Box Set: The ArringtonTrilogy (71 page)

I lay in bed that night and remembered how
fond Momma was of Hattie. They must have shared a wonderful, close
friendship if Momma had kept Hattie in her thoughts throughout her
years of madness. I pictured her as pretty as I could tell Abigail
once was. I suspected Hattie ran away to gain her freedom, just as
Momma had. I hoped she would someday soon come back to Sutton Hall.
I hoped she would share stories with me and tell me what Momma was
really like as a young girl. Maybe she knew Daddy, too. And I hoped
Hattie would be the one to reveal all of the secrets that Sutton
Hall kept under lock and key, hidden from me for all the years I
had been mercilessly abandoned and shut away.

_______________

Warren was relentless in his pursuit to win
back my affections. It took nearly four weeks before he finally
changed my mind and I was no longer angry at him.

I woke one morning to a small present left
with a note beside my plate. I hurried and opened the small box to
reveal a beautiful broach with a hand painted portrait of a
beautiful woman on it.

In the note he apologized once again and told
me he was going up north to buy the piece of land he would build
our house on. He said he loved me and would be back in a few weeks,
then ended the letter with, “
I hope you can find it in your
heart to forgive me.”

I was overwhelmed by the gesture and
immediately regretted all the weeks I had harbored such animosity
towards him. After all, he was on his way to Cape Cod to make a
first big step towards our future together. We would have a house
someday, up north, where I could sink my feet into the cool sand
every day and watch vessels make their way across the ocean. The
brisk, salty air would fill my lungs every morning and I would
never again take that for granted.

I waited impatiently for Warren’s return. I
couldn’t wait to tell him I, too, was sorry and that I never wanted
to have another cross day with him again. I was relieved that he
still fought for my devotion and refused to let go, though I had
callously shunned him. And although the days went by at a snail’s
pace, I kept busy with the few books I periodically stole from
Grandmother’s library downstairs, off the sitting room. I was
careful not to be caught, and when I took a book, I replaced one.
Usually I took one in the middle of the night or when she went into
Savannah.

Then there was the time I stole out of my
room with only a small candle in the darkness of a mid-autumn night
to try the doors of the dozens of rooms, to see if, perhaps, any
had been left unlocked. The house had cooled off; the weather had
been below normal temperatures all week. The nights were almost
frigid and every fireplace but mine was burning and casting eerie
shadows on the towering walls. I slowly wandered about on the first
floor, then went back upstairs and proceeded to Grandmother’s wing.
I hadn’t stepped foot in that hall since I had seen
Grandfather.

The floor creaked, and I held my breath with
every step. I moved slowly until I came to her door. I hurried past
and giggled to myself. It was fun taking chances; it was my way of
having an adventure of my own. I wanted to get to the door at the
end of the hall, the one I was drawn to. I looked closely at the
lock and realized it was broken, so I quietly turned the knob and
crept up the dark, narrow stairway to the third floor, the attic.
The top story covered the entire span of the mansion, and I could
only see what was directly in front of me.

Clutter was everywhere; the attic filled with
items I couldn’t wait to look through. I lifted my candle and gazed
at the trunks that lined the thick beams that supported the roof.
There were old, broken Windsor chairs scattered about and clothes
everywhere. I spotted three crinolines, some old French hats, a
pair of children’s gloves, and dozens of ball gowns. There were
old, muddy boots in a small pile in the center of the floor, and
near them, on a nail, was what looked to be a blood-stained
Confederate’s uniform.

When I tried to open the trunks, all but one
was locked. That particular trunk was filled with money! There must
have been thousands of dollars inside. I picked up a pile and
peered closely at it, then realized it was all worthless
Confederate money. At one time, the Arringtons must have been
wealthy beyond my imagination. Now they were virtually penniless,
struggling to put a morsel of food on the table. I went back and
tried to open one of the other trunks; I played with the lock and
tugged hard, but it was no use. Then, underneath, I caught a
glimpse of a photograph sticking out.

I reached down and carefully pulled the
photograph out from under the trunk, then brought the candle up to
it. The photograph was taken of Sutton Hall in its glory days; it
appeared to be some sort of event or celebration from before the
war ravaged the South. I couldn’t quite make out the people in the
scene; the photographer must have been far away. Slaves and ladies
and gentleman stood about. The women relaxing in front of the
mansion, beneath the familiar magnolia trees, wore beautiful
dresses with enormous crinolines that filled out their skirts.
Their hair was done in ringlets and curls, and the men conversed
with each other in frock coats, trousers, boots, and very dapper
top hats. Two men stood on the front porch, side by side. I
recognized my grandfather in the photograph, but no one else, no
matter how I concentrated.

I placed the photograph in the pocket of my
skirt and decided I had seen enough for now, and slowly made my way
back to the staircase. I heard the door creak open and saw the glow
from a candle coming up. Alarmed, I crouched in the nearest corner
and hid behind one of the trunks. I watched Abigail creep up the
stairs and stop at the landing. She walked further ahead, stopped
in the center of the attic, and then placed the candle on the seat
of a chair. For a moment she was silent, then, as if in some kind
of a trance, she called in a whisper, “Jacob-Thomas, your momma is
here.”

I waited anxiously, holding my breath to see
what would happen next. She called out again, then straightened her
spine and looked to the end of the expansive room, and I heard the
childlike laugh for the first time.

“Come here, my boy,” she said, lifting the
candle and sitting down in an old, worn chair.

I eased up a little to get a better look then
froze as the ghost of a young boy appeared from the darkness. He
appeared to float across the floor until he reached Abigail, then
he stopped. With angst-filled eyes, she reached out for him then
the spirit laughed again, and in a blink of an eye, was gone.
Abigail lowered her head into her hands and began to weep. After so
many years, she still cried for the boy who had been taken from
her. I wondered what had happened to Jacob-Thomas. What had caused
him to lose his life at such a young age? Whatever had left a boy
dead at such a young age must have been horrible.

Abigail sobbed in silence as the night
passed, and I suspected it might possibly have been a nightly
ritual. Then she sat in the chair for several hours, singing hymns
that Momma used to sing. Her voice was soothing and reminded me of
my younger days, and began to ease me into sleep. I tried to fight
my heavy lids, I didn’t want to lie down and close my eyes, but I
was overtaken by exhaustion and in the cold, dark corner of the
ghostly attic, I fell asleep.

My dreams were filled with my youthful, happy
days on Jasper Island. Ayden, Heath, and I blissfully frolicked in
the chilly, North Atlantic waters, laughing and splashing one
another. Heath’s brilliant blue eyes were full of happiness when he
looked at me, and Ayden’s smile lit up my heart. The sun shone high
above and warmed our faces; we were happy and free, with not a care
in the world. The day in my dream seemed endless, and I could
almost taste the salt of the sea on my lips as the light sounds of
laughter filled my ears and pulled me back into my dreadful reality
like a slap in the face.

The boyish apparition stood over me as dull
light filtered through the three dormered windows of the attic,
then vanished in an instant. I gasped and shot up, nearly banging
my head on the beam above. It was morning; I had to get back to my
room before I was noticed missing. My heart in my throat, I hurried
down the stairs until I reached the bottom, where I inched open the
door and peeked into the hall. There was no one there, so I crept
out and ran, as fast as I could without bumping into any walls. As
I turned into the next wing, I stopped at the corner, looked all
around, and then hurried on, until I reached my room. My heart beat
fast in my chest, and when I finally made it to my room, there was
Hamilton, a plate containing my hard-boiled egg in hand. I didn’t
take the time to really look at him and breathed a sigh of relief.
I was safe. I stopped to catch my breath, then the door slammed
closed, and Grandmother stepped out from where she had been waiting
behind the door.

I froze, and I will never forget the fury in
her eyes as she took her cane and gave me a massive blow to the
head, sending me hurtling to the floor. The room began to spin, and
I felt blood gush from my head. I saw Grandmother lift the cane
again from the corner of my eye. Hamilton, sensing that she was
going to beat me to death, came to pull me out of the way, but the
cane smashed down on his temple and sent him crashing into the
wall. Then he slumped to the floor.

Piercing screams of terror shot through the
mammoth house while I lay almost unconscious in my own blood. I
remember Abigail’s deafening howls and Grandmother’s livid
accusations. “It’s the girl’s fault. If she wasn’t the seed of the
devil himself, none of this would have happened!”

“You need to get the doctor!” Abigail
yelled.

When Grandmother didn’t respond, Abigail did
all she could to lift me and drag me over to the bed, sobbing
uncontrollably all the while.When she had me half on the bed, and
only after she wrapped the wound on my head with her apron, she
looked at Hamilton and fell over his body.

“Get off of him,” Grandmother commanded.

“You go get a doctor for Miss Lillian, or I’m
going to the constable!” Abigail hollered through her tears.

Without a word, Grandmother spun around and
left. I thought for sure she would leave me there to die, but hours
later, she arrived with a doctor, who checked my wound, then
offered me syrup that quickly sent the room spinning and made my
body feel like it was floating up in the clouds. I had no memory of
Hamilton’s body being carried out or any idea of what was going on
around me until more than a week had passed.

In a foggy haze, I lifted my heavy head off
my blood-stained pillow to find myself alone in my room, the door
wide open. A small table had been brought up to my room, and on it,
an empty bottle sat beside a spoon, bowl, and pitcher. There was a
pile of bloody rags covered in flies on the floor.

It took a few minutes for my eyes to come
into complete focus, and then I slid off the bed. I stood, dizzy,
and leaned on the bed to keep from falling, waiting until the
lightheaded feeling went away. It was difficult to remember the
reason my head throbbed and why I had a large bump on it.

It took a great effort, but I slowly steadied
my legs and proceeded from the room, wandering aimlessly down the
hall, not knowing where exactly I was going. It was difficult to
gather my senses, and I found myself spinning in circles, confused
and lost. I was sure I heard voices, laughter, and then sobs. I
decided to follow them through the dim corridor, down the grand
staircase, and out the front door. As soon as I stepped outside
into the rain I was drenched, and my bare feet sank into cold mud.
I pulled the hair away from my face and gazed around. I looked for
the light; if I could find the light from the tower, that’s where
Daddy would be. There was no light, and I called for him. “Daddy?
Daddy where are you?”

I heard the sobs again. It must be Momma, I
thought. She was crying again, alone and locked away in her room.
But I couldn’t find them and there were no answers. I tried to find
my way through the pouring rain, and I fell; I got up, only to fall
again. I began to cry, not from pain, but from my loss. I began to
remember that Daddy was gone. Momma was gone. I gave up searching
for things that could never be, and lay in the mud of a freshly dug
grave, allowing the rain to saturate me as I succumbed to the
confused anguish that consumed me.

I stared up at the dark, grey, ominous sky
looming over Sutton Hall. I stayed in the muddy graveyard until my
delusions of the past and present cleared and life as I knew it
took me back. But in the time it took for the rain to flood the
grounds around the mansion, I realized I had been abandoned once
again. My footsteps echoed throughout the mammoth house, and I
looked around in disbelief. What little furniture had once been
strewn about was gone. I went from empty room to empty room, even
back up to the attic; it was all gone—the trunks, the clothes, the
broken chairs and tables. Even the old cobwebs had been disrupted
by the removal of long stationary items. It had all happened
without warning, as quick as the blink of an eye. I was completely
alone.

Grandmother was gone; she had forsaken Sutton
Hall for good, though her ruthless presence lingered, and there was
no sign of Abigail. I looked around for clues, a letter, for any
explanation, but found nothing. All I had left was my blood-soaked,
fly-ridden bed. I still had the armoire that contained Momma’s
dresses and books and a key I no longer needed. The door was open;
there was no one left to lock me away anymore.

I wandered through the house, dripping a
trail of water behind me and thought I had lost my mind, and was in
some kind of strange dream; after all, I did receive a severe blow
to the head. Maybe I was dead and wandered the halls the way
Jacob-Thomas had, just waiting for someone to call for me.