"A journey of a thousand miles must begin with a single step." -Lao Tzu
Clare always found the deepest irony in when the weather seemed to match her moods. She huffed from her seat beside the window; her eyes watched the infinite droplets of rain crash against the glass. They drifted to the desolate courtyard below. It was encrusted in brown, the lush of summer driven away by winter chills. Honestly was their no escape from the miserable coffin she was stuck in.
The girl almost wished it was sunny so at least she could pretend to be happy. Then at least she could spare the looks from the maids. Or get away from their constant fusing. Clare had had enough of the pity from the last month and it was beginning to make her sick. Clare closed to her eyes and laid her head in her arms.
Her father had left her mother for a mistress leaving Clare to be married off. She knew certainly she did not want to be married. Not at this age, not to someone she didn't know, not to someone she had never met. She was terrified. Clare had never been to North York she had scarcely left London in her short life. The summers she spent as a child in the south of France with her grandmother did not compare with the moors of York. A sudden knock at her bedroom door alerted her.
Clare turned her head to her mother bustling into the room a few maids following behind. She was obviously frazzled; the rats that helped kept her hair poufy were starting to come undone. "Please my dear," she ordered to one of them, "do change out the curtains the new owners will be here tomorrow afternoon. And make sure you dust off the mantel."
There were dark circles under her eyes and she wore the same gown as yesterday. She had grown thin, and sickly pale as well, even under thick makeup it could be seen.
Clare sat up waiting for her mother to address her. To see her mother in such as state was worrisome. Her mother stopped short at the sight of her. "Goodness dear, would you try to brighten up, a car to take you to the Duke of Lockton's manor will be coming tomorrow morn, do you really want him to see you for the first time all morbid and depressed." Clare sniffled turning her head away.
"Please don't make me go Mother," she pleaded in an impossibly small voice. Her mother sighed sitting down next to her.
"What am I supposed to do, Clare? Let you starve? Let us starve?" the woman spat exasperated. She slumped against Clare's shoulder and wiped sweat off her brow with the back of her hand. She abruptly clenched over in a fit of couching. Clare's eyes widen with fright as they always did whenever her mother hacked like that. Her mother looked exhausted beyond all recognition. The light had gone out of her eyes. "Can't I stay in London with you Mother, please, you're ill you need someone to take care of you," she pleaded again. Her mother steps forward and clasps her hands in her own. "Sweetheart, I am trying to make a life for us. I'm trying to make sure you're taken care of, who knows how long my lungs will last." she said. She clutched a handkerchief to her face pausing to cough once more. "And when I die, if you are not wed, you will be left poor destitute without anyone to care for you or the possibility of finding a good husband. Face it Clare this is my only way to make sure you end up safe and happy and cared for. Your father is gone and we cannot rely on him anymore." Clare nodded tears welling her eyes. "Don't worry, I'm sure he'll make a good husband," her mother said wrapping her arms around her daughter. "He was a friend of my father and he always stated he was a good businessman." Clare squeezed her mother's tiny midsection tightly. "Okay mum," she murmured.
Clare's mother slowly released her daughter and stood with a hand on her hip. Her eyes drifted off around Clare's room. "I'd start packing since we leave tomorrow morning, Mary will help you. In the meantime," her mother said hacking, "I'm going to go lie down."
Mary placed her hand on Clare's shoulder. Mary was an aging petite woman with glossy blonde curls she kept tide back in place in a tight bun. She smiled sorrowfully down from behind square spectacles. "Come on dear, it's time to move on," she said somberly gazing at the contents of Clare's bedroom. Mary squeezed Clare's shoulder before turning to the trunk on Clare's bed filling it with clothes.
Her fireplace in the corner, the dark cherry furniture, her blue canopy, the cream color of her walls and the rose pink of the crown molding; Clare breathed for a moment. She had lived in this bedroom since she was an infant. It was the one place she felt most a home; especially since recent times when her home had become desolate and depressing. The bustling chatter of cooks and maids had faded. Her parents no longer throwing dinner parties or have friends stop by. Clare was forced to quit charms school in her mother's effort to keep the house a little longer. Her friends no longer visited mostly kept away by mothers afraid of appearances. For a moment, Clare felt on the edge of tears again. She wiped her eyes with her palms. How could her life be crumbling like this?
"Lavender's blue, dilly dilly, lavender's green," sang out Mary. Clare looked up at the woman. She was smiling, folding a nightgown. Mary winked at her. "When I am king, dilly, dilly, you shall be queen. Who told you so, dilly, dilly, who told you so?"
"Mary, I don't really feel like this is the time for nursery rhymes."
"Hogwash," she retorted placing the gown in the trunk. "When life's in the 'sty might was well sing. Now start filling up that trunk on the floor Miss Clare," she ordered.
"'Twas my own heart, dilly, dilly, that told me so," Mary sang going back to folding. Clare stood up and began placing books in her trunk. "Call up your men, dilly, dilly, set them to work. Some with a rake, dilly, dilly, some with a fork."
Clare sighed running her hand over the leather covers. Much of her child hood was spent in those books. Her father had bought her the books. She dropped them one by one into the bottom of the dusty trunk, memoirs to be taken with her on her new life. "Some to make hay, dilly, dilly, some to thresh corn. While you and I, dilly, dilly, keep ourselves warm." And now Mary was singing her nursery rhymes. It was all too much. The memories of what she had lost were all too painful. Clare pulled two toys out of a chest, just a teddy bear whose fur was worn in places and an old doll. Mary stopped singing for a moment catching sight of her. "Might I ask what you'll be needing those for?"
Clare stopped short her cheeks pinking. She cleared her throat, "Well, um, I am going to have children you know, one day, hopefully. I just thought it'd be nice to pass them on." Mary put down her folding and took Clare's hand. "If it makes you feel any better I was married at 16 too, and it wasn't so bad."
Clare looked at her skeptically. "Was he a man twice your age and who you've never met him before." Mary sighed, "Well no." She clucked her tongue turning back to the folding. "I was only trying to help." Now the woman was angry with her. Clare had known Marry since she was a child and she didn't want to spend the last few hours she had with her in an uncomfortable silence. "Lavender's green, dilly, dilly, Lavender's blue, if you love me, dilly, dilly, I will love you," Clare sang softly. She caught the edges of Mary's mouth turn up.
An afternoon spent packing up her childhood to send her off to be married, to a man she had never met, in a place she had never been, to a life she couldn't comprehend, with an absentee father and a dying mother. "Lavender's green, dilly, dilly, Lavender's blue, if you love me, dilly, dilly, I will love you."
Clare woke with a start; the sound of the maid shaking her awake. The room was dark, the fire in the hearth only embers. "Come on Miss it's time to wake up. You and your mother leave soon."
Clare rubbed the sleep out of her eyes and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Today was the day she met her fate. She sighed. She carried a sickening feeling in her stomach. This was it then. The world was dark, not even the sun had begun to rise beyond her window. The pitter patter of rain pelted against the shingles of the roof. It would be a horrible day to travel. They'd been hoping it would clear up.
She dressed in a deep green dress and went down for breakfast. Her mother was already at the dining table eating bread and jam. There was no money for eggs or sausage anymore. "Good morning," her mother greeted her, a solemn tone in her voice. "Will you be ready to go within the hour?" Her mother crossed her fingers and rested her chin on them. Despite the full night's sleep her mother still appeared exhausted Clare noted.
"Yes mother," Clare responded taking a seat across from her. A maid set a plate of food down in front of her. Bread and strawberry preserves, Clare smiled politely at the maid that had brought it. But as soon as she leaves Clare stares forlornly at it. Darcy had loved strawberry preserves. Now Darcy was married to a man who owned a massive coffee plantation in Kenya. Rich, happy, and far away.
She didn't write. Although the post was far, so it was reasonable. That and her and their parents didn't exactly leave on pleasant terms. She had developed quite a reputation before she was married off.
But at least she had a very pretty wedding. Clare sighed. That was something, right? Two-hundred and fifty guests in the middle of summer at their family's villa in the country side. Married in the garden when the gardenias were in full bloom; now that was pretty. She wore their mother's wedding dress of beautiful Victorian lace. She wed the handsome heir to a coffee plantation in Africa, his parent we're suppliers in Mr. Edward's merchant business. All around it was a smart match; just like her's. But Darcy's arranged marriage wasn't to a man twice her age to save her and her mother from the poorhouse.
Clare breathed sharply in and buried her face in her hands. Her stomach felt sick as she choked on sobs. The thought of food making her cringe she walked away from the dining table. The very idea of wedding some old wrinkly disgusting man made her cringe. What kind of 63 year old man covets a barely sixteen-year-old woman for a wife anyway?
She burst down the hallway and coward on the window seat under the great stained glass window at the end of the hall. The sheets of rain casting dark colorful shadows all over her. Clare wrapped her arms around her legs and cried. "Let the birds sing, dilly, dilly, and the lambs play;
We shall be safe, dilly, dilly, out of harm's way."
Her only gift was that she and her mother would be off the streets. Her mother would not be forced to get a factory job and work until her lungs gave out. Or be forced to whore and live in terrible sin. Clare sniffed and rubbed the tears from her face. A hand was suddenly laid on her shoulder. It was her mother already dressed in her traveling had with her umbrella hooked around her elbow. She strenuous amounts of makeup, which Clare guessed was to hide the signs of her illness. "It's time to go Clare," her mother said softly. She handed Clare her own hat and attempted to smile.
Clare couldn't bring herself to smile and tied the hat around her head somberly; her eyes never leaving the floor. She followed her mother out of the house to the sleek black automobile waiting for them in the street. Mary and some of the other maids bundled under umbrellas to wish them off. Their escort and the driver dressed in thick coats stood around awkwardly as Clare's mother thanked them for their years of service and wished them well. A buff man with curly blonde hair introduced himself as Mr. Collins; he'd been employed by the Duke of Lockton as their escort. The driver, a short burly man with a graying beard, smiled and pulled open the door for them.
A hand grabbed Clare's as she stepped into the car. It was Mary, who'd raised her from the time she was an infant as her nanny, and later her maid. She smiled sorrowfully. "Goodbye Mary," Clare choked. "I'll never forget you."
"I severely doubt that," she commented giving her hand a squeeze. "A word of advice before you go…remember child no matter how bad things get there is always a light at the end of the tunnel, even if that light is Kingdom come, you must never give up. Do you hear me now?"
Clare nodded. Clare stumbled over the words, "I love to dance, dilly, dilly, I love to sing; When I am queen, dilly, dilly, you'll be my king." Mary only smiled brighter and didn't reply. Clare stepped fully into the car and took deep breaths as it pulled away.
"Who told me so, dilly, dilly, who told me so?
I told myself, dilly, dilly, I told me so."