I only make them suffer the stillness for another ten minutes or so. I can add the final touches once they’ve gone. And it will be nice to have an excuse to visit when the piece is finished.
Wheels and hooves thump down the dirt road leading to the cottage, and the time has come to say goodbye. Though I’m reluctant to lose their company, I am looking forward to some time alone.
Over the past three years, I have been poked and prodded and coddled and encouraged and interviewed and accompanied and feted and monitored and, god help me,includedin everything. It was wonderful. I am quite over it.
I am ready to familiarize myself with that particular cadence of solitude. Ready to let my mind wander. Perhaps within the idleness, I might find a few of my lost memories.
The carriage stops before the cottage, and Mary waves at the driver.
“Are you sure you’ll be alright?” Lizzie asks, pressing her hand to her bonnet to keep the wind from stealing it. “We can stay a few more days, if you’d like. Midnight is the equinox; what if a beast emerges from the woods to snatch you?”
The curl of her lips tells me she’s joking, while her furrowed brow reveals she’s only offering out of politeness. She’s desperate to return north before she misses more than the opening ball.
“I’ll be fine.” I grab her hands. “Having you and Mary with me has been wonderful, but I’m sure Charles misses you both terribly. Esmeralda is not the most engaging company. It’s time for me to give you back.”
She wraps me in a hug, relief softening her features. “Come visit us at Cranford whenever you’d like. You’ve an open invitation; I mean it.” She turns over her shoulder. “Mary! Come say goodbye to Auntie Charlotte!”
I am not her aunt, but Lizzie insisted on the title. It’s sweet, really.
Mary toddles over on carefree limbs and I squat down as she leaps into my arms. “Oof!” She wraps tiny hands around the back of my neck, her sweet breath stirring my curls. “Be a good cherub for your Mummy, yes?” I say loudly, then whisper, “But promise me you’ll be a wicked one sometimes, too.”
She giggles before pressing a wet kiss to my cheek, then scurries over to terrorize the horses.
Lizzie’s conferring with the driver, who rounds the carriage struggling with a large, wrapped parcel. She smiles impishly as he lugs it into the cottage.
“What is that?” I ask.
“Mother bought a hideous neoclassical battle scene from some Gaulish artist that will span the entire back wall of the south gallery. She’s re-arranging everything at Stillwater, but I convinced her this one belongs here with you. You were quite fond of it, weren’t you?”
I hug them both once more, then send them off in a swirling cloud of dirt.
When I re-enter the cottage, the silence knocks me sideways. It’s what I wanted, but the lack of laughter and chatter will take some getting used to.
The wrapped painting leans against the wall, and I stare at it for longer than perhaps could be considered normal. I’m not afraid to unwrap it, per se, it’s just … I don’t have a name for the churning emptiness I’m feeling. Is it hunger, perhaps?
I make some tea and arrange a platter of cold chicken, crusty bread, and the last of the pickles Lizzie brought from Cranford. I eat, staring at the painting even longer, trying to ascertain where this odd, uncanny ache in my chest is coming from.
Lazy afternoon sun crawls up the table legs when, at last, I gain the courage to unwrap it. I cut the twine, then carefully slice through the paper.
The Knight Departshas the same powerful effect on me as always. I am overcome by the poignant tenderness between the knight and his lady. But there’s a note of bitter, bone-deep melancholy that I swear I’ve never felt before. My fingers shake as I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear.
I pullThe Knight Departsaway from the wall, intending to examine the hardware on the back, and find a letter nestled in the bottom corner of the frame.
It’s less a letter and more a booklet, thick and brown with age. On the cover, in Granny Maggie’s familiar, forward-slanting scrawl, is written:
To Margaret, From Margaret
I frown at the strange manner of her address, then walk back to my tea and begin reading.
It is nearlymidnight when I finish my third re-read of the letter. Which is more like a short novel.
Granny Maggie’s—Margaret Bowles’s—original faerie story.
An epic adventure of magic rings and celestial courts and handsome dukes with pointed ears and horns. I have the strangest sense of déja vu as I’m reading.
Has she told me this story before? And why can I hear certain passages, smell and taste others, as if I’ve lived them myself?
Several times within the text, she makes mention of friends she made there, though she never names them. As if to do so would be too painful.
