The days wore on in deafening silence. Funerals were held in the churchyard for the Abbotts and the Casey girls, and Annabelle was faced with the dreaded task of writing to Mr. Abbott and, even more painfully, her own father.
Although she believed that returning to her old routine of rising early and spending her days at the schoolhouse would help her along, the grief that she felt, among other factors was far too deep. Something had happened in the process of mourning her losses- Annabelle's hatred for Tavington's actions moved inward. She began to blame herself and in turn, hate herself as well.
Her pupils received in full force the change in her demeanor. Before, she'd felt a kinship with the students. Although she was nearly 20 years of age and had done more than merely assist in raising her two younger sisters, she was still very much like a child in many regards. Surrounding herself with the curious minds and ceaseless imaginations of her pupils seemed to aid in preserving her own.
But now- they found that she was no longer the lively young woman who encouraged them to write poetry and sketch landscapes and constellations on their good parchment and notepads. She assumed a more formal approach- her father's method, and milled on each day about the fundamentals of basic arithmetic and the like. Occasionally, she would let the children read from Shakespeare again. But there was no blocking or costumes these days. They remained in their chairs until they were dismissed in the early evening.
After a week or so, Annabelle grew weary of the walk to her house and perhaps most of all, having to see the scorched skeleton of the Whitley House each day. So, she gathered her possessions one evening, tossed them in a small hand-drawn wagon and returned to the schoolhouse.
Several of her pupil's small chairs lined up against the wall made for a suitable bed when combined with her cozy feather blanket from home. Plus, she had plenty of materials should the hunger to create strike again, but the channel to the poetry that once resided within her seemed to be closed off for the time being.
Before giving in to the keen temptation of rest, Annabelle realized that the small notebook Tavington had "gifted" her with had made its way into the collection of items that she'd brought from home.
"Revolting thing." She muttered, sinking into the deep embrace of the down blanket. "Must have snuck in with my other books..."
She hadn't taken the time to give the notebook a proper examination and tossed it aside with the musket when she returned home that fateful morning not too long ago.
As she stretched herself out beneath her pool of moonlight, a thought dawned upon her. Perhaps there was something in those pages that she could use against him. The thought was brief, mind you, for Annabelle was not a vengeful woman even when confronted with this new mix of emotions that Tavington had brought to life in her.
Before long, her thoughts trailed into an entirely different direction. She recalled his moment of vulnerability. Those eyes that had been so near the verge of tears as he contemplated suspending his order of execution. Perhaps this development was purely fictional, but Annabelle had to believe that he thought of it. Perhaps she would gain better insight into his heart and mind if she were to look within those pages…
First, she gained a tactile knowledge of the book. It was roughly the size of Tavington's hand, the perfect size for recording quick thoughts as he rode from one battle to the next. Annabelle took a moment to imagine this scene. Although the binding was handsome, the edges folded outward slightly when the book was rested in her palm.
"It must have traveled with him to many battlefields." She thought, turning it over in her hand and examining the back upon which was the stamping of a crest with two bucking horses on either side of what she assumed to be a rapier. "Family crest, I wager. Riding must go back through the generations for the Tavingtons…"
Her nerves contorted slightly. What if she didn't want to read its contents? She decided that perhaps, if everything written within was all bad, it would provide her with closure to learn of his wickedness in the place in which they'd first met. She reached for her dressing gown and headed outside to her apple tree. Bringing along the musket just in case.
There was a chill in the air that night- but fortunately, minimal cloud coverage. She was able to see with ease thanks to the light provided by the moon.
Most of the pages within the book were blank; but Annabelle found the first ten or so to be of interest. She quickly learned that Tavington was not the literary man that she'd dreamt him to be. He was, instead more of a visual being. Each page contained a small collection of sketches. The first half of the images being that of various flora that was grown throughout what is known today as the American South. Abandoned drawings of landscapes could be found on the backs of some of the pages while more polished and decisive sketches could be found on the final five.
Annabelle nearly lost her balance when she turned a page to find the only drawing that had been created through imagination instead of sight- her seven fireflies scattered about within the walls of a transparent castle. Not only did he remember, in detail, the metaphor within her poem; but had recorded it among the other notable things of beauty he'd experienced in the colonies thus far.
She tucked the notebook into her dressing gown and leaned back, watching the leaves as they clicked against the surfaces of the overhanging apples. Her hands were now occupied by her musket from Mrs. Abbott. It contained one shot that she'd never fired. When she was growing up next door to the Whitleys, Harold had offered to teach her how to shoot; but Annabelle always refused. No, words, as I'm sure you've wagered so far was the only weapon that she'd ever wanted to arm herself with. Being the daughter of a schoolteacher, she'd just barely gotten away with it- even in this day in age.
She held the musket in front of her, trying her best to take aim at one of the apples. Her hand shook as she cocked the weapon. "Maybe if I actually knew how to fend for myself…" She mused, finding that her hand was growing more and more steady as her frustration grew. Then, crack! The musket fired and Annabelle flinched. When she recovered, she realized that the apple had fallen to the ground with a black hole through its center, piping billows of smoke.
Dark forms accompanied by the glow of candlesticks began to emerge from the surrounding houses. The click of several firearms sounded through the night.
"Don't shoot." Sounded the voice belonging to Reverend Chelsea as he approached the apple tree. "It's just little Annabelle Casey, causing a stir as always..." his wrinkled face seemed to glow like a beacon as he stared up at Annabelle from below. "Let me help you down, child."
"Oh, for the love of God Almighty! Leave her up there. Nuts belong in trees*, anyways…" Cried Louie the Baker, taking a feeble stab at humor with a wink from his one good eye.
"It's an apple tree, Mr. Goode. I got up here on my own accord and can come down at my own accord." Annabelle confirmed flatly, firing the empty musket at another apple with a "click".
The townsfolk began to huddle in the street below. Whispers of Annabelle's stability and the welfare of the children could be heard from all around.
"Very well." Said Reverend Chelsea. "We all deal with grief in different ways." He directed his attention to the growing crowd. "As an appointed head of this town and long-trusted friend of Solomon Casey, I will collect your children tomorrow morning in front of the school. All lessons shall be taught in the church until his return." He turned to Annabelle, "Until then, Miss Casey, try not to burn the place down."
With the Whitleys and the Abbotts gone, Annabelle was beginning to feel as though she didn't have a friend in the world. Whenever anyone in the town lost someone dear to them, the community would always come together in support. But everyone was quick to isolate poor Annabelle, just like they had been all her life. In addition, having just lost her ability to teach made her feel even more isolated than before. The commotion in the streets began to die down. Everyone headed back into their homes in hopes of spending the remainder of the night in peace with their families. Annabelle remained alone in her apple tree…
Author's Note: Thank you again for the reviews; I'm hoping this chapter helped to better clarify Annabelle's feelings for Tavington. ALSO, there will be much, much more Tavington among many other characters from the film in the coming chapters. The pace will pick up significantly in chapter 6. Honest. I'm trying to get this story written before returning to university next month, so you can expect chapters daily. Cheers! -L.S.
*Just to clarify, yes, that totally ridiculous and random passage (or the gist of it, anyway) is from Family Guy. Early morning, caffeine-infused writing sessions always tend to get a bit bizarre. Lol. Bear with.