pay me later.’ Rachel winked.
‘You may lick the spoon if you come and help me bake the currant cake. It was your idea after all.’ Serena put the folded sheet down and gave Rachel a friendly shove toward the kitchen.
Mid-morning the next day, Serena stood at the door to Aleron House. At first, her knocks went unanswered, but just as Serena was ready to give up, the door opened a crack. A shadow peeked through the gap and then slowly opened the door. Mr Xavier stood there in silence, face grave, then turned and walked back into the house leaving the door wide. Was that an invitation to enter? Serena could only assume it was, but Mr Xavier’s attitude only doubled her fears. Something was very wrong.
She followed the sound of retreating footsteps to the parlour—that room where Edward had left her on that fateful night. The flash of memory of him catching her prostrate on the floor almost made her smile. Instead, she cleared her throat. A gravity that allowed no humour filled the room. The entire family sat, silent and solemn. All of them, except Edward.
As Serena glanced from one to the other—their bereft faces, lack of eye contact or greeting—the weight of their grief descended upon her. She sank onto the nearest chair and let the wicker basket slide from her hand. Her worst fear must have come true. There could be no other explanation. A fist-like grip clenched around her heart as dread reached a peak.
‘Is he ... Is he ...?’ Serena couldn’t say it, that word that brought finality to everything.
Mrs Jones came to life then, with a deep gasp, as though she’d been holding her breath for a long while. ‘No. He isn’t. We caught him in time.’
‘Caught him? I don’t understand.’
Mr Jones shook his head and sighed. None of the others spoke.
‘May I see Edward?’ she ventured.
Another deep sigh from across the room. Serena looked over at Mr Simon.
‘He’s not here.’
‘Not ...?’ Not here, as in absent from the house, or not here, as in they’d locked him in the cellar again?
Mr Xavier must have read her mind. ‘We are not hiding the truth from you this time, Miss Bellingham. Uncle Ed... He is ...’
At the shake of his mother’s head, Mr Xavier halted, though he swallowed hard. Whatever he intended to say must have been dreadful.
‘I’m not sure it’s right for you to know more than he’s alive and looked after.’
Serena’s gaze swerved to Mrs Jones, who studied her fingernails. Her lips trembled although she pressed them together to hide it. What was so terrible that they appeared so stricken?
‘Once perhaps, we thought you might be of use. To help Ed recover.’ Mr Jones spoke this time, his voice hoarse, face ashen. ‘It’s too late now.’ His focus shifted to the floor as though weighed down with shame.
‘Too late?’ Serena’s voice hollowed as their unanimous grief infected her. The room suddenly felt airless, as though she might suffocate. And she could barely draw two thoughts together as loud buzzing filled her head. A black cloud seeped in from all sides.
‘Breathe, Miss Bellingham.’
A warm hand on her back brought Serena back to her senses, and she gasped for air. She looked into the face of Mr Simon kneeling before her, compassion in his eyes, a welcome change from him.
‘That’s better. Can you stand? I think you need a walk in the garden.’
What was this strange treatment? Certainly, they had called a truce and been on better terms, but this was downright caring. Serena found her feet though her legs wobbled. Mr Simon poured a glass of water from a jug on the sideboard and she drank it with a grateful nod.
‘Yes, do take her out for air, Simon.’ Mrs Jones agreed, her face a weary mask. ‘I will have tea made for when you return.’
Serena glanced at the basket on the floor and gestured with her hand. ‘I brought something for tea.’ Although the timing for baked goods was not appropriate. She shrugged haplessly as Mr Simon led her from the room and outdoors.
They walked in silence for a few minutes and Serena tried to quiet the thousand questions in her mind. She breathed deeply of the eucalypt and grassy aromas.
It was Mr Simon who spoke first.
‘I have learnt enough respect for you, Miss Bellingham, to know you deserve the full truth. But, please bear in mind this tale is an ugly one. If you do not wish to hear, tell me now.’
Serena stopped walking at the gravity in his voice and studied his face. Pain lined his features, and perhaps regret. Mr Simon did not exaggerate. She drew in a deep breath. Did she really want to know? She might regret hearing the truth. But then again, what if she could help? Releasing her breath, she nodded. ‘Tell me.’
Even with permission, he took several moments to begin. Mr Simon turned and continued walking, but then stopped again, staring at the enormous Moreton Bay Fig tree, hands deep in his pockets. ‘This is where we found Uncle Ed.’ He shuddered. With a thrust of his chin he indicated the tree. ‘He ... he tried ... to hang himself.’
Her premonition had been correct, but it still came as a shock to Serena. Her legs lost strength, and she sank onto the damp grass. If only the blackness would overtake her and leave her in blissful ignorance. She covered her face with her hands and groaned. ‘I knew it.’
Mr Simon was quiet and still for a while but then sat beside her. ‘What do you mean, you knew?’
Serena lifted her gaze to his, although his face was blurry through the tears pooling in her eyes. ‘For days, I’ve had a sense of foreboding. As though Edward might do something desperate. But I kept telling myself I was being silly. He wrote me a letter, you see, and it felt like goodbye. Forever goodbye. You understand?’
Mr Simon stared at her for what seemed an age, but then nodded.
‘You said you found him in time. So, what happened?’
‘It’s my fault he got that far.’ His voice cracked, haunted by the memory. ‘I mean, I work out here. And I didn’t see him.’
‘I’m sure you cannot be held responsible—’
‘Xavie
r found him.’ Mr Simon cut her off, thrusting his chin toward the fig again. ‘Up there. Tied one end of a rope to that big bough and the other around his neck.’ He swallowed and turned his face to the ground, kicking at the sods. ‘He was about to jump when Xavier caught up to him. I heard Xavier trying to convince Uncle Eddie to come down. I climbed up while my brother kept him talking.’
‘What did Mr King say? Did he give a reason?’ Serena’s stomach clenched at the thought of what these men had suffered.
Mr Simon shrugged, a helpless expression. ‘The same old ramblings about the curse and how everyone would be better off without him. How nobody understands or cares and that he’s a burden on all of us.’
Serena reached out and touched his forearm. There were no words to bring comfort. But she understood. Oh, she understood.
‘Persuading him was hard, but we eventually got him down.’ Mr Simon pressed his lips together then rubbed his hands over his face.
Serena waited for him to continue, but he had closed the door on the conversation.
‘So, where is Mr King now?’
Mr Simon’s face hardened, his eyes burning into hers. ‘You don’t want to know.’
He turned his back and started to trudge back to the house.
Serena scrambled to her feet, lifted her skirt and ran after him. ‘Why don’t I? Tell me where he is. You’ve told me everything else. Why stop now?’
The young man halted in front of her, nearly causing her to collide with him in her pursuit. Mr Simon tilted his head back and closed his eyes. The air whistled in his nose as he drew in a deep breath. ‘We saw Caleb Moncrief running from the gardens. No doubt he’d been watching Uncle Ed. He saw everything.’ Mr Simon faced her again and gave an intense gaze.
That could only mean ...
‘They called on the magistrate. Before we had a chance to settle my uncle, they came and took him away to Bedlam Point.’
‘The Asylum?’
‘Tarban Creek Lunatic Asylum. Yes.’
30
Edward was in the lunatic asylum and it was her fault! It must be her fault. If she’d never met him, none of this would have happened. He was fine before she arrived at Aleron, before he became attached to her, before she fell for him. He would have been fine if he remained with his family and no one else.
If only Papa never came to Aleron House. If only she’d come back earlier. If only she’d said yes to Edward’s proposal to begin with. If only she were here when he climbed the tree. If only, if only, if only ... Serena’s mind screamed for a solution.
Serena dropped to her knees right there in the grass, careless of whether Mr Simon remained or not, and prayed like she’d never prayed before. Silent whispers beneath her breath. Desperate whispers. Pleading whispers. Tears ran unchecked down her cheeks as she recalled stories from the Scriptures where the Messiah had healed. She prayed them as reminders to herself and perhaps to God of what He could do.
After long moments, Serena sensed movement beside her as Mr Simon knelt and joined her. Together they lifted their voices in supplication for God’s intervention in Edward’s life. When at last she opened her eyes, a new sense of peace washed over her. A peace that went beyond her comprehension.
‘He will be all right. It’s going to be fine.’ How she knew this, she couldn’t say, but there it was—a confidence deep in her soul. She breathed in and felt the chill air deep inside her lungs, like fresh life.
Simon stared at her, his face still grim, but he nodded. Then he jerked his chin toward the house. ‘Here comes Mother.’
Serena turned as the woman strode up to them.
‘Are you ready for some tea?’
Serena looked at her, considering for a moment. ‘Actually, I should like to go to Mr King's room. May I do that?’
Mrs Jones shrugged. ‘I don’t see why not. Take care though, as it’s still a mess.’
Serena pushed to her feet and brushed off her damp dress. With a nod and a small smile, she headed back to the house. Why she wanted to be in his room, she couldn’t say. With deliberate, slow steps, she climbed the stairs, each one a reminder of those nights rambling through the house with Edward, dancing in the ball room. He was so dear to her, she couldn’t imagine life without him in it, no matter how absurdly he behaved. She loved him, she knew that now.
The kind of love that Papa had pressed her about. If Edward remained brain sick for the rest of his life, she would stay by his side. She would encourage him as best she could and support him through the worst of it. Not because he needed her, and not because she thought she might save him, but because she loved him.
Edward’s room was, indeed, still in chaos—clothes strewn haphazardly, dirty dishes, discarded and crumpled pieces of paper. Edward had lived under torment for too long. Serena sighed. What was she doing here? What was she looking for?
She made her way to the small room which held his art. An unfinished mural covered part of one wall, and she immediately recognised herself as the central focus of the painting. It was beautiful. Her chin wobbled as tears threatened. It overwhelmed her that he esteemed her enough to paint her on his wall.
She dabbed at the moisture in her eyes, and turned to move into his bedroom, where she pulled the drapes back to let in light. As she stood there at the window, she noticed that blasted fig tree filling the view. How many hours had he lain looking at that tree? Had he imagined himself hanging from that tree so many times that he eventually tried it? ‘Oh, Edward.’
On a side table rested a jug and bowl for morning ablutions. Serena picked up a small vial and put it to her nose. Lavender oil. The familiar scent he used. With a sigh, she placed the jar back.
Serena sat on the edge of his bed. One day soon, she intended to share this room with him. She would have the fig removed and do everything in her power to help Edward remain stable. But first, she needed to get him out of the asylum. Since the magistrate sent him there, she supposed it wouldn’t be an easy thing to have him released again. What if his family, and herself, wrote letters to the magistrate, defending his character? Surely, they would listen to several voices against the one testimony of Caleb Moncrief.
Oh! Serena balled her hands into fists at the thought of the man. He needed to be taught a lesson or two.
She shook her head. She didn’t have time to dwell on Moncrief now. There must be a way to have Edward returned to his family. Serena stood and moved to his desk. There would surely be paper and ink to begin her own letter to the Magistrate. Sure enough, she found the writing materials, and sat to begin her testimony. Then her eyes alighted on his snuff box, and her throat convulsed. Edward carried his snuff everywhere. She flicked it open and smelled the contents—tobacco, vanilla and cinnamon—bringing back memories of being close to him.
There were several layers of paper on the desk which she needed to move aside to work. As she did so, she uncovered the journal she had stumbled upon once before. On that occasion, she had resisted the curiosity that begged her to read. This time, she did not hesitate. Something within those pages might be of help.
Opening the journal, she began at the beginning and read the journey of his mind. Moments of euphoria, moments of utter despair and moments that were lucid and down-to-earth. His ideas and inspirations, his troubles and doubts. It was all there. Edward hid nothing from the private pages of his journal.
His love for her was as real as hers was for him. Exaggerated at times, yes, but still real. Several of those embellished passages brought waves of heat to Serena’s neck and cheeks, and warmth to her heart. Poems and sonnets—she could live with that without a doubt.
The harder part to live with would be the down times, the words of despair and defeat. And the words of confusion and delusion. She still needed to convince Edward that he wasn’t under a curse. She found and read the journal entry of his meeting with the priest, which read as harmless while it was
fresh in his mind. It must have been later that the memory morphed into something quite different.
As she read, the frequent mention of his sister revealed a pattern. A pattern that deeply concerned Serena. Even if several of the passages were delusional or exaggerated, there was still enough to cast serious doubt over her behaviour. A behaviour that seemed at odds with that which she presented to everyone else. Certainly, she feared the reputation that madness would bring to the family. But had that fear transcended normal protective behaviours, and made her act underhandedly? Serena sat back and tried to recount her own exchanges with Mrs Jones and frowned more deeply. Surely not. It couldn’t be.
After more than an hour of reading, Serena turned to the last entry. The date on the page read Monday, 11th July 1842. Several weeks after that fateful day on the beach, possibly the day he climbed the tree. The ink smudged on the page. Serena ran her hand over the flawless script. How desperate must a person be to want to end their life?
The giant fig calls me, its branches like bony fingers beckon. Through the rain that blurs my eyes, I can still see them. I can hear the wind howling my name. There is nothing left. She is gone. I have let her go. She does not deserve to be burdened with me. I have given her the only things that matter, and there is an end. I cannot go on. Life...
What is life?
Not this.
Not this.
God, take this curse, or take me.
I am done.
Xavier, Simon, Serena, goodbye.
Be happy.
I love you.
Forgive me.
Edward.
Sobs broke forth from Serena as she finished reading. Dear God, be with him, keep him safe.
Serena stormed down the staircase. Now that she’d finished the journal and considered the things Edward wrote about his sister, her alarm turned to anger. How dare she? And to her own brother, no less. That woman had some answering to do. She found Judith sitting in the parlour, at first glance serene, then quickly transforming into a picture of grief.