Sins of the Father (Bloody Marytown Book 1)

by Mansell, Lucie J.

  The heavy door opened inwards. She got a surprise, though it was probably not as acute as the shock experienced by the woman that stood in the doorway.

  Martha had not seen Esther Adamson for over a decade but the woman had changed only in the addition of silvery streaks in her short, wavy blonde hair and the adoption of wide-rimmed spectacles which emphasised the astonishment in her expressive, blue eyes. Her lips parted as if to speak, then clamped shut in a tight, line as if she were afraid of whatever expletive she might let slip. She had always had been the prudent type and clearly she could not discern what suitable greeting she should offer her long-lost, once presumed dead and since absent niece.

  Acknowledging that she was going to have to communicate first, Martha offered a small wave of her right hand and explained, ‘Amanda called me. I came as soon as I could.’

  ‘Oh…’ Esther shook her head as if physically recouping her wits. ‘Of course. Come in. Get in out of that rain before you catch your death.’ An interesting turn of phrase.

  She reached out and almost dragged the younger woman over the threshold, hurriedly scanning the area to check, Martha thought, whether the any of the neighbours had witnessed their prodigal black lamb darken the doorstep. Sealing them inside, she cordially added, ‘It is good you’re here. Your sister will be pleased.’

  Martha couldn’t be sure if either of those sentiments were true but nodded regardless as she gazed around the reception hall. Nothing had changed. Not the eggshell paint that had been sloshed over the stone walls nor the mismatched tiled flooring. Not the threadbare crimson rug, that unmistakable ‘red-brick road’ that led upstairs nor the robust pinewood banister rail that she had oft gotten her backside tanned for sliding down. A plethora of pictures graced the walls. Portrait, painting, photograph - the entire Ford family history laid out bare. Her eyes rolled over each frame in admiration and respect but that quintessential feeling of home was curiously absent, like she was standing in a museum of her life and appreciating the artwork. She could recall every item on show with an acute clarity but it felt as though they were well crafted replicas of the things she once knew. They didn’t belong to her. Not anymore.

  She realised that she had fallen into her own brooding little world when Esther let out a small, very polite, cough. She also realised that she now seemed to be missing one rain-soaked jacket, suddenly hung up on the nearby coat rack and that the large pack that she had been carrying had been placed on the floor by her feet. Because she had no idea whether or not her aunt had spoken to her, she asked, ‘Is Amanda here?’

  ‘She is working this evening at the local gallery. Your sister is a very talented artist.’

  ‘Oh…’ she sighed, unable to mask the surprise from her voice. The last time she had physically seen her younger sibling, she had been a cherubic seven year old who played with dolls and made far too much noise in the mornings when she was trying to sleep.

  ‘I shall call her to let her know that you have arrived.’

  ‘No, that’s alright.’ Martha shook her head. ‘I can go to meet her. It’s not a problem.’

  Esther looked her wet and slightly shivery niece up and down through narrowed eyes, as if she were trying to decipher just what kind of crazy person would head back out into the rain if they did not have to. Eventually, she shrugged and stated, ‘You will have a hot drink before you do. And I presume you would like to see your mother? That’s why you’re here, after all.’

  ‘Is she…?’ A sudden lump ensnared the remaining words as Martha thought about the two energy signatures she had sensed from outside. Given the eerily despondent summons that had brought her back, she had assumed that it was Amanda that was the one in need.

  The older woman shook her head, lips pursed.

  ‘I…’ Martha suddenly felt as though her chest was constricting. ‘May I see her?’

  ‘Of course, dear,’ Esther responded, a sympathy in her eyes that was almost certainly genuine. ‘But you must understand that she is not… What I mean is that there are some days were she is perfectly lucid, talking and responsive. Others… well, you will see for yourself.’

  The sitting room that her mother was in was up the wide staircase and down the far end of the hall, as the name suggested, to the rear of the house. Martha was vaguely aware that, once again, little had changed in regards to the décor but once the door was open, her vision narrowed down to the only thing in the room that had any significance. A middle-aged lady, sitting in a cushioned rocking chair, staring vacantly out of the wide, bay window at a garden being battered by high winds. Her mother, Gale.

  Whilst the ladies of her family were often considered slender, Mrs. Ford had become painfully thin. Lengthy hair that many had considered black but found themselves being firmly informed was dark russet because of its naturally occurring blonde and red highlights, still fell in unruly curls but rather than lush, it appeared wiry and lacklustre. Her hands sat in her lap, so tightly clasped that they had become somewhat mottled. Her skin was unduly pale.

  Swallowing down a hard lump, Martha stepped further into the room, leaving her Aunt Esther lingering pensively in the doorway. With each step, she began to notice how musty the room had become, how dim the lighting was. The Gale Ford that she remembered adored light and aired rooms out constantly when she was not precariously perched up on a stool with a can of polish and a brightly coloured feather duster. Something had gone very wrong.

  Going down onto her haunches beside her mother’s chair, Martha gently reached out and tentatively touched one of her taut hands, speaking softly, ‘Gale..?’

  If the woman felt the contact or heard her words, she did not react to them.

  ‘Mother?’ She tried again, a little firmer. ‘It’s Martha. I’m here… I came to see you.’

  Nothing.

  Martha bowed her head, tried not to let the sudden rush of long buried emotion and guilt overwhelm her. From the doorway, Esther softly spoke. ‘I’m so sorry, sweetheart.’

  She shook her head, waved the woman away. As the door softly closed shut, leaving her alone with the mother she had long ago left behind, Martha fought the urge to cry and plead for forgiveness. Her mother deserved better. She swallowed down all of the words that burned deep in her chest, explanations for all of the things that she should have done but didn’t along with all of the memories that she had long buried. As valid as they were, it felt like excuses, a grasping justification for the gaping emotional wound that she had inflicted upon this wonderful woman.

  So much about this situation was hard but what distressed her the most was not the gaunt, ashen appearance of that once kindly face but the utter emptiness in her copper brown eyes.

  More than simply dazed. Haunted.

  Chapter 3

  ‘How long has she been… like that?’ Martha asked, some time later.

  ‘Since your father’s sudden passing,’ Esther said.

  They were sitting at a robust oak table in the dining room, located on the opposite side of the hall. The older woman had served tea but it sat untouched in front of them. ‘We have been keeping her to a daily routine – up, washed and dressed, making her meals though she barely eats. On a good day, she might request something specific, like a piece of music she wants to listen to or book she would like read to her. Amanda sits for hours, reciting old poetry to her. Mostly she simply chooses to sit at that window, gazing out over the garden as if she’s waiting for it all to end. Grief can be a debilitating burden and Gale has suffered more than most.’

  She stopped abruptly, adopting a more sympathetic tone. ‘I know you had your reasons for doing what you did but I don’t believe that your mother ever gave up hope that you would come back home. She refused to mourn for you when you were lost, refused to clear out your old bedroom after you were found. Of course, Mr. Ford had other ideas. He went in there one day while she was at a charity function and packed things up. She was livid! Didn’t speak to him for over a month…’ She sighed, a little sadly. ‘Eve
n then, I don’t think she ever forgave him. Not really.’

  Feeling completely bewildered, Martha simply sat where she was throughout her aunt’s cheerless recollection. Another wrench of guilt pulled at her from deep within at the unwavering sense of dedication that her mother had shown in her continued absence. She had never given up hope and that courage had been rewarded with nothing but long, deathly silence. It wasn’t fair. Any of it. But the situation was more heartrending and complicated than she could possibly find the words to explain. Especially not to Esther, who seemingly mistook her pained expression for bereavement, softly exclaiming, ‘Oh, how inconsiderate of me. Going on about all of that nonsense like it was old news. This must be an awful lot for you to take in.’

  ‘No,’ Martha shrugged. ‘It’s fine.’

  The truth was, while the revelation that her mother’s husband had passed was not exactly old news, she felt absolutely nothing that resembled sorrow for his death. In fact, if she could be brutally honest, she might admit to herself that she was relieved not to be facing a reunion with the man. Such a thing would be best left to the afterlife. He could reserve a seat for her in Hell.

  Right next to his own rigid, cushionless armchair.

  ‘How did it happen?’ she enquired, voice very even. ‘And when?’

  ‘A little under a month ago. He fell from an upstairs window.’

  ‘Fell?’

  Esther nodded, holding a curious rush of emotion back with pursed lips. ‘Fell.’

  ‘Was he drunk?’

  The enquiry was met with a hard stare and left unanswered but it was not needed. History told enough of a story for the two of them to know the likely truth. It would not have even been the first time that Mr. Ford had suffered an ‘accident’ because he had been too damn drunk to take care of himself. If you live by the bottle, you died by the bottle and the old man had lived a life soaked in whiskey long enough for the reaper to call time on his bar tab.

  ‘Gale found him,’ Esther declared instead. ‘That’s what caused her breakdown.’

  Martha bit back her displeasure and nodded. Glancing over at a sturdy, dark oak sideboard, she observed a picture of the couple when they were newlywed. She had often pondered what on earth the young and exceptionally lovely looking Gale Valentine had seen in the man that she had pledged her life to. It was unfathomable to believe that he was ever deserving of her admiration but love him she had. Enough to wed, raise her children and remain loyal to for almost thirty years of domestic mediocrity. Poor woman. It was not a sin to fall in love with the wrong man but you sure as hell could be punished as if it were.

  She had once told her inquisitive little daughter, ‘You live the life you have chosen.’ Over the years that she had been away, Martha had learned that there was a lot of truth in that statement but whenever she thought of her wonderful mother and the life that she had chosen for herself, all she felt was an empathic pang of regret. While her own life was far from perfect, she had learned to take some pride in the accomplishments that she had made, both in herself and her other commitments. Sitting in the ringside seat she had inadvertently booked for her parent’s marriage, she simply could not see how her mother could ever have felt the same. But then again, that was surely another thing to be admired. A lesser woman might have re-evaluated her circumstances, sought out a more gratifying life. But as brutishly difficult as her husband could be, Gale Ford had accepted her lot, heeded her own wise words and lived the life that she had chosen, unwittingly empowering her daughter to do the same.

  ‘…get you anything to eat?’ Esther was asking, making Martha realise that she had again tuned her aunt out. ‘I can put some supper together. You look as though you could do with getting a decent meal down you.’

  Ignoring that comment, Martha shook her head, ‘I’m not hungry.’

  Esther hesitated, then hedged, ‘If you’re sure…’

  She was sure. Muttering a quiet thank-you because she didn’t know what else to say, Martha pushed herself out of the cushioned dining chair and stood, becoming a little frustrated when the other woman aped her movement, as if she might shadow her, offering food and cups of tea until she felt less uneasy about her sudden presence within a home she allegedly had been noticeably absent from. Very firmly, Martha stated, ‘I am going to see Amanda.’

  She left quickly before Esther could ask any more awkward questions. As grateful as she was for the sacrifices that her aunt had seemingly made, she could not summon the energy to sit longer under her narrow-eyed scrutiny. As deeply as she felt the desire to cast aside anything or anybody that made her uneasy, it would be selfish to cause any more discomfort to the people who had been there while she had not. After all, this was not about her. It was about Gale.

  Her mother was in a bad way and she longed to mend the gaping emotional wound that she had helped to create but she did not even know how to start, let alone how to repair all of the damage that had been done. She needed more information. She needed the insight of the person that this terrible situation affected the most. That would mean another reunion after far too many years but it needed to happen. This was something that she could not do alone.

  Grabbing her jacket, she shut the front door softly behind her, gazing up at the sky. The rain had fortunately eased to a light shower, a stroke of luck that she wasn’t sure she deserved.

  Chapter 4

  In the diminishing evening light, the Marytown Art Gallery cut an impressive figure. Situated at the end of a rolling set of public gardens, flourishing with wildflower beds, it was constructed from classic white stone blocks that had battled and beaten the elements, proudly beckoning the public to come forth and discover if it were as majestic inside as out. The glass dome roof had a flag pole pushed through its apex like the lone candle of a stereotypical birthday cake. The entrance was set into the front of the building, behind a shelter of enormous columns that could be reached ascending three steps that were so wide they could have been called ledges.

  Martha pulled one of the reinforced glass doors and stepped out of the rain into an airy spherical foyer that utilised the underbelly of that huge glass dome as its ceiling. Ornate sconces graced the walls at precisely measured intervals, atmospherically illuminating the deep alcoves that fringed the room. Bronze busts had been set within each space, staring blankly out at their newest guest with a scrutiny that she couldn’t help but feel uncomfortable with. Eerie.

  Before she had the opportunity to escape, she found herself confronted by a tall, wiry young man who reminded her of a toy soldier puppet whose strings had been cut but had never lost the ability to stand to attention. Donning a uniform of black trousers, a pressed white shirt and smart burgundy button-down vest, his demeanour was professionally affable as he greeted her with a well-rehearsed speech about the ‘wonderful’ Marytown Art Gallery, informing her that the museum was closing within the hour but that she should still feel free to browse at her leisure and visit the gift shop, should she wish so.

  ‘Actually,’ she replied, hating to derail his enthusiasm. ‘I am looking for Amanda Ford. I was told that she was working here tonight.’

  ‘She’s in the studio,’ he informed her, seemingly not missing a beat. ‘They are not open to the public but I can go down and get her. Who might I say is visiting her?’

  ‘Her sister.’

  That made him hesitate for a beat but he quickly recovered, ‘…Right. Give me a moment and I shall tell her that you are here.’

  He disappeared through a set of impressively large doors and into a room filled with free-standing displays and gilded-framed artwork. Two semi-nude marble statues of what appeared to be male angels guarded the door like impassive sentries. Left to her own devices, Martha slowly eased her way in passed them and meandered around the main exhibition floor. Having never been a comfortable member of the artsy fartsy world that her father and now seemingly her sister thrived within, she could appreciate the unique collection of art, ceramics and sculpture but could hardly
go as far as to call it wonderful. In fact, she had always found it pretentious and would deliberately act out if Mr Ford had a business function at the gallery that required his family to accompany him until he quite brusquely demanded that she go and find a muddy hill to roll down instead. She had always been such a disappointment in his eyes.

  Off the main hall were smaller exhibition rooms. Martha found herself aimlessly drifting into one that had painted deep blue walls, almost completely flanked by display cases. A wide bird’s eye painting of a castle surrounded by hills adorned the wall opposite the doorway. Hung over it were two crests, the first depicting a small bird picking a plum-like berry from a barren branch while the other boasted a masculine hand clutching a single, blood-red rose. In between the crests scrolled the words, ‘Marytown. Est. 1799.’

  Martha rolled her eyes. Such local pride felt overtly pompous. Sure, the town had a history and not all of it was as dark and twisted as she had come to learn but the boasting felt just a little bit too forced, like the machinations of a theatrical magician making a spectacle out of his act to distract from the lie hidden behind the sequins and flashy lights. Something was amiss and if you watched closely, you might see the sleight of hands that made up the trick. Just an illusion.

  The display cases were filled with antiques, ranging from intricately engraved bowls and spoons to small pieces of artwork, from figurines to weaponry. A dagger in the second case on the left caught her eye. Sheathed in black, visibly personalised embellishments sparkled off an elaborately crafted silver hilt. The letters ‘EB’ were carved into the handle, so pristine that she was almost certain that it had never been used in battle, much less to hunt. Such a waste.

  In the adjacent case, amongst many other trinkets, sat a small painting the size of a postcard. Set into a thin gold and black frame, it depicted an astonishingly beautiful blonde noblewoman standing upon a hillside, gazing out over a small collection of buildings with a winsome look upon her face. She wore a long, flowing pink and white gown and her delicate hand was raised, curled up by her heart, prominently displaying the ring upon her dainty finger.