Box Set: The ArringtonTrilogy (69 page)

“Yes, Daddy, I did. But I feel better now; I
will return to my room,” I said in a voice just above a whisper and
eased past him. He shuffled around and waved as I hurried back to
my room.

When I was behind my own door and locked back
away, I closed my eyes, and began to shake uncontrollably with
sheer panic and excitement.

I had done it; I had escaped, and though I
was seen by Grandfather, I was elated. I had met my grandfather,
and he wasn’t the monster I imagined he would be. He was just an
elderly man, who I believed had loved Momma. I saw it in his eyes;
I felt his adoration in the way his hand pressed softly on my head.
But as much as I longed to become acquainted with him, I knew I had
to be extremely cautious. There was a chance he would tell
Grandmother that he had seen Amelia. Then my freedom could be at
risk, and perhaps, my life. I wasn’t certain I wanted to play with
such danger. Not yet. Patience was my greatest asset, something
Daddy had told me long ago, and time was certainly on my side.

Grandmother had no suspicions; she was
unaware of my escape. Though at first I was petrified when she came
in for her inspection that grandfather had revealed our encounter,
I soon realized she knew nothing about it. She took notice of the
room, as usual, made me stand at attention as her eyes scanned me
up and down, though she had long since stopped making me undress to
uncover any baby that might have been growing inside of me after
she found me hiding in Warren’s cabin.

Each time I stood at attention, her eyes
focused on me with such scrutiny, I was satisfied and delighted
with my secrets, and she was completely unaware. She still believed
I cried every day for Daddy, that I was dejected and glum and
thought I had no purpose in life. If she was as assured as she
pretended to be, if she had looked deep into my brilliant eyes, she
would have seen the passion for life that burned within me. My eyes
were there, right in front of her, to see and give it all away—my
love for Warren, the hope that he would find Daddy, and the
confidence that I would survive my imprisonment and return to the
sea. But she was a coward, and never once looked at me, Lillian
Arrington, the person. It was her greatest weakness; it was what
would someday allow me to destroy Sutton Hall and have it come
crumbling down around her.

Though long letters were sent back and forth,
it seemed forever until the moon shined high in the midnight blue
sky and I could see Warren again. Abigail managed to steal away
some paper, a quill, and an inkwell for me, and I spent hours
writing to him. I confessed my affections for him, and although I
was uncertain he would accept my undying love, I felt that it was
safe to listen to my heart and believe in true love. After all,
Momma had; she had run off with her one and only love. I wanted to
be just as lucky. I hoped Warren wanted me as much as I wanted
him.

In his letters in return, he proclaimed his
commitment to me, he pledged he would find Daddy, and he told me
that my beautiful face filled every inch of his heart, however
there was something missing in his words to me; he never once
mentioned that he wanted to take me away and make me his wife. So
after many letters, I decided to ask him, face to face, near the
river, under the willow tree, by the light of the moon.

As the giant mansion settled in for the long
night, I made my way to the river, where I expected to see Warren
waiting for me. I had spent hours brushing my long hair, thinking
of seeing him again. I wore Momma’s favorite dress and suspected I
looked just as pretty as she had when she wore it.

I waited impatiently for Warren to appear,
but as the night moved on, the clouds rolled in and covered the
moon. It grew dark, and the wind kicked up, and the heavy rain
began to fall. I huddled under the tree to keep dry, my eyes locked
to the darkness. My hair that I had worked so hard to make pretty
was wet and pasted against my head, and my clothes were drenched.
When I had all but given up, shivering from the brisk winds, about
to go back with a heavy, dejected heart, he appeared. He was hours
late, and we didn’t have much time before sunrise.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” he said. He was as
drenched as I, and the water from the rain spilled over and off his
hat. I didn’t care why he was late and moved into him so we were
merely inches apart.

I expected him to sweep me up and bring me
close; I wanted him to place his lips on mine and tell me he was
there to take me far away. Instead, his face was somber; he was
distraught and kept his hands to his side while the rain continued
to fall.

“What is it, Warren?” I finally asked,
breaking the long, uncomfortable silence. It wasn’t the meeting I
had anticipated; he didn’t greet meet with loving arms and tender
kisses as I had fantasized in my mind all the weeks we were
apart.

Warren held his stare and his breath, until
he could no longer contain the horrible news that sent me to the
saturated ground with relentless, grief-stricken wails of anguish.
Daddy was dead; he had drowned while rescuing a sinking fishing
vessel.

Warren came to me then, shielding me from the
pellets of rain, and hushed me by caressing my dripping hair. “I am
so sorry, Lillian,” he whispered, with unadulterated compassion. I
let out angst-ridden moans and uncontrollable sobs, and there was
little he could do to comfort me. Above us, the lightning lit up
the threatening sky and sent bolts to the ground near to us.

“Take me away, Warren,” I begged through my
cries. “There is nothing for me now.”

“Not just yet. Please, be patient,” he said
kneeled on the ground.

I lifted my head, looked at him, and asked,
“Why?”

He wouldn’t answer me. Instead, he took my
hand and brought me up, then said, “You need to get back.”

I didn’t want to go, but I saw the urgency in
his face. He thought it best to wait and not rush our escape.
Warren pleaded with me to understand that we would be together, in
time. He placed his lips on my wet cheek and tenderly kissed me,
then pulled away and wandered through the rain and into the
darkness, vanishing like a ghost.

Devastated, I managed to get back to my room
before sunrise. I was weak and emotionally exhausted, and wasn’t
sure even Warren’s love could keep me from drowning in my own
despair. I was sickened to think of how Daddy had suffered and
died, the way so many sailors had before him. I hated imagining him
struggling for air, fighting the enormous swells to keep above
water. The vision I had of him washing up onto the shore aged me
beyond my years. All the color I had gained, the newfound glow from
Warren’s love, drained from me. I sat, empty and lifeless, on the
bed, with no more tears left to shed.

_______________

I didn’t tell Abigail that my daddy was dead,
but she knew something was wrong when I didn’t bother to sit up and
take the letter she snuck in.

“What’s wrong with you?” she asked in a
whisper. “This here letter is from Warren.”

Not even Warren’s letter could get me to lift
me head and face the day. She heard Grandmother coming and quickly
shoved the letter in her skirt, then hurried to the plate on the
floor.

“What is this? Why is there still food left
on her plate?” Grandmother demanded.

Abigail didn’t know what to say.

“Well, if she won’t eat her morning meal, she
won’t get her evening meal—not only for tonight, but for the rest
of the week,” she barked, then flew out.

Abigail had no time to come to me, but I
wasn’t concerned. I didn’t want to be bothered. I found my safe
place by staring off into the distance again with glazed eyes. It
was easy to fall back into a dark place in my mind; I had been
there so many times before. It was familiar; it took away all of
the pain I couldn’t face. There was no way for me to deal with
Daddy’s death, other than shutting my mind off to the world. I
wasn’t going to mourn him and move on; I was not going to allow
grief or elation to ever touch me again. I was content to simply
wither away like a dying flower.

Day after day, for weeks, Abigail stole up,
taking great chances to see me, begging me to tell her what was
wrong. Even Hamilton tried to bring me back to my former happy
state; he came and knelt down, as large as he was, and signed to
me. I couldn’t bring myself to care, and I just looked through him.
I continued to ignore Warren’s letters, and as much as my mind told
me not to push him away, that he was the only man that had ever
wanted me, my heart had nothing left to give.

When Grandmother saw me so despondent and
refusing to stand at attention when she entered the room, she grew
furious. She called for Abigail and demanded to know what was wrong
with me.

“I don’t know, Mrs. Arrington. Maybe she is
sick.”

Grandmother peered closely at my face then
said, “She is not sick. Get up, girl!” She took her cane and poked
me in the ribs. I didn’t react, just stared out the window.

“I said get up!” she commanded.

Abigail covered her mouth as she watched
Grandmother lift the cane high above her head. Just as she was
about to strike my legs, there was a loud crash from outside my
room. I was spared, as she hurried with Abigail out of my room.
Then I heard Grandmother call for Hamilton. “It’s Thomas; he has
fallen!” she yelled. Her cries caught my attention.

There was so much commotion I couldn’t help
but blink away my foggy trance. I rose up and looked to the door;
it had been left open. It was the fact that I might never get to
see my grandfather again that made me slide out of bed and go down
the long hall to the grand staircase. I peeked around the corner to
watch Grandmother cradle Grandfather’s head in her lap, sobbing
like a child. Hamilton rushed in to take him from her and carried
Grandfather out, while Abigail tried to help Grandmother off the
floor.

“Get off of me,” she barked. “I can do it
myself.”

She stood, adjusted her skirt, and placed her
thick, wooden cane beside her as her head rose, high and dignified.
She had broken down for only a moment, and pretended it had never
happened as she pivoted and marched out to the carriage. Abigail
retrieved a brush and bucket and began scrubbing Grandfather’s
blood off the wood floor. He’d fallen down the stairs and smashed
his head on the hard floor. I couldn’t imagine how he could
possibly survive such a fall. They were rushing him to a doctor,
and I was certain he would be dead by the time they arrived.

Abigail was sobbing quietly, and she didn’t
notice me when I came down and stood over her. I reached down and
touched her shoulder then she lifted her head to look at me. Her
eyes were filled with woe, her concern for him overwhelming.

“He won’t make it,” she said as the tears
streamed down her face.

I didn’t understand why she was so distraught
over a man who kept her for so many years as a slave. What was it
about my grandfather that kept her weeping throughout the following
days?

Out my own sadness over Daddy’s death came
compassion for Abigail. I saw my own melancholy through her, and it
became apparent that I didn’t need to hold on to such a state of
despair. Abigail didn’t lie down and want to waste away, longing
for a man. She continued with her duties; she brushed her tears
away when she came to bring me my meals, though I knew she was
hurting inside. Grandmother screamed at Abigail every time she
caught her with eyes full of tears. I heard her bellows all the way
up to my room.

“You wipe that pitiful look off your face,
Abigail, before I take it off for you! How dare you cry for
him!”

Grandmother’s ranting and raving continued
through the week that Grandfather was gone, somewhere in a
hospital, until the sweltering, late summer day came that he was
sent home in a coffin, to be buried in the family cemetery at
Sutton Hall. I was predictably kept locked away during the funeral.
Grandmother gave me no moment to pay my respects to him. I could,
from my window, see them all out there. Hundreds of people came to
Sutton Hall, for he must have been a very well-known man, a
prominent member of the community, and one of Georgia’s most highly
praised plantation owners. There were carriages scattered
everywhere and men and woman in formal black attire saying goodbye
to Thomas Arrington. I wanted so very much to go outside, to blend
in with the crowd, but I hadn’t a proper dress to wear, and I would
stand out.

I stayed glued to my window all day; it was
my way of feeling included. When the mourners left, just as night
fell, I unlocked my door and crept down the back stairway and
outside. It was my turn to say goodbye to Grandfather, and I stood
over his fresh grave, closed my eyes, and bowed my head in respect.
I thought about the moment, the only moment we met, the one night I
stole out of my cell to see what was around every corner of Sutton
Hall. I expected to find locked doors and perhaps even another
secret passageway, but never thought I would have the good fortune
to meet the man that obviously loved Momma, the man she called
Daddy and probably worshipped as much as I had my own Daddy. And as
Grandfather’s spirit soared into the heavens, mine lifted as well,
the heavy suffering of my loss diminished. I was finally ready to
end my grief-stricken days the way that Daddy taught me years ago,
by filling my heart with things that made the sun rise each day,
the birds sing, the sweet fragrances that filled the air, and the
ardent love that inundated every part of me.

Warren could no longer wait for my letters to
come. Only a day after Grandfather’s burial, I was sleeping lightly
when I sensed I was not alone and slowly lifted my lids. Warren
stood beside my bed, holding a candle that gave his face a soft,
warm glow. At first I believed he was a figment of my frequent
dreams, but then he spoke in a faint voice, just loud enough to
wake me. “Lillian, come and walk with me.”