To love and to be loved

When Samara recieved a letter from her recently deceased aunt May, she didn't know what to feel. She had lived twenty years believing what she was supposed to, as someone who grew up in an orphanage, and then out of nowhere she had inherited the Whitefield mansion as it's sole heir. 

She knew the Whitefield mansion. There was hardly anyone who hadn't heard of it. The mansion had survived countless foreign invasions, was set on fire thrice and held the ground during one of the worst hurricanes of the country's history. Everyone believed it to be a standing miracle, a memoir of love built by the great monarch Whitefield for his mistress. She had heard before, of how the mansion's guardianship was passed down from generations and that its current gaurdian, now deceased, was a middle aged woman. She had seen her talk on the television once, of how proud she was to be a Whitefield.

For Samara, it was just another building that she couldn't waste her hard earned money on the visitation ticket. She was barely getting by life with her job that by no means did justice to her college degree, paying off her student loans. She had no money to waste on miracles that didn't exist in her life

She had read the letter over and over again. 

'To my dear niece Samara,'

The letter began. She wondered whether it was addressed to a different Samara, the actual Samara who was this seemingly kind lady May's neice. 

'This may seem seem too sudden, but I'm leaving the Whitefield mansion in your hands. Do make your ancestors proud. 

-from your dearest aunt May'

That was it. The letter had nothing else. The envelope it came in had Samara's full name spelled exactly the way she spells it with two e's at the end of her surname instead of an 'i'. It was addressed to her apartment which she had saved money for years to afford. The letter had been sealed using red wax and a crest embossed on it- which was now split into two equal halves since she had opened the envelope.

Not knowing what to do, Samara placed the letter on the table in front of her. "May you rest in peace Miss May," she prayed for the woman silently though she had not personally met her. Samara closed her eyes and faintly pictured her frail features from the television show a year ago, in a violet dress sitting gracefully, her cyanosed lips forming a thin line.

Then Samara had forgotten all about it till that one day, she found a young man in an expensive suit standing outside her apartment door. She had just returned from grocery shopping with all the bags in her hand, and she had to ask the man to open the door for her. The man seemed to be surprised at her way of living since the apartment was not at it's best shape, but for Samara, it was a palace.

"I'm Miss May Whitefield's lawyer," The man had finally introduced himself. Before he could say anything else, Samara thought she'd save him the trouble.

"Your aunt-"

"I think you've got the wrong neice." Samara was pouring the man a glass of lemon juice since it's the only fruit that was cheep and healthy.

"No, you are her neice." Tha man insisted and Samara wondered on what grounds he was so sure.

"Once you inherited the mansion legally, you will be a Whitefield," He had said placing a few documents on the table in front of him. Then he kept a key on top of it all. The key was huge, gold plated or perhaps made of entirely gold, Samara couldn't tell.

The man, Kevin, read his business card, said, "The mansion is to be demolished within a month. If you are indeed inheriting it and decide to keep it, you might need to do some mandatory renovations."

Samara barely had enough money to survive without drowning. How could she afford to renovate a mansion?

"You can visit the mansion and make your choice," Kevin said, "I'll handle the legal procedures".

Samara hated the word 'legal procedures' as much as she hated pineapple on pizza. She had grown up hearing the term being used back and forth, as she was being tossed between her orphanage to foster care and so on. She had more than a handful of failed adoptions that she couldn't fanthom herself as to why, nobody wanted her.

***

So the next day she took the key and rode her bicycle to the venue. There was a security tower facing the main roads. From it she could only see and endless rows of tall trees and once she stood on her toes, the mansion's pointed roof, was visible beyond the gates. After the gaurd saw the key in Samara's hand, he had bowed to her and opened the gates.

"Welcome home Miss Whitefield."

His words were ringing in her ears as she walked in the wide driveway where the trees saluted her as the gaurd of honour. After ten minutes of walking, the trees were replaced by a gaunlet of statues, as the mansion stood tall in her visual field. Samara had never seen anything as breathtaking as the view in front of her, and she had concluded how the footage on television had by no means done justice to the Whitefield mansion. When she slid the key in her hand into the door's equally large sized keyhole, the lock clicked open.

The tall doors made a rusty sound as she pushed them apart, and she was greeted by the smell of loneliness. As she stepped inside, she felt a chill run down her spine. Instead of fear she was engulfed by an immense sadness of unknown origin. As she tiptoed around the living room of the sleeping mansion, she wondered what it must've been like to be loved.

Whitefield, the great monarch had enough money to buy anything and everything in the world, but he couldn't marry the woman he had loved. Then he built- Samara ran kept her hand on the wallpaper which felt soft under her touch- these walls to keep the love of his life trapped for an eternity. It must've been lonely, to be loved.

Just the way it was lonely, to not be loved.

The furniture were covered in white clothes, and Samara hoped by opening a window, she could ease the mansion's loneliness. There was a wide staircase in the middle of the living room going up and splitting into two, halfway. She wondered whether there were any grand balls held here, where the mistress was alowed to dance in the arms of the man she loved, but Samara doubted it.

Her entire life, Samara had lived longing for love, but with each step she took up the staires, she understood how love was a double edged sword. At the top of the staires she was greeted by rows of painted portraits that were probably worth millions of dollars, all staring back at her. She wondered which one of them were the actual monarch and which one was his mistress, for all had eyes painted in sorrow, as if they were hoisting up the weight of the world on their shoulders. All, but this one portrait of a young woman.

Her eyes were filled with an emotion Samara couldn't pinpoint. Though she wasn't smiling as she was being painted, as an observer Samara felt that the woman was definitely happy. Her cheekbones were well defined and her brown velvet dress enhanced her slender body's visible curves. Samara couldn't brush off the feeling of familiarity as she continued to stare at her. Standing next to her was a tall man who looked staright ahead. When Samara neared her eyes to the bottom plaque, she could somehow make out the sentence written below the portrait.

Miss May Whitefield with her younger brother Sebestian Whitefield.

Samara's eyes widened a little. She had definitely heard of the Whitefield's curse. Of how the sons of the family died young and of how the daughters of the family died single. Samara caressed the face of the man in the portrait. Till now she had only seen him in her dreams coming to put her to sleep, whispering, 'Good night my princess' to her ear. She hardly heard her father's voice in her dreams now.

Samara was four when her parents died from a car accident. With time she failed to hold on to her memories with them, that faded as days passed on. Their faces kept getting blurred in her head. She had her own share of dreams or nightmares, where she ran behind her parents screaming and pleading them to take her with them. But they never did.

Samara woke up to the sound of knocking.

She found herself tucked into bed in one of the velvet sofas in the middle of the mansion's living room. The white cloth that had previously covered the sofa from dust, was now wrapped around her petite waist. She didn't remember how she got back to the living room or how she fell asleep, but she didn't bother to remember, as she hurried to open the double doors.

In front of her stood Kevin, May's lawyer leaning to the door frame. Samara invited him in.

"How did Miss May find me?"

Samara asked once Kevin was seated in the living room. She still felt odd to address May, as her aunt.

"I'm not quite sure, but she had regretted not being able to adopt you," Kevin said. "She often visited you at your," Kevin hesitated as he said, "orphanage".

The Samara remembered suddenly why the portrait of the then young May, looked so familiar. She looked like the lady in the park, that her younger self often played with. She had wondered why the pretty lady stopped coming by to see her sudenly.

"Then her chronic ilness got the best of her," Kevin's face clouded with evident sadness. Samara could tell that Miss May was someone he admired. "She couldn't adopt you fearing you'd be traumatised by her nearing death."

"I see," Samara's heart tightened a little. She had suddenly realised how she had been on the recieving end of an unconditional love.

Now, it was her time to love back.

"What do you plan to do with this place Samara?" Kevin stared at her curiously.

"I'm going to make my ancestors proud." She stated confidently.

"What can I do for you?" Kevin smiled eagerly. It was her first time seeing him smile like that ever since they've met.

"I'm going to hold a charity ball to raise funds," Samara said aloud hoping for the mansion to hear her plans. The walls that had stood strong for years carrying the Whitefield family's sad stories deserved a little happiness. "And I'm looking for a dance partner." Samara whispered at Kevin.

"I would be honoured Miss Whitefield." Kevin winked.

Samara hoped the music would rid the mansion of its loneliness even for a day. And perhaps the trapped mistress could even have her first dance.

'May you rest in peace aunt May.' She thought to herself.