Where I forget that he ever existed.
Chapter
Sixty
THREE AND A HALF YEARS LATER
“Sit still, my cherub.”
Mary squirms in Lizzie’s lap beneath the wisteria in Granny Maggie’s cottage garden. My garden.
“You’ve been so good,” I continue. “I’m almost finished.”
Lizzie lifts a thigh from the stone bench. “Thank goodness.”
“You too, Mummy,” I scold, and Mary giggles, repeating the admonishment back to her mother. Who responds by tickling her.
I laugh, wait for them to still so I can finish their portrait—a lovely piece of mother and daughter surrounded by a waterfall of soft purple. It’s been unseasonably warm in the southlands, and even now at the end of March, the flowers have opened.
I feel a bit like those flowers myself, overeager to spread my petals after a cold, harsh winter.
Three years ago, something terrible happened to me. To this day, I have no memory of what it was.
Lizzie’s husband Charles found me in the woods behind Stillwater, babbling and confused, dressed only in a damp chemise and asking if I had missed the ball at Bolton manor. An event which had occurred more than two years prior.
I was carrying a pink sketchbook, covered in bruises, my wounds bandaged. Which was odd because I was completely alone.
I spent months convalescing at Stillwater, subjected to a rotating cast of William’s colleagues from Harbridge. None could discern what caused me to lose two year’s worth of memories.
And a marriage, apparently.
When Lizzie told me I had visited Stillwater with my husband the week before my strange arrival in those woods, you could have knocked me over with a feather. She blushed as she scrolled through the pages of my sketchbook.
“His name was Lachlan Cathal.” She held up a drawing of a very handsome man with unbound auburn hair, a literal knight in shining armour, sleeping against the trunk of a weeping willow. Unmistakably drawn by my hand. “You were quite enamored with each other. Do you really not remember him at all? Nor what might have happened to him?”
I cried myself to sleep that night, crippled by a grief so tectonic, my hollow mind could barely comprehend it.
Uncle Edward solicited King James to launch a nationwide manhunt. He even contacted a few of the dukes on the continent, trying to find the one for whom Lachlan had claimed to work. But no trace of Mr. Cathal was ever found. If Lizzie and Charles and William and Imogene hadn’t been so adamant and consistent in their memories of him, I might wonder if I hadn’t just made him up.
I’d pore over the sketchbook sometimes; it held the most prurient, wonderful illustrations. It was hard to believe thewoman in them was me. Though on long, chilled nights that winter, I wanted nothing more fervently than to remember even a snippet of one.
On many of the pages, and depending on the angle, Lachlan appeared to have elongated ears and very sharp incisors. I wondered what would have inspired me toward such an artistic choice.
I did get better. There was nothing wrong with my body; the bruises faded short weeks after my misadventure, as Lizzie and I had taken to calling it. And when I began yearning for those specific reassurances of life that come from contact with one’s fellow humans, I knew my spirits had caught up.
I attended a few Seasonal balls the next spring, but found I had absolutely no desire to marry. Or re-marry, I suppose. I still don’t—not even at my far-past-marriageable age of thirty-two. I had a few sweet, simple affairs with sweet, simple men. None lasted more than a month or two. It’s as if there’s some barrier around my heart, a fortress protecting a secret so fragile I dare not even share it with myself.
I spent three full turns of the Season at Stillwater, leaving only to visit Cranford Manor, the lodge a few towns over that Charles built for Lizzie and their family. They’ve only Mary, but are eager for more little ones. Charles is a nurturer at heart; he cried a little when I mused over taking back custody of Esmeralda. In the end, it felt too cruel to force him to part with her.
It was a pleasant time in my life, marred only by a simmering, ever-present panic; like I had forgotten something gravely important. Something I never wanted to forget.
This spring, I decided I was ready to leave Stillwater, reclaim my inheritance, and make a life for myself in Granny’s cottage in the southlands. I’ve spent the past three years perfecting my craft; my portrait skills in particular have vastly improved. Icreated one for Charles; it’s displayed proudly at Cranford and has earned me several large commissions. Enough to sustain myself for a little while, at least.
It will be a small life. But it will bemylife. I am quite looking forward to it.
Lizzie and Mary accompanied me on the trip down and have been here for the past two weeks helping me get settled. Lizzie is anxious to return home, especially since the Season opens this evening. She’s going to miss the ball—she’s told me no less than twenty-four times. The same number of times I’ve expressed my gratitude.
This portrait is my thanks.
