Legacies

Martha rushed into the study with her heart beating an irregular rhythm, and tried to catch her breath. They had found her, after eight years of hiding. Skirts rustling around her legs, she crossed to the study window, her feet silent on the plush red and beige oriental carpet. She stood to the side and pulled back the heavy velvet drapes, confirming what she had spotted from the sitting room. Two men stood on the opposite side of the street, staring at her home. She recognized them as her father’s men. She had eluded them years ago, and now they had discovered her location. She had hoped her father would rein them in, forget about pursuing her, perhaps proclaim her dead, but from the presence of the men now crossing the snow coated street, it was clear her hopes had not become realized.

She would have to leave, abandon the home she adored, the city she had made her own. More painfully, she would leave her family behind. She glanced out the window again, tracking their progress. Snow drifted down in soft flakes, gathering in a puff of white against the window sill, reminiscent of the white fur of her ermine coat. She spotted some flakes with a black tinge of coloring. London smoke stacks littered the sky in the distance, sending up great plumes of dark smoke.

Martha returned her attention to the men, who had skirted around horse drawn carriages, approaching the iron gate. It would deter them long enough for what she needed to do, but not much longer. She scribbled a note, writing as much as she could, as fast as she could, and approached the wide landscape painting over the roaring fire. She allowed her eyes to linger over the oils, the vivid pale blues, the luscious trees, the clouds a blend of white and grey, appearing soft and powerful at the same time. It detailed a serene scene of the Thames, the lazy river, windswept grasses and wildflowers, tall trees in the distance. The scene mystical and dreamlike, like something out of a fairy tale. She closed her eyes, thinking of the times she had sat with Gabriel before this painting, warm mugs in their hands, a pleasant fire, comfortable leather armchairs. Shaking her head, trying not to cry, she tucked the note behind the thick mahogany frame.

The door crashed open behind her, accompanied by giggling. Martha pulled her arm away from where it rested against the frame, turning to greet her two children with a broad smile. They barreled into her, burying their heads into her pale pink skirts. She reached down to them, barely registering the story her eldest, Maria, was trying to tell her, and placed her hands under their chins, turning their pale cherubic faces up so she could admire them. Maria, at five, clever and tall for her age, like her father, with wild dark hair. Charles, short and sweet at three, hair a soft brown, cupping his little hands over hers.

“Come with mama now, dearests,” Martha said, casting one last look at the study, the falling snow, the painting concealing her letter.

The gas lamps were turned down low in the hall, their golden light contrasting with the grey hazy light filtering through the window at the end of the hall. Snow continued to fall and the wind had picked up, sweeping the snow with it as if it were an unwilling partner in a flurried dance. She held her children’s hands as she led them down the hall. She found Ms. Grebble, her lady’s maid, by her room.

“I need you to take the children to Lady Vivienne at once.”

Ms. Grebble nodded. “Shall we wait for you in the entry hall?”

“No,” Martha said, eyes wide, imagining Ms. Grebble and her children opening the door to the gruff men. “Take them out the back and deliver them to their grandmother yourself. And send the staff home for the rest of the day.”

“Miss?” Ms. Grebble said, apprehension lining her voice. Martha knew it was an unusual request, but she had to insist. The men would come into their home and start asking questions. No doubt they would rummage through everything, looking for clues to her whereabouts, if she was able to elude their capture. She dreaded to think what they would do if they found the staff’s cooperation lacking.

“Please, Ms. Grebble. Everyone, leave at once.”

“As you wish.”

Martha engulfed her children in her arms, smelling the clean lavender scent of their hair, and released them into Ms. Grebble’s care. She would see them again soon, before the week was over, she had to believe this encounter with her father’s men could be dealt with swiftly. Martha ducked into the room she shared with her husband and found her ivory long coat, and pulled it on, along with a black hat. She crouched on the floor, tugging up the corner of the navy and cream carpet.

Martha peeled back the floorboards under the carpet, pulling out a full coin purse. She cast a lazy gaze over the pearl emblazed ivory dress, carefully folded, and the jewelry and tiara atop, the gems of diamonds glittering iridescent in the pale grey light filtering through the wide windows. Remnants of a life she did not wish to return to. She slammed the floorboards back into place, folded down the carpet and swept from the room, finding the staircase to the side entrance of the house.

“Do you need help, my lady?” Christopher the stable hand asked as she barreled in, feet landing on straw, the soft neighs of horses punctuating the chilly air.

“No thank you, I must be going.”

She ignored his further questions, exiting the stables, heading towards the back of her house. She crossed the small garden which bloomed with roses in spring. Now it lay coated in snow, a picture of winter beauty. She turned to glance at her home one more time, before narrowing her attention to the stables as she heard a muffled yell.

Martha gasped. The men had decided not to wait at the front door, instead, they had searched for another entrance and found one. They held Christopher just within the stable doors, laying punches into him. She wanted to scream, to turn back, to help, to fix all the problems she had caused, but she had to survive for her children. She turned and ran, skidding her hand along the bricks of her home as darted down the alley, imaging one day she would return. Soon, she was but a shadow in the London streets of fog and snow.

*

Lucie stood with her hands on her denim clad hips, inspecting what the floor plans detailed to be the study. It fit the description of a gentlemen’s study with the dark wood paneling, faded golden wallpaper that probably once shined like foil, and stately desk with sturdy feet and iron knobs on its drawers. Along two walls were rows of dark wood shelves, empty. Lucie believed one of her aunts had taken the books years ago, before the house had been closed for the season and then stood unoccupied for fifty years.

The worn wooden floors creaked as she walked across the room to the mahogany mantle, running a hand through her dark hair, up in a messy ponytail. The bricks of the interior of the fireplace were blackened, from over a hundred years of fires. Lucie bent down, running a hand over the floorboards. A square patch in the middle of the room was a shade darker, and in much better condition than the rest, perhaps a rug had once laid across it, protecting the floor from the drudge and grit carried by her relative’s shoes.

She straightened, stretched her back. It was hard for her to believe this home had been in her family for years, yet she had never entered it until her grandmother had passed away, leaving the house and all its flaws to Lucie.

She stood back and nodded solidifying her plans for the room. She could imagine books filling the cases, a plum-colored leather chair behind the desk, which she would refinish. It would be a lovely office for herself, if she wasn’t selling the house as soon as she had finished the renovations. 

Her real estate agent believed she could fetch a hefty price on the building, with its desirable neighborhood and ample size, if she put in the work to modernize the place. As an interior designer, the project excited her, though she feared the more excitement she found in her designs, the more reluctant she would be to sell. She had paperwork processing at the bank for a loan to assist her renovations, another loan she couldn’t afford. Keeping the house was out of the question, even if it had been in her family for a hundred years.

Lucie believed her family had ill luck with relationships. Her mother told stories of how Lucie’s great-grandmother Martha abandoned her husband and two young children, disappearing with the stable hand, leaving her husband to sulk and sink into depression, leading his premature death. Lucie’s grandmother, Maria, had grown up without a mother and had married a man who died shortly after the birth of Lucie’s own mother.

Lucie had become pregnant after graduating college, and the father had left after she informed him of his impending child. Marriage had never been on the table. Lucie supposed her parents, still together, still alive, were an anomaly in her twisted family tree. She supported her young daughter herself, and selling the house would allow her to purchase a simple home for the two of them, with enough left over to pay off her outstanding debts.

Shaking her head to dislodge thoughts of her family’s tortured past, she returned her attention to the room, her eye catching on the painting over the mantle. She ran her fingers over the dusty frame. Despite its age and neglect, the painting itself had worn well. Beautiful lilting grasses, small impressionist flowers, a still river. A picture of spring. Casting a glance at the fog rolling past the window, Lucie couldn’t help but wish for warmer weather.

Lucie lifted the painting off the wall, panting slightly with the effort. The painting was at least four feet wide, and the frame weighed a considerable amount. It had to come down though, she would start removing the wallpaper over the next week. As she lifted the frame, she noticed a folded piece of paper slide to the ground. Frowning, she picked it up and unfolded it, the aged paper delicate in her hands.

Black slanted writing dotted the paper, a letter of some sort, in messy handwriting. Crossing the room, Lucie stood by the window to stand where the bright grey light poured through. As she read the note, the rumbling of cars, the chatter of people along the sidewalk, faded away.

              Dearest Gabriel,

              I wish you were not away, on today of all days, when I must explain myself. I can only hope this letter will console you, as I know you will be distraught. You have probably discerned by now I am missing. My heart breaks, thinking you will believe the worst of me. Where else can a man’s mind turn when he returns home to find his wife vanished? I would never leave you, but with my father’s men at the gates, I have no choice.

              I’m afraid I am bungling up this letter in my haste, my fear. I hope you will be able to read my frantic scribbles. I should start at the beginning, with my name. My real name is Princess Catherine. No doubt you have heard of the missing Princess in a foreign country who vanished in the night, leaving her family to grieve. I had no other choice. My father had arranged for me to marry as soon as I was of age. The proposed match was to a man of royal standing, but with a vile heart. I feared for my life, bound to such a man, but my father would not listen to my pleas. I don’t have time to detail my escape, though one day when we are once again siting in the drawing room before a warm fire, I will regal you the tale. I fled my home, my country, and headed for the one place where one could lose themselves and form a new identity: London.

              I fell in love with the city. The narrow, twisting streets. The grand buildings, columns of white, arched glass windows. Drifting down the river, observing the cities splendor from the water. I’m romanticizing a city filled with its share of poverty, crime and filth, but I can’t help it. I adore this place, our home, and it pains me almost as much to leave the house as to leave you. I can’t imagine living elsewhere.

              I don’t know what had prompted me to wear the gown and tiara I fled in to the ball where we met. Perhaps it was boldness, a test to see if I had really eluded my father and his men, or a longing to once again be in society, dancing and cavorting in lovely attire. Whatever the reason, it led me to you, which led to our beautiful home and children, for which I am grateful. How could someone like me become so fortunate?

              Unfortunately, it appears my luck has expired. My father didn’t give up on me, as I had hoped. I am sorry I have lied to you this whole time, but I had no other choice. I am not leaving you now, but fleeing them. I will take care of the matter and return as soon as I am able. I am going to attempt to find you at our country estate, but in case I don’t make it there, I’m leaving you this note.

              I hope you find this letter soon. I have to believe you will discover it beneath the painting you bought me before we were properly married. I can’t imagine you leaving such a reminder of myself on the wall if you believed me to have willingly abandoned you.

              With much love,

              Martha

Lucie sunk to the ground, clutching the yellowed letter, overcome by the real story of what had happened to Martha. How could she sell the home her great-grandmother loved, a place so tied to her own family history, her own daughter’s legacy. She laughed harshly, short. She was descended from royalty. What if she demanded her royal relatives delivered the finances she needed? She thought she had even heard of the missing Princess Catherine, it would not be difficult to find the identities of her living royal relatives. It sounded ridiculous, even to her, who had shed tears over a letter over a hundred years old.

She stood, her legs a bit shaky, and flattened the letter on the desk, intending to have it preserved. Whether she sold the home or not, she had this letter to mark an important event in her family’s history. She stretched her hands over her head. Despite the late hour, she spotted people meandering up the sidewalks, illuminated in shadow and shades of orange from the street lights. She contemplated whether to turn in, or continue with her examination of the rooms. She chose the later, making design plans would calm her racing mind before bedtime.

Who knows? Lucie thought as she flicked off the light and cast a glance over the study, her eyes lingering on the painting she had dislodged, before shutting the door. Perhaps I will find something that would allow me to save this place, save my family’s legacy.