She followed Arthur up the stairs and into the attic, thinking that surely he would stop at any moment and turn around. He would lead them back down and tell her that he had made a mistake in even thinking of taking her up there. He would reinforce to her that she shouldn’t be asking for such things, and she would regret having ever said anything about the fact that he kept secrets from her all the time.
But he didn’t turn around, and they didn’t go back.
They ascended the stairs and reached a humble wooden door. Arthur hesitated here. “I have to ask you not to touch anything without permission,” he said. “And if I say it’s time for us to leave, you must comply at once without making demands or asking questions.”
“I can do that,” Isabella agreed. She was so overcome by the fact that she was going to see what was in the attic at last that she would have agreed to almost anything.
Arthur drew a deep breath, opened the door, and stepped inside.
The light in this room was very dim. There was only one small window up near the ceiling admitting a bit of moonlight from outside, and Arthur hadn’t bothered to bring a lantern to help illuminate things for them. It took a moment for Isabella’s eyes to adjust. Once they had, she blinked several times, looking around.
She couldn’t quite make sense of what she was seeing. She had expected to come up here and be immediately taken aback by something—to understand at once why this room was a secret. But now that she stood here, she felt more confused about it than ever.
Most of the floor was taken up by trunks—old wooden ones, smelling of cedar and mine. They weren’t especially ornate, for the most part, though one that stood in the corner seemed particularly fine.
There was a rack of gowns underneath the window. The styles were old-fashioned, but they were beautiful, and Isabella felt an immediate urge to run to them and pull each one out to admire their beauty. She had been warned not to touch anything, though, so she tucked her hands into her skirts and stood still.
There was a shelf full of books here as well. This, Isabella felt free to approach, for she could peruse the titles without putting her hands on anything. She scanned them, trying to figure out why they had been placed up here—why weren’t they a part of the regular library? But she couldn’t figure it out. Whatever the reason was, she couldn’t put her finger on it just by looking.
She turned back to Arthur and a question died on her lips at the sight of the heartache on his face. “Arthur…” she said softly.
“I never come up here,” he murmured. “I don’t like this.”
“Tell me why,” she implored him, anxious to be of help.
“These were my parents’ things,” he explained. “I put them up here after they died. I couldn’t stand to look at them anymore. Those books belonged to my father. Everything that’s in the library downstairs I collected on my own, but these things were his. There’s a part of me that would like to read the books that mattered to my father—it would feel like talking to him. But every time I look at these things, I feel as if my heart is cracking. That’s why I keep them in the attic where I don’t have to see them or think about them and where I can pretend that they don’t exist. I think I would throw them away if I had the strength to do it, but I don’t.”
“It’s good that you haven’t done that,” Isabella said softly. “I can see the pain they cause you, but I think you might miss these things if you discarded them, Arthur. I would hate for that to happen.”
“It’s not right that I keep everything like this,” he replied. “Not when I can’t bring myself to even look at these things. I shouldn’t have this treasure trove up here that I can’t even visit.”
“It’s normal that you do. I have so many things of my mother’s,” Isabella observed. “I know Felicity does too. And we both wish we had more—more than the little trinkets we were able to rescue when our father was clearing the house of everything that reminded him of her.”
“Did he really do that?”
“His wife—my stepmother, Rosalind’s mother—didn’t like that he had loved a maid. It was bad enough, in her eyes, that Felicity and I were there as a constant reminder of our mother. Anything else she had ever touched had to go. It was as if her presence was a blight upon our house that had to be gotten rid of. Having seen that happen, I can only say that it’s good that you haven’t erased your parents from your life in the same way. I think you would suffer for it if you had. I’m glad you have this room where you can sit and feel close to them, but I’m sorry it causes you such grief to be here.”
“How could it not?”
Isabella hesitated. “Do you truly want my thoughts?”
“I do.”
“If we worked on it, we could make this room a place that was comfortable and pleasant to visit,” she said. “Imagine an armchair here in the corner beside the books. I understand why you don’t want to have these books down in your library where the sight of them can catch you by surprise. But what if you could choose, when the mood struck you, to come up here and sit in a quiet place to read something of your father’s? You could choose to be close to him for a little while, and then, when you had had enough, you could go back downstairs.”
“I must admit, that idea has appeal,” Arthur said.
“I don’t know what’s in these trunks,” Isabella said, gesturing at them. “But perhaps some of these things could be unpacked. Set around the room. It wouldn’t be so difficult to turn this room into a place that looked as if it belonged to your mother and father. And then, when you felt like it, you could come up here to be with them. That would be nice, wouldn’t it?”
Arthur bit his lip, looking uncertain.
“Don’t listen to me if these are not good ideas,” Isabella said quickly. “You must do whatever feels right to you, of course.”
“No,” Arthur replied. “Your ideas are wonderful. It’s just that it’s such a big change for me. I’ve always handled my feelings about these things by locking them away, so the idea of letting them out and putting them on display seems very counter-intuitive. But it’s also lovely to think that Icoulddo such a thing. That I could surround myself with the memories of when my family was alive and feel as if they were with me. I always told myselfthat was simply an option I no longer had, but it’s not true, is it? There are ways for me to feel close to them.”
“I think a part of you must have always known that,” Isabella pointed out quietly. “There’s no other reason to have kept all these things for all this time, is there? Other than the fact that you felt they connected you to your family.”
Arthur turned his back on Isabella for a moment.
