Though long letters were sent back and forth, it seemed forever until the moon shined high in the midnight blue sky and I could see Warren again. Abigail managed to steal away some paper, a quill, and an inkwell for me, and I spent hours writing to him. I confessed my affections for him, and although I was uncertain he would accept my undying love, I felt that it was safe to listen to my heart and believe in true love. After all, Momma had; she had run off with her one and only love. I wanted to be just as lucky. I hoped Warren wanted me as much as I wanted him.
In his letters in return, he proclaimed his commitment to me, he pledged he would find Daddy, and he told me that my beautiful face filled every inch of his heart, however there was something missing in his words to me; he never once mentioned that he wanted to take me away and make me his wife. So after many letters, I decided to ask him, face to face, near the river, under the willow tree, by the light of the moon.
As the giant mansion settled in for the long night, I made my way to the river, where I expected to see Warren waiting for me. I had spent hours brushing my long hair, thinking of seeing him again. I wore Momma’s favorite dress and suspected I looked just as pretty as she had when she wore it.
I waited impatiently for Warren to appear, but as the night moved on, the clouds rolled in and covered the moon. It grew dark, and the wind kicked up, and the heavy rain began to fall. I huddled under the tree to keep dry, my eyes locked to the darkness. My hair that I had worked so hard to make pretty was wet and pasted against my head, and my clothes were drenched. When I had all but given up, shivering from the brisk winds, about to go back with a heavy, dejected heart, he appeared. He was hours late, and we didn’t have much time before sunrise.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” he said. He was as drenched as I, and the water from the rain spilled over and off his hat. I didn’t care why he was late and moved into him so we were merely inches apart.
I expected him to sweep me up and bring me close; I wanted him to place his lips on mine and tell me he was there to take me far away. Instead, his face was somber; he was distraught and kept his hands to his side while the rain continued to fall.
“What is it, Warren?” I finally asked, breaking the long, uncomfortable silence. It wasn’t the meeting I had anticipated; he didn’t greet meet with loving arms and tender kisses as I had fantasized in my mind all the weeks we were apart.
Warren held his stare and his breath, until he could no longer contain the horrible news that sent me to the saturated ground with relentless, grief-stricken wails of anguish. Daddy was dead; he had drowned while rescuing a sinking fishing vessel.
Warren came to me then, shielding me from the pellets of rain, and hushed me by caressing my dripping hair. “I am so sorry, Lillian,” he whispered, with unadulterated compassion. I let out angst-ridden moans and uncontrollable sobs, and there was little he could do to comfort me. Above us, the lightning lit up the threatening sky and sent bolts to the ground near to us.
“Take me away, Warren,” I begged through my cries. “There is nothing for me now.”
“Not just yet. Please, be patient,” he said kneeled on the ground.
I lifted my head, looked at him, and asked, “Why?”
He wouldn’t answer me. Instead, he took my hand and brought me up, then said, “You need to get back.”
I didn’t want to go, but I saw the urgency in his face. He thought it best to wait and not rush our escape. Warren pleaded with me to understand that we would be together, in time. He placed his lips on my wet cheek and tenderly kissed me, then pulled away and wandered through the rain and into the darkness, vanishing like a ghost.
Devastated, I managed to get back to my room before sunrise. I was weak and emotionally exhausted, and wasn’t sure even Warren’s love could keep me from drowning in my own despair. I was sickened to think of how Daddy had suffered and died, the way so many sailors had before him. I hated imagining him struggling for air, fighting the enormous swells to keep above water. The vision I had of him washing up onto the shore aged me beyond my years. All the color I had gained, the newfound glow from Warren’s love, drained from me. I sat, empty and lifeless, on the bed, with no more tears left to shed.
_______________
Chapter Eighteen
I didn’t tell Abigail that my daddy was dead, but she knew something was wrong when I didn’t bother to sit up and take the letter she snuck in.
“What’s wrong with you?” she asked in a whisper. “This here letter is from Warren.”
Not even Warren’s letter could get me to lift me head and face the day. She heard Grandmother coming and quickly shoved the letter in her skirt, then hurried to the plate on the floor.
“What is this? Why is there still food left on her plate?” Grandmother demanded.
Abigail didn’t know what to say.
“Well, if she won’t eat her morning meal, she won’t get her evening meal—not only for tonight, but for the rest of the week,” she barked, then flew out.
Abigail had no time to come to me, but I wasn’t concerned. I didn’t want to be bothered. I found my safe place by staring off into the distance again with glazed eyes. It was easy to fall back into a dark place in my mind; I had been there so many times before. It was familiar; it took away all of the pain I couldn’t face. There was no way for me to deal with Daddy’s death, other than shutting my mind off to the world. I wasn’t going to mourn him and move on; I was not going to allow grief or elation to ever touch me again. I was content to simply wither away like a dying flower.
Day after day, for weeks, Abigail stole up, taking great chances to see me, begging me to tell her what was wrong. Even Hamilton tried to bring me back to my former happy state; he came and knelt down, as large as he was, and signed to me. I couldn’t bring myself to care, and I just looked through him. I continued to ignore Warren’s letters, and as much as my mind told me not to push him away, that he was the only man that had ever wanted me, my heart had nothing left to give.
When Grandmother saw me so despondent and refusing to stand at attention when she entered the room, she grew furious. She called for Abigail and demanded to know what was wrong with me.
“I don’t know, Mrs. Arrington. Maybe she is sick.”
Grandmother peered closely at my face then said, “She is not sick. Get up, girl!” She took her cane and poked me in the ribs. I didn’t react, just stared out the window.
“I said get up!” she commanded.
Abigail covered her mouth as she watched Grandmother lift the cane high above her head. Just as she was about to strike my legs, there was a loud crash from outside my room. I was spared, as she hurried with Abigail out of my room. Then I heard Grandmother call for Hamilton. “It’s Thomas; he has fallen!” she yelled. Her cries caught my attention.
There was so much commotion I couldn’t help but blink away my foggy trance. I rose up and looked to the door; it had been left open. It was the fact that I might never get to see my grandfather again that made me slide out of bed and go down the long hall to the grand staircase. I peeked around the corner to watch Grandmother cradle Grandfather’s head in her lap, sobbing like a child. Hamilton rushed in to take him from her and carried Grandfather out, while Abigail tried to help Grandmother off the floor.
“Get off of me,” she barked. “I can do it myself.”
She stood, adjusted her skirt, and placed her thick, wooden cane beside her as her head rose, high and dignified. She had broken down for only a moment, and pretended it had never happened as she pivoted and marched out to the carriage. Abigail retrieved a brush and bucket and began scrubbing Grandfather’s blood off the wood floor. He’d fallen down the stairs and smashed his head on the hard floor. I couldn’t imagine how he could possibly survive such a fall. They were rushing him to a doctor, and I was certain he would be dead by the time they arrived.
Abigail was sobbing quietly, and she didn’t notice me when I came down and stood over her. I reached down and touched her shoulder then
she lifted her head to look at me. Her eyes were filled with woe, her concern for him overwhelming.
“He won’t make it,” she said as the tears streamed down her face.
I didn’t understand why she was so distraught over a man who kept her for so many years as a slave. What was it about my grandfather that kept her weeping throughout the following days?
Out my own sadness over Daddy’s death came compassion for Abigail. I saw my own melancholy through her, and it became apparent that I didn’t need to hold on to such a state of despair. Abigail didn’t lie down and want to waste away, longing for a man. She continued with her duties; she brushed her tears away when she came to bring me my meals, though I knew she was hurting inside. Grandmother screamed at Abigail every time she caught her with eyes full of tears. I heard her bellows all the way up to my room.
“You wipe that pitiful look off your face, Abigail, before I take it off for you! How dare you cry for him!”
Grandmother’s ranting and raving continued through the week that Grandfather was gone, somewhere in a hospital, until the sweltering, late summer day came that he was sent home in a coffin, to be buried in the family cemetery at Sutton Hall. I was predictably kept locked away during the funeral. Grandmother gave me no moment to pay my respects to him. I could, from my window, see them all out there. Hundreds of people came to Sutton Hall, for he must have been a very well-known man, a prominent member of the community, and one of Georgia’s most highly praised plantation owners. There were carriages scattered everywhere and men and woman in formal black attire saying goodbye to Thomas Arrington. I wanted so very much to go outside, to blend in with the crowd, but I hadn’t a proper dress to wear, and I would stand out.
I stayed glued to my window all day; it was my way of feeling included. When the mourners left, just as night fell, I unlocked my door and crept down the back stairway and outside. It was my turn to say goodbye to Grandfather, and I stood over his fresh grave, closed my eyes, and bowed my head in respect. I thought about the moment, the only moment we met, the one night I stole out of my cell to see what was around every corner of Sutton Hall. I expected to find locked doors and perhaps even another secret passageway, but never thought I would have the good fortune to meet the man that obviously loved Momma, the man she called Daddy and probably worshipped as much as I had my own Daddy. And as Grandfather’s spirit soared into the heavens, mine lifted as well, the heavy suffering of my loss diminished. I was finally ready to end my grief-stricken days the way that Daddy taught me years ago, by filling my heart with things that made the sun rise each day, the birds sing, the sweet fragrances that filled the air, and the ardent love that inundated every part of me.
Warren could no longer wait for my letters to come. Only a day after Grandfather’s burial, I was sleeping lightly when I sensed I was not alone and slowly lifted my lids. Warren stood beside my bed, holding a candle that gave his face a soft, warm glow. At first I believed he was a figment of my frequent dreams, but then he spoke in a faint voice, just loud enough to wake me. “Lillian, come and walk with me.”
I sat up, and took his hand, and he stole me away, out to where we agreed to meet every moonlit night.
“Abigail led me to you. She told me how you have been suffering and that you had buried your grandfather,” he said once we were under our tree.
“I have seen such sorrow, Warren, more than I thought I could ever possibly endure,” I explained, as I leaned against him. We had been apart for endless weeks, and reunited, it felt tranquil, as if we were about to journey into new beginnings.
“I have missed you terribly. I didn’t think I could live another day without seeing you,” he said.
“I am sorry for all the time we have lost,” I replied. He reached for my hand, then brought it up and allowed his lips to linger. I rested my head against his shoulder, my long hair spilled beside him, and I wondered how I had almost sacrificed his love. While my grief consumed me, I had forgotten how exhilarating his wonderful charisma was.
Warren took a deep breath of the moist, dewy air and pulled me in, then rested his freshly shaven chin on my head. Above, high in the trees, were the sounds of the barred owl, and out in the marsh, the river frogs croaked in symphony. I felt him inhale as he took in the scent of my hair; his heart pounded as loudly as mine, adding to nature’s music all around us. He held my hand, and I opened my fingers to let his intertwine with mine. I thought it was time to make our plans and asked when we would leave. There was nothing keeping us from going away and making a new life together. Daddy was gone; the search was over. We had allies; Abigail and Hamilton would risk their lives to help us get away. We would be smart and not get caught.
Warren had nothing to fear. I pulled back, and he released my hand staring at me in anticipation of what I was about to say. I smiled and looked at him with soft, sheepish eyes, the way Momma used to when she wanted something from Daddy, and said to Warren, “I love you with all my heart, and I want to spend my life with you. I will make you happy, Warren.”
“You’ve already made me happy by coming into my life, Lillian. I am devoted to you,” he said.
“Then let’s go now, tonight. I can’t wait another minute, not another second. Abigail will cover our tracks until we can get far enough away that they will never find us. I am sure of it,” I said excitedly, hoping he would whisk me away to start our new life together.
Warren looked deep into my eyes and saw my desperation, but he resisted my pleas for a new beginning. When he turned away, I moved close and snuggled up to him, then began to stroke his cheek and softly whispered in his ear how much I loved him. I sensed he was afraid of my love; he feared I might leave him the way his first love did many years before. I understood his concern; he was afraid of having his heart broken. I wanted Warren to believe I was not going to hurt him. He needed to trust me.
“I will never abandon you. Do you believe me?” I asked, placing a kiss on the side of his neck. He closed his eyes, his breathing became heavy, and just when I sensed his desire growing Warren drew away and scrambled up, as if my innocent kiss had burned his flesh. He towered over me, shifted his hat, and looked bemused. I thought he might run from me, and my heart sank. He must have thought me sinful, for only an immoral girl would steal away for kisses with a man many years her senior. I didn’t know what possessed me to be so eager; I knew better. I wanted him to respect me and feared I had ruined that with one small kiss to his neck.
“I’m sorry,” I said, jumping up and wiping the dust from my dress with my hands. “I’m really not that kind of a girl.”
I wanted desperately for him to believe that, but there was so much doubt in his sea green eyes. I turned to run, but he reached over, grabbed me, and pulled me into his embrace. “Dear Lillian,” he muttered, stroking my hair, our faces pressed against one another. “You just don’t understand.” Warren sounded petrified; his body trembled with fear.
I tried to assure Warren that I was the right woman for him; I promised him everything. “My heart and soul are yours to keep,” I said. “Please, Warren, please, make me yours.”
Above us, a branch broke off from the tree and fell down beside me. Warren shifted his head; just enough that his lips brushed mine. My whole body tingled, and I lost a breath. Our eyes locked, and I stood frozen, waiting for him to make the next move. Time stood still; the world all around us melted away as Warren battled the overwhelming uncertainties in his mind. His eyes grew dark, his nostrils flared, and his strong jaw tightened as he tried to control his lust for me. It was painful to watch him struggle with his yearning, and I decided to stop it before he regretted anything.
“I must go,” I said, my voice quivering.
Everything about the way he looked at me indicated an enormous conflict between his heart and his head. Warren’s hesitations left me confused.
“Lillian, you don’t understand.” I could see how he struggled for the answers to explain what troubled him so fiercely.
“Then
tell me, Warren,” I cried, touching his hand.
“Not yet. I just can’t,” he said in defeat.
I was left with great confusion, and we parted ways and agreed to meet again, but I wasn’t able to shake the overwhelming feeling that he would change his mind and never come to see me again. I tried to put it all together, to decipher what I was doing to make him doubt; if indeed, it was because of me at all.
The last of the summer days were filled with endless wondering, though Warren and I continued to steal away. To my delight, his eyes filled with happiness when they fell on me, but he kept his affections at bay, restrained. When the occasion came that Grandmother went into Savannah, we walked along the river, holding hands and Warren would tell me how beautiful I was—the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. They were warm days when the hot sun lit up the powder-blue sky and cicada sounds surrounded the old plantation.
Warren’s resistance to the idea of taking me away plagued me, but I refused to let him see how much it really bothered me. Instead of dwelling on the answers he could never seem to divulge, I was enraptured by secret thoughts he revealed to me.
“Someday, I want to build us a house, a grand house. There we will stay and grow old together. If you want, we can even build one by the sea. You would like that, wouldn’t you?” he asked as we sat in our favorite spot. He’d brought a basket of corn pone and macaroni for lunch.
During the months of secret rendezvous, Warren brought me extra food. I had gained enough weight to finally look healthy. Grandmother insisted Abigail restrict my food; she had noticed I had filled out. But when I didn’t lose weight, Grandmother, knowing exactly how much food was allowed me and that no extra food was missing from the kitchen, figured my growth had slowed down and my body was storing what small amount of food I was given. After all, I was locked away; my body had no exercise. Luckily, that made sense to her.
Box Set: The ArringtonTrilogy Page 52