Saving Marilee

by Annette K. Larsen

  It left off there, unfinished. The last several sentences he'd written had been scribbled in haste and anger, devolving into barely legible writing. I understood why he hadn't sent it. But why keep it? Why hide it?

  Adorable and naive. A pretty little puppet that he could control.

  I was tempted to toss it into the fire. Instead I held on to it and strode from the room, making my way belowstairs to the kitchens. Emeline stood on a low stool pulled up to the counter, cooking as usual. Silent, as usual.

  "I need a knife."

  The thirteen-year-old pointed to several lying on the counter, then went back to stirring whatever was in the bowl she held, her small hands working more efficiently than anyone would have expected.

  "Thank you," I said, giving one of her braids a little tug as I passed. She let a shy smile cross her lips and glanced at me from the corner of her eye.

  I picked out a small blade and left, climbing the stairs and winding through corridors until I arrived at my room in the old wing. I climbed onto my bed, stood on top of my pillows, and lay the letter against the wooden frame. Then I stabbed the knife through it, affixing it in place.

  I stepped back, sinking cross-legged onto the blankets, and stared up at my new decor. His words hurt me, most especially because in a different life I would have smiled at his description. I would have worn it as a banner across my chest, embracing the truth of what I was without apology. But not now, not when I knew what they had meant to him. I hated those words, but I left them there where I would see them every day.

  I reread the letter in its entirety, then read it again, getting stuck on his words about business. He claimed his methods had served him well. I was fairly certain I didn't want to know what those methods were.

  Business meetings, business contacts, business travels—business had always taken precedence.

  ***

  Damian took my hand and led me from my room. The affectionate gesture startled me, since he had been pushing me aside for weeks. I wanted to enjoy it, but it left me confused.

  "I'll be gone for at least three weeks, Mary. But I've instructed the servants to watch over you, so you needn't fret."

  I nodded my head. "At least three weeks? It might be longer?"

  "Of course I can't predict what might happen or what other contacts I might make. If other opportunities arise, I may have to extend my trip." He stopped at the bottom of the stairs and ran a finger along my jaw. "Are you going to miss me?"

  "Of course, darling." I hated how those words felt like a lie. They should be true. I wanted them to be true. I wanted to miss him, but would I? Should I?

  He wrapped an arm around my waist and tipped my chin up, whispering words against my mouth. "And I shall miss you, my Mary."

  He kissed me, passionately.

  I tried to lose myself in his embrace, but it felt even more like a lie than saying that I would miss him, especially knowing that several servants were watching us. What was wrong with me? This was what I'd been longing for. Why couldn't I appreciate it now that he kissed me with such fervor? Why did I feel trapped by the hands pressing into my back? I felt like I couldn't breathe in the worst way possible.

  He slowed his advances on my mouth and kissed me softly, almost tenderly. Tenderly enough that I remembered why I had loved him in the first place. I missed the man I had fallen for. I wanted him back.

  When he pulled away I had tears in my eyes.

  He looked on with disapproval, whispering in my ear, "Dry your tears. Remember you are the Lady of the house, not a whimpering child."

  My tears stopped in an instant and I pulled my shoulders back. "Don't worry about me. I will act appropriately, of course. Be safe in your travels, Damian."

  He gave me a peck on the forehead and was gone.

  ***

  I pulled my eyes from the words knifed into my wall and left my room. I returned to Damian's study, picking up where I had left off, sorting book after book. The pile in the middle of the room grew steadily.

  "Princess?" Emeline stood in the door, her apron dusted in flour and sprinkled with batter.

  I reached for another book, shaking it out as I said, "Yes, Emeline?"

  "Come eat."

  My stomach tightened in hunger but I didn't want to eat. However, I was tired of this search that would probably yield nothing. I forced myself to drop the book on my pile before following Emeline's slight figure from the room. She led me toward the dining hall.

  "I have no wish to dine alone in that empty room."

  She looked back and gave me a half smile. "Kitchens, Highness." Emeline always used as few words as possible. I didn't know if it was because she was extraordinarily shy, or because she had worked as a servant since she was four years old and had become a little too adept at blending in with her surroundings.

  She slipped into the kitchen and as I entered behind her, I realized that Beatrice and Cecily were already there, huddled in a corner. They caught sight of me and each bobbed a curtsey. When they raised their heads I saw that both were attempting to suppress grins.

  My heart lightened immediately. I raised my brow, waiting for someone to spill the secret, but they remained mum. "Saints above, girls. Please share, whatever it is."

  "I was trying to allow Emeline"—Cecily bumped Emeline with her hip—"the chance to explain since she's the one that made it, but she clearly doesn't think she can spare the words." She hustled toward me and grabbed my hand to drag me to the table. "Look what she's made for you!" She released me and clutched her hands beneath her chin.

  I scanned the table and my eyes immediately filled with tears.

  Food! Real food. Food that I loved, food that I hadn't been allowed to eat for months! It looked as though dear Emeline had spent the day making a sampling of each of my favorite dishes. Roasted hen, green salad tossed with strawberries and nuts, baked potatoes doused in a dark gravy, pastries! Thank the heavens, she'd made me pastries.

  "Happy liberation day, Mistress." Emeline's tiny voice rang at my elbow, startling a laugh from me, not only because she had volunteered an entire sentence, but because she had turned this day into a holiday. My own personal holiday. I wrapped my arms around her and then dragged Cecily and Beatrice into my embrace as well, laughing and crying, giddy and distraught.

  "Happy liberation day, indeed!" I sang out before kissing each of them on the cheek and demanding that they eat with me. I happily shoved a pastry into my mouth, closing my eyes and letting out a moan as the flaky crust dissolved on my tongue, freeing the sweet cream inside. I would happily eat another later, but first I went for the roasted meat, wanting something to fill my stomach. I ate without a shred of decorum, promising myself that I would reclaim it later, but deciding that on this, my liberation day, I would stuff myself full without a thought for propriety or manners.

  The girls joined me with very little prompting, though I noticed they took care to make sure I got to taste every delectable thing on the table. We didn't use the chairs. Somehow they just didn't seem necessary, or convenient.

  I felt ridiculously happy and content afterwards, so much so that I invited my band of women to follow me back to Damian's study. We each selected a cut crystal decanter and trooped out to the yard. We took turns dousing the second pile of Damian's possessions with the vile fluid. Then I lit a rolled up piece of paper from a lantern and tossed it onto the pile. The girls let out a "huzzah!" And a smile crossed my mouth. I tipped my face to the overcast sky, reveling in the feeling of my breath heaving in and out of my chest as I made the conscious effort to liberate myself, to let Damian go, to set aside the thing he had turned me into.

  I scanned the horizon, noting the road leading away from Bridgefield and wondering when I would let myself leave here, when I would have the courage to return home and admit my absolute failure to my parents. I followed the horizon line up the sloping curve to the top of the hill. Perhaps one day I would climb that hill, explore the horizon.

  Perhaps.

&nb
sp; ***

  I slept with my door open again, and the next morning I ate breakfast with the girls in the kitchen so that I could discuss the immediate needs for the house with Beatrice and Cecily.

  We decided to set about transforming the old wing. We worked steadily for the next several days, and even in that short time, it felt like living in a different house altogether. Most of the rooms faced south, allowing for plenty of sunlight to spill through the windows throughout the day.

  Our first project was a sitting room where I could spend my afternoons. There was a great deal of fuss when I insisted on helping them to arrange the furniture and put everything to rights, but I won them over. "After all," I explained, "you can't expect me to spend all my days alone simply because the entire country believes me to be crazed. I need useful work."

  They relented, and each day I chipped away a little more at the expectations they had for their mistress. I didn't want to rule over them.

  Which is precisely why I insisted on Beatrice, Cecily and Emeline joining me for tea after we had put the finishing touches on my sitting room.

  "Mistress, you really cannot expect us to put on such airs."

  "It's not putting on airs, it's saving me from complete loneliness. So as your mistress, I order you to sit with me and enjoy this lovely assortment of treats that Emeline has created."

  They indulged me, no doubt believing it would be a one-time request. However, they soon came to accept that they were to take tea with me each afternoon. It wasn't only for my benefit. I loved and respected these women. They had saved me in more ways than one, and I wanted to give them something in return, no matter how small the gesture.

  ***

  While tea in my sitting room became commonplace, I also slipped into the habit of taking my midday meal in the kitchen. I smiled with Cecily, matched wits with Beatrice, and developed an almost desperate fondness for Emeline. Perhaps because I saw in her a yearning to love and be loved in return. I saw myself in her.

  It had been six days since Damian's death, and each day I was able to slough off just a little more of the timidity and insecurity that Damian had cultivated.

  I sat at the counter, eating my meal and teasing Emeline for the sole purpose of making her blush, which she did quite easily. Each time her face would flush, she would shake her head and grin, enjoying the game, but ever quiet.

  "I'm nearly finished airing out the drawing room," Beatrice declared as she bustled in.

  I paused, mid-bite. "Why would you air out the drawing room?"

  "Not the new drawing room, Mistress. The old one. I'm determined to have the old wing aired out and functioning as soon as possible. If you ever want to receive guests, I don't want it to be in the blasted new wing." Her eyes cut over to me and she blushed, likely realizing the brashness of her language.

  I laughed as she fussed over brushing something from her skirt, then crossed to wrap my arms around her. "Thank you for doing that for me."

  She harrumphed. "You're not the only one who can't stand that portion of the house."

  I released her and she fixed me with a stern gaze. "You don't have to bow to his wishes anymore; you hear me?"

  "Yes, Beatrice." I kissed her cheek and she waved me off before sitting at the counter to eat.

  I had nearly finished my own meal when there was a pounding on the kitchen door. I froze, unable to control the fear that coursed through me. Emeline simply dusted her hands on her apron and hurried over, lifting the latch and opening it just enough that she could see who was there. She spoke with whoever stood outside for a few moments before opening the door wider so that she could pull a large basket into the room. Then she shut the door and turned back to me, her face puzzled. She returned to the counter and set the basket on top of it. It was overflowing with vegetables that seemed to have been freshly pulled from a garden.

  "It's from your neighbor," she said, a question in her voice.

  "My neighbor?"

  "The boy said it was an offering from Sutton manor."

  How embarrassing that I had neighbors close enough to send over vegetables, and I didn't even recognize the name. "Was the boy young?"

  "Yes."

  The idea of a boy walking all that way touched me in a way I wouldn't have expected. Perhaps I had simply grown unaccustomed to kindness, but it seemed a very significant thing in that moment. "Should I go thank him?"

  She shrugged as if my question weren't an odd one. "If you like."

  I ran to the door, fumbling with the latch before slipping outside and hurrying down the path that rounded the house. The boy wasn't far off. "Hold, young man."

  He turned at my voice and, seeing who I was, whipped off his cap and waited, shifting from foot to foot. He was probably nine or ten, obviously a servant, but well fed and groomed. He gave a nervous bow and a barely audible, "Your Highness."

  I smiled at his polite sweetness and gave him an elegant curtsey in return. "Young man, forgive me for detaining you. I only wanted to thank you for bringing me such a lovely offering."

  "My pleasure, Princess," was his awed reply.

  "You can run along now. I don't want to keep you. Good day, young sir."

  He grinned and bowed once more. "Good day, Princess." He trotted off, but kept looking back over his shoulder, his face lit with a smile.

  I returned to the kitchen, which was at the back of the house, sandwiched between the old and new wing. I was lucky that Damian had insisted we never bother with the old wing. It left it untainted. It had been my escape at times. The kitchen had large doors on both sides, one leading to each wing of the house. I had locked the set of doors that went to the new wing, and once I was finished purging the rooms that Damian had used, I had no intention of crossing into that side of the house ever again. If any visitors came to call—which I hoped to heaven they would not—I would likely have to utilize the front entryway, but that was as far as I would ever have to venture into Damian's territory.

  I sat down once again with Cecily and Beatrice, talking through the tasks to be accomplished in Damian's absence. I needed to write to my family, informing them of my husband's death. I'd been putting it off.

  What could I possibly say? The truth was too terrible to relate in a letter, but the bare facts would make me seem ungrateful and callous. Still, I couldn't allow them to find out through some other source, and I had let too much time pass already. So as soon as I returned to my room, I sat, and I wrote.

  Dear Father and Mother,

  I do not know how to share this news without being abrupt, so I won't try. My husband has passed on. He ran afoul of a man in town and during their tussle ended up falling beneath the hooves of a passing horse.

  You may think it shameful of me, and please forgive me, but I will not be attending the funeral. My marriage was not a happy one, and I am afraid that I hold too much resentment and anger to allow me to pretend as though his passing brings me sorrow. And it doesn't. Instead I am relieved.

  Does that makes me a terrible person? Maybe it does, and for that I am sorry.

  I am attempting to rebuild a life for myself here, to piece it back together and turn it into something that makes sense. Please be happy for me. Or at least try to understand. My life has not been what it seems. Damian was not the man I thought him to be. Please understand.

  Marilee

  I sent it, ill at ease, but desperately wanting to hear some kind of validation from my family.

  Chapter Three

  I DIPPED MY spoon into the bowl, pulling out another delectable glob of sweetened preserves. I turned it upside down so it landed directly on my tongue and closed my eyes, sighing as the flavor swirled in my mouth.

  Curse Damian for keeping sweets from me.

  I opened my eyes to see Cecily stifling her laughter as she sat across the table from me. "Enjoying yourself, are you?"

  I grinned around my spoon, then pulled it out. "I love food."

  Cecily helped herself to a spoonful. "I'm guessing the mast
er knew that, which is why he kept it from you."

  Beatrice looked up from her place beside Cecily, and though she remained silent, I could see her lips thinning as she jabbed her needle into her work.

  "No need to call him the master. You can call him 'the beast' for all I care. And as for why he kept food from me," I shrugged. "I've given up on trying to figure the whys of his actions. However, I do know that he preferred my figure with fewer curves."

  "Is that why you're so much smaller now than when you came?"

  I stared into the bowl. "At first it was a choice. I was trying to please him. Then the sadness made me lose my appetite, and Damian's food restrictions did their damage as well." I dug out another spoonful of heaven and saluted Emeline with it to acknowledge a job well done. "I look forward to undoing that damage."

  Emeline blushed and focused on the dough she was rolling out while Cecily and I both laughed. Our merriment cut off when a knock reverberated through the house. We looked to the doorway of the kitchen, where the sound had filtered down from the main hall.

  Beatrice stood. "I'll just see who that might be." She made a quick exit while I sat with a spoon still hanging from my mouth.

  No one had come to call in the week since Damian had died. I had expected it, dreading having to entertain or in any way deal with people that I didn't know when I could barely hold myself together. However, the knock made me curious. Who would dare enter the lair of the mad witch?

  I stood, heading for the entryway, wanting to see for myself. I tiptoed the last few feet and leaned around the corner, spoon still in hand. I caught a glimpse of a gentleman as he entered the drawing room. Beatrice closed the door after him and then ran back toward me. I stepped out, but she grabbed my arm and pulled me out of sight.

  "Who is it?"

  "Your neighbor." She confiscated my spoon and scrubbed the corner of my mouth with her apron. "He wants a visit, and we've got to make you presentable. Cecily, get some hair pins, quick!" She spun me around, pulling the few remaining pins from my hair and uncoiling the braids.