Chapter 4: Early One Morning
As a lad, I was prone to flights of fancy as many children are. I spent each hour of leisure lost within a narrative of my own design. My most daring of daydreams occurred just past these iron gates. There, in my childhood home. They were not of distant lands or fairytale beings. Instead, they were informed by all that surrounded me. The smooth and pale stones of the estate's foundation. The delicate filigree around each door and window. The paths and archways that bend and snake throughout the property like a dragon with wings of white marble and scales of brick. I believed this place to be a castle. Yet, it was neither the architecture nor the priceless furnishings within that made me feel princely as a child. Of all the homes my father owned, this was the one that Mother loved best. She felt the most at home here, the most at ease. In turn, so did I. It was comfort, then. Comfort and love that caused my imagination to soar to such great heights.
Much to Father's dismay, she labored in these gardens, year after year. I followed her, loyal as a shadow. She taught me the language of each flower, how they cry out for water, how they climb with eager intention towards light and at times, retreat back into the shade. They would want for nothing more as long as she was nearby. I am pleased to find that this is still the case. Although I left Waterford in January of 2018, I now find myself in Liverpool in September of 1775. Every one of her gardens scattered across these three miraculous acres are in full bloom. Simply by beholding them, I am reminded of who I was and who I once dreamed to be. In my imagination, I had sovereignty over these flowerbeds and orchards. By day, I would explore them and by night, I would keep a watchful eye from the nursery's window. They were my treasure to guard, my country.
I pass through the door, trailing behind Father. Our servants gather in the wings. I never truly noticed them before, those silent men and women waiting in silence to fulfill our every whim. There were no such attendants in Marigold's time, at least not in this capacity or for such menial work. Certainly, the waiters, clerks and even the housekeepers in Waterford were treated with some sense of dignity. I cringe at the condescending tone that Father takes with them as our coats are gathered and our tea is prepared. I am almost ready to abandon him and help a while in the kitchen when a familiar woman rounds the corner. She is clothed in a lilac gown that one might consider too plain for a lady of her caliber. Her graying chestnut hair hangs loose and wild, spilling down her back and out over her shoulders. In each hand, she holds a bundle of flowers, purples and blues. She places one in my palm and extends the other to her husband. When he refuses, she sets in on the table beside him and sits in the adjacent armchair.
"I see you are making the most of your gardens, Harriet. That pleases me."
She beams, at least to herself. I had nearly forgotten the warmth of her smile. She must know that I am watching her, unlike Father who hasn't spared her so much as a passing glance. "It pleases me to see you both after so many months. This home has been empty for far too long."
"And it shall be empty again before it is sold! Along with two of my finest ships. If I seem cross, that is why."
"Oh, Julius! You are always cross!" Her eyes, giddy and brown as tea dart back in my direction. "As is our William! So serious!" I offer her a quick, acknowledging grin, but the sorrowful desire to give her more must have cut its life short. "Very well. You both wallow in your own self pity! I, on the other hand, shall fill this parlor with the joyful sound of sweet music!" She rises, tripping and skipping across the room to a nook where the family's harpsichord stands.
Father cringes as she hits a sour note or two, "Harriet!" The playing continues. "Harriet!" She begins to sing. "Hattie! Enough!"
As I stand, he mouths a premature "thank you", as though he assumes that I am heading over there to hush her. Instead, I place my hand on her tiny shoulder and we sing a few measures in unison. It is one of those long forgotten melodies. Even before I left home, even before the war, it had been decades since it fell out of existence in my heart and mind. The lyrics are soft and innocent, just the kind of song that I can imagine Annabelle or Marigold loving. If ever I am to see my darling wife again, if ever I am to hold our daughter in my arms, I will share this song with them the same way that Mother once did for me, so long ago.
"Will you two stop!? I condemned myself to enough blasted caterwauling from the crew over the last nine weeks! Now I'm damned to listen to Harriet's stupidity whilst plotting my next escape to the West Indies! Even then I won't be free from that confounded singing! Singing! Singing!"
"Perhaps if he were a better conversationalist," I whisper to her with a wink.
"My dearest William, I must say! You hardly seem like your usual self! Have you noticed, Julius? Your son seems... pleasant! Exceptionally pleasant! But also troubled. What is her name?"
Blushing, I take a seat on the bench beside her. My fingers struggle to find the correct keys and positioning. They are now so much more accustomed to Marigold's piano, even though I had spent many long hours with this same harpsichord as a boy. I hammer out a basic blues riff, one of the first ones that my wife taught me. I am proud to admit that it even grabbed the attention of Julius Tavington himself, if only for a second. Feeling bold, I attempt to tackle the first thirty seconds or so of Elvis Presley's "All Shook Up", complete with vocals. I'll tell you this much, the combination of my untrained voice and the brittle twang of the instrument was beyond ghastly.
We watch Father shoot out of his arm chair, through the parlor and down the hall, crashing into the poor young maid who is carrying our tea. He stops, not to help, but instead to throw one of his famous tantrums while still within our view. "That settles it! I am leaving! What a pity it is when a man cannot find peace in his own home! As for you, William, you best not doing any singing in South Carolina or you will quickly learn what friendly fire is firsthand! Bah!"
"Hortensia, darling," Mother dashes to the girl's side and kneels in the mess of broken china and spilled earl grey.
"Mrs. Tavington, please. You'll soil your dress!"
"Soil? Ha! There is still soil on it from earlier when I was trudging through the garden! Fortunately, Julius was too drunk to take notice!"
"You are far too kind to me." Hortensia places the bits of shattered cups and plates on the metal tray between them. Mother does the same, stands and pulls the young lady to her feet.
"The least this family can do is treat you with kindness after all that you have done for us. I know that deep down, my husband understands that, too. He is just a little out of practice. But worry not, my friend, I shall work with him! He will soon discover that one act of kindness leads to another, then another. You rest now. Julius likely won't return from The Beech Nut until the wee hours of morning. Besides, dear William and I have some important matters to discuss."
As I watch her, a dreadful realization washes over me. This past few minutes are the greatest accumulation time that Mother and I have spent together. That is, since I was small enough to be carried about in her arms. When last I was here, living within this same date, I hardly acknowledged her while Father and I prepared for a night of gambling and bitter ale. Even this morning, I could not describe her gentle smile or the sweetness of her lilting voice to you. She was just that insignificant to me. A beautiful flower blooming our garden that I never took the time to look upon with the appreciation that it so deserved.
"The Carolinas?" She asks, wistfully meandering towards the grand staircase which leads to our private quarters. "Do you know when you depart?"
"Not for another three months, we will have plenty of time together, you and I."
Mother presses her lips together. Sadness overtakes her eyes. Moments before they were brown and deep, the color of the grateful earth upon receiving rain. Now, they are glazed and sparkling like a polished stone. "I found the perfect homecoming gift for you!" She says, willing herself out of sorrow for my departure and concern for my life. "Please don't be angry, I placed it on your desk for safekeeping while you were away. Perhaps you will find use for it abroad."
I smile and can see in her eyes how much she treasures it- just a simple smile for her son. "I am not angry at all, Mother. Thank you for thinking of me."
"May I show you? I saw it on the other side of a shop's window downtown and it reminded me so much of you!" Upon my nod, she grabs hold of my hand and all but drags me up the stairs.
My room is exactly as I left it, pristine and uninhabitable. I spent so little time in this space as a young man that I barely left an imprint of my body in the bed. The velvet chair at my desk is the only item that shows any trace of use. That and the gently burned candlesticks and a single dribbling of wax on the innermost arm of my candelabra. It is a lonesome place, devoid of memory and sentiment. Even a ghost would shy away from living here. Now, one does.
Mother gestures to my gift, a small book that I recognize instantly. This notebook and the one that I held the night before, back in Waterford, are one and the same. Its pages are empty, every sketch, every mindless drabble, every sonnet from Annabelle has been wiped clean. I clasp my hand over my mouth and to the horror of us both, begin to cry.
She pulls me into her arms, apologizing for what she might have done wrong. Apologizing before even inquiring. The way that Marigold might do. Indeed, the way that Marigold would! This realization burns within me. I was drawn to Annabelle and committed my heart forevermore to Marigold because they reminded me so much of the darling woman who I had pushed away for most of my life.
"You have nothing to apologize for, Mother. Not a thing in all the world!"
"My poor boy, you must be so exhausted. Would you like for me to leave you alone so you can rest?"
I shake my head, "I have asked you to leave me alone far too often. Perhaps that is why I am here now. To make up for all of the time that I have lost. You must think that I am crazy!"
"Not in the slightest. I know my son. What you need now is a warm bath, a shave and a good night's rest. Oh! And let us not forget, tea with your mother in the atrium tomorrow!"
I thank her and sit a long while in the empty silence of my room. My thoughts wander once again to my wife. The ache in my heart confirms it and I know in the depths of my soul that she, too, is sitting by herself in a lonesome space, far across the endless sands of time.
...
I awaken long before dawn. Shaded silhouettes from the garden throw themselves across my wall. They waltz with the breeze, churning and reeling, maintaining their stoicism like nobles at a ball. In the distance, music. Mother's voice is faint, barely a whisper on the breeze and still, I can hear each word. It is a song that I know, not only from this life but from the one that I left only yesterday. I close my eyes and sing along, sharing my own secret sadness with hers:
Our dreams they never came true, Maggie.
Our fond hopes were never meant to be.
When I first said I loved only you, Maggie,
And you said you loved only me.
A hum follows, only this time it is neither my voice nor Mother's producing it. Though it is the same melody, it sits differently on my ears. It is less mournful, somehow, less mournful and more soothing. Like a lullaby. I search for its source and guided by the faint light of the low hanging moon, I see movement. Something stirs beside the beside the pitcher of water and bowl which was left for me to wash and shave with. A square mirror, my mirror, is where the voice is rising from. I seize it and look. It is her, my Marigold. She is standing on our poach in her daisy-printed robe, stroking her belly and singing tenderly to our unborn daughter:
We'll rise every morn with the sun, Mabel
And hold fast to hope. Hope may be
What brings us together again, Mabel
My darling, my Mabel and me.
I call out to her, knowing that she cannot hear. But even this, even a hopeless plea and no response is better than the silence that has slowly been eating me alive since we parted. "We will be together again, my love. I promise. I promised to find you again and that is what I intend to do!" I watch as she sits on her favorite yellow rocking chair, her arms wrap around her lower torso. She seems to be searching for something, searching and waiting for some nameless comfort from within.
"What did I tell you Mare," Giselle steps into the picture, handing Marigold a cup of herbal tea, "you know its still too early for flutters."
"I'm paranoid, that's all. If I lose her, I lose my last bit of him."
"You're not losing anyone. 72 hours. That's when Jake said that you should even entertain worrying. As for the kiddo, you've been eating like a champ and your last checkup went better than you expected, remember?"
Slowly, she hangs her head. Her golden tresses barely graze the top of her bumblebee mug. She goes to speak but hesitates. I know that expression. She is looking for words and for the strength to say them once they are found. "What if I told you that I wasn't completely honest with Jake yesterday?"
"If he wasn't your brother, I'd call you a damned fool. But considering it's Jake, well! You can be completely honest with me. You know that, right?"
"There was a note."
"What? Like a breakup letter? After one fight?" Giselle crosses her arms over her chest, her face swiftly reddens. "After everything that he put you through? I knew this was going to happen! You both rushed head first into-"
"-It wasn't a breakup letter. It was vague. But it also left me feeling like... never mind."
"Like what, Mare?"
"Like he's not coming back. At least not without my help. I feel like what happens next is on me. I even have a couple of leads! But I'm scared to act on them."
"What kind of leads?"
"Come inside with me, there's something I'd like to show you."
The image before me grows muddy and fades into nothing. I strike a match and light every candle in my room. Here I remain, hunched over the mirror until night succumbs entirely to day.
"What leads, you damned thing?" I murmur to the glass. All that I can see is my own reflection, bewildered and pained. "What leads? I demand that you show them to me!" Ripples move across the flat surface and my heart nearly leaps from my chest. This is the first true sign of sentience from the otherwise inanimate object. "Oh, haunted thing! Phantom mirror, show her to me again," I beg, but the mirror seems instead to have a will of its own.
There is a new scene taking form on the glass, but it is not of Marigold. Instead, it is a tall man dressed in a dark blue robe the likes of which I've never seen before. He is pacing back and forth in front of a sliding glass door in the early glow of morning. Lights from surrounding buildings are splattered across the window behind him. I can only see a fraction of the top part of his face, the other half is shielded by his hand. His knees buckle and he grabs hold of the railing while the rest of his form descends onto the balcony's floor. I can see by how he is shaking that the man is trying not to cry. He breathes in deeply several times, collecting just enough strength to rise to his feet once more. I know him. I know his face, even now that I see it plagued with extreme exhaustion and contorted in pain.
"Two weeks," Bordon mutters, drawing in a single breath before a muffled sob halts the second. "Two weeks since I first had that terrible dream. Will I ever sleep again?"
He looks out across the city with eyelids so heavy he can barely hold them up. Each elongated blink is quickly chased away with a look of terror and despair. I wonder what is hunting him, what is waiting in the shadows to pounce the instant he lets his guard down. From indoors, a telephone rings causing us both to startle. Bordon springs to life, dashing inside to read the caller ID and answering without hesitation. "Giselle, talk to me. What is going on?" A moment passes, a moment of Giselle squabbling frantically from several states away. "Do you honestly think that's the best idea?" He sighs and slinks into a chair beside his kitchen table. "Please don't do that. I don't- look, it's not that I don't want to talk to her, it's just been so long and I feel guilty for not keeping in touch. Please don't interrupt me, there's more." I can hear Giselle becoming animated. "Of course, I do. Of course. I suppose that if it is what she truly wants then I can accommodate her. What time does the flight come in? 3:30 it is. Very well." He hangs up in a huff, sets an alarm and makes for the futon across the room where he lies restlessly until my view of him fades to black.
I must confess, the minuscule bit of envy which I harbored for Bordon is no longer a tiny, smoldering thing. Now it burns within me like a wildfire. I should not project, should not guess. But wouldn't any man who is sound of mind be suspicious? So far, I have gathered that Marigold is searching for me and somehow, she believes that to find me again she must go to Bordon. I have known that there would be certain tests of faith within our marriage, what I should do is simply trust her. But what if I am trapped here? What if fate has decided that she must remain in Waterford and live out her days without me? What if all that I see of my beloved Marigold is confined to this mirror and I am doomed to helplessly watch as she falls into the arms of another man? I curse them both. Above all, however, I curse myself, for it was I who elected to go searching for the ghosts of the past. I should have simply remained joyful and thankful for the present time. I collect myself and quickly dress, deciding at last who I must turn to, the person most like sweet Marigold in this bitter world.
...
I sit beside Mother in the sunny atrium. She moves a silver spoon through her tea and watches as the sugar cube at the bottom of her cup dissolves. Although she is quiet, I can see each thought appear in the form of short-lived creases across her brow. I said too much. I said it all. The only information that I chose not to disclose was the details of Father's death, her descent into madness and my abandonment of her in December of this year. That and my own series of war crimes that I knew would destroy her to hear. Everything else- Annabelle, the schoolhouse, Waterford, the farm, all lay before her to parse, to agonize over alongside her foolish, impulsive son.
"I suppose," she says at last, taking a dainty sip of assam, "that is why you desecrated our poor harpsichord last night. Rock-ah-billy! What a silly name for a style of music!"
"So, you don't think me mad?"
"There are more things in heaven and earth than have been dreamt of in our philosophy."
I chuckle a bit too loudly. It is relieving to laugh. "Yes, Hamlet."
"The only madness here is happening within me! Oh! How I wish I could meet her! And visit this town in the colonies! Full of music and life! And your little farm. It sounds so familiar, almost like the one that I used to live in. Up in the north. All those years ago. Could you show me, William? With your mirror?"
"The mirror is stubborn, I'm afraid. But I will show it to you. We just need to be sure no one else is looking. Especially Father."
She looks once more into her teacup and worry washes over her lovely face. "Yes, that would be unfortunate. Of course, of the three of us, I believe that he would benefit the most from a brief glimpse into the future! Since we are confiding in one another, there is something that has been troubling me, something that I must say. Though I fear to."
"Fear has no place between us now," I take her hand in mine, "tell me. I shall take it to the grave and beyond that, still."
"I am glad that he is losing those ships. If you ask me, it serves him right! I was raised to believe that all life is sacred, that all humans must be treated with dignity. There is nothing dignified about what your father does. I would rather be destitute than to live beneath this roof any longer, knowing what paid for it. His drinking, his gambling may seem on the surface to be my greatest burden, but deep down I consider his recklessness to be a blessing. Once his esteem is dissolved and our wealth has been drained to its final drop, that is when I will have the man that I so adore back. I believe that, my son, I believe that with everything I am."
My grip on her hand tightens, "Oh, but Mother. What if he never changes? What then?"
"Yes, that question has haunted my footsteps for many years now. It wasn't until recently that I found the hope required to answer it and forever rid myself of its shadow. You. You give me hope for your father and for your brother, too."
A/N: The song lyric at the center of this chapter is taken from Jean Redpath's version of "Maggie". I do not own it. I did write Marigold's little rendition of it, though. I made a video on YT not too long ago of a hypothetical opening scene for "Only Through Victory" and sing part of this song. Since then, it became a motif in these stories even though it was written about 100 years after Annabelle would have lived. Ah, well. Fanfic is about having fun, after all! I hope you are having as much fun reading this story as I am writing it!