Wilhelmina A Novella

THE UNDYING

By

Ronnell D. Porter

PUBLISHED BY:

Ronnell D. Porter

The Undying

Copyright © 2012 by Ronnell D. Porter

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

eBook Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Amazon, Barnes and Noble, or Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

1.
                  
A Rainy Day

I had a very small world to wander as a child, a damask and murky cage, to be honest. After the untimely death of my father, my step mother limited my freedom to the confines my room, which had grown into a trove of queer visions for strangers as they took in my vast collection of fine porcelain dolls, but a very poor spectacle in and of itself as it had only one large window beside my vanity dresser. It seemed the entire world wanted to see my room once ears caught word of my collection, while I, on the other hand, merely wanted to see the world. Very much like a rainstorm, my life inside of that room was heavy and predictable with the occasional streak of lightning.

But in my isolation, my small prison, I’d painted my walls with dreams; they ran up decorative evergreen filigree wallpaper to the ceiling and kept my days vibrant with clouds, and sparkling rays of hope I’d snatched from sleep.

Today, there didn’t seem much to gaze upon outside of my window as summer rain swept across the square fields and dense thickets of willows beyond our manor. Though the skies were grey, and the water cool, the air still smothered my poor lithe body, hot and muggy, but I had nothing to do but sit at the sill and wait anxiously for the hours to pass.

My step-mother had planned another one of her trifling dinner parties, the biggest yet, they said. No true companionship existed between she and her guests; this was simply community networking, climbing the figurative social ladder to catch up on all of the weekly gossip she’d missed. Who had an affair with whom, and which reputable men had fallen into destitution seemed to be all that mattered among her snide circle, the wealthiest of the parish. They lived for the chance to show off their riches while my stepmother lived for just another chance to flaunt her hostess flare. Just another chance to remind herself, as well as others, of her place among their hierarchy. Just another chance to excuse herself from having to spend another moment with her children.

I remember loathing these social gatherings, detestation writhing beneath my skin like putrid worms. As I was only a girl of thirteen, I was still considered a child, and it was the duty of the children to remain unseen and, most importantly,
unheard
for the night.

But even I had something to look forward to on those evenings; the company of friends, and a certain gentleman in particular.

Mr. Abberdean would be making an appearance tonight. It may have been a burden to remain a shadow in my stepmother’s house, but a tax that I would give willingly to see him.

A page torn from a journal had been stuck to my vanity mirror, a piece of paper that I cherished more than any other page in this entire manor. It was a poem, a beautiful lullaby;

Little dove, rest your head,

When all the world is set for bed,

Remember wind sends all my love,

When all is done and said.

Sleep, my little turtle dove,

while your dreams fly high above,

Let your eyes see lands so far,

You'll always have my love.

In velvet nights, no moon or star,

Whether dawn is near or far,

You'll be safe here, in my arms.

You'll be safe here, in my arms.

Charles Edmund Abberdean had written it just for me. He had quickly become a well known local scholar, who sometimes taught mathematics at University, and had recently taken up an interest in photography. Despite the fact that he was a brilliant academic, his merit was miles ahead of those who boasted one hundred times his affluence. His riches were measured further than money, and his charms far surpassed the arrogance of upper class bores.

He was kind and comical, though mostly sweet. He did not hold his tongue when it came to giving his observant opinion to a haughty listener, though his words remained so smooth and crafty that his insults would sound like compliments to those unprepared for his wit. In this way his name had never been tarnished for his rivals were left in confusion, pondering whether or not they were rivals to begin with.

This was Mr. Abberdean’s genius, and calling in life, of this I was certain; he was to become a famous writer.

Mr. Abberdean simply adored words, cherished them more than any pet or spectacle he’d ever owned. He loved writing so much that it began to grow on me like a welcomed fever, for in reading I found a path that led me closer to him.

I never cared much for literature until he gave me a short book, a journal of poetry; one of a kind, hand-written and simply flourishing with passion. I laid in my bed for days as I read over each poem of love, life, and loss.

My favorite poem had been a short and tragic tale of a little red sparrow, a love story that ended in death, a sacrifice – Mr. Abberdean told me that the French were particularly fond of such endings. A story of a poor, small sparrow who fell in love with a prince, but death wrapped its frigid fingers around its throat.

I asked him who the author of such sorrowfully delicate beauty could have possibly been, and he simply smiled.

That was the night that I fell in love with books. The written word might as well have been my veins, and ink my blood. He gave me so many books from his own personal collection that after three years of my not-so-clandestine theft his library must surely have been wearing thin.

Being a child, I was not within his social group and therefore would’ve never even thought of speaking to him if not for my father introducing me and my sisters to him those three long years ago. Acknowledging such, I was fully aware of how blessed I was to have been given the opportunity to hold the friendship we’d formed, even if it was limited to once weekly visits.

The long days in between dragged on with no purpose or sense. Only on Tuesday evenings, when I stole him from the droning babbles in the manor, did I begin to live, began to breathe again.

There came a sharp rapping at my door, and I quickly answered the call. I opened the door wide open and found my younger sister Dinah bouncing in excitement.

'She’s here!' She squealed at the top of her voice, taking my arm and pulling me along down the hall.

'What are you going on about?' I demanded.

'Mary! She’s come home!' My interest piqued – I matched her pace. It had been months since we’d last seen our older sister, Mary, as she was off to school and rarely felt the need to visit.

Dinah and I ran down the hall to the grand staircase with horse speed, nearly running each other down in our haste to the entrance hall. Standing at the top of the stairs, gripping the banister for support as my lungs burned within my chest, I gazed upon Mary in awe.

Time hadn’t changed her appearance much, but still there seemed to be a noticeable glow about her. Her ivory skin, pastel smooth, glistened like porcelain on a life sized china doll, and her golden hair fell around her head like a halo. Her dress flowed flawlessly around her narrow waist. What I missed most about Mary was the way that her emerald eyes seemed to draw the very air from my lungs. However, when I looked down into her face as she smiled up at us, her eyes were dark, nearly black, like her governess had plucked the irides right out of her head and stuck coal where they should be.

Yet even through that strange surprise she looked breathtaking.

'Dinah,' Mary called warmly to my sister, and Dinah ran to her like a moth to a warm and brilliant flame. My sisters embraced momentarily, and then Mary cast her gaze up to me, hiding behind the banister.

'Wilhelmina,' she sighed with a smile.

I walked forward, slowly, taking small steps down the staircase. I stopped midway once my stepmother came into view. She walked briskly and coolly out of the den and opened her arms toward Mary with a small and all-too-obvious faux smile.

'My darling, I’ve missed you so,' Mother sang.

'It’s been too long, Mama,' Mary said.

Mother’s eyes wandered down to Dinah with a nod, and then up to me. Her fake smile had been abruptly replaced with genuine disdain as her lips pursed and her eyes became slits.

'Look at you; it’s already past four and you still look like a slave child,' Mother hissed. 'People are going to start showing up at any moment and already you’re set to embarrass me like the ungrateful stepchild you are.' She gripped her fan the way she did when she was about to give my sister and I a good licking, but Mary began to make her way up the banister before Mother could stomp one boot up those steps.

'Mama, why don’t I go and help Wilhelmina get dressed?' Mary asked quickly as she rushed to my side. Mother’s lips were still tight and wrinkled but she didn’t come any closer as she glared at me. She huffed and spread her fan again.

'Mind your sister, Wilhelmina,' she said coldly. 'Come, Dinah, you can help Bethany in the kitchen until the guests arrive.' Dinah was reluctant to follow but gave no protest while standing so close to the woman. She knew better than to test Mother’s temper, especially as of the last few weeks.

'I really thought that Mama was going to beat you all the way down the stairs and then some,' Mary giggled as she led me by my shoulders toward my room. 'I ain’t seen her so mad since I left to live with governess Bathory.'

'Mother’s spent all that money to put you in Ms. Bathory’s care and you still say ain’t?'

'To tell you the truth, it’s not all that fancy,' Mary whispered.