Box Set: The ArringtonTrilogy (75 page)

However, Warren wouldn’t tolerate my
behavior, and just to show me, he went out and slammed the door
behind him. I jumped out of the bed and ran after him.

“Get back inside; you can’t be out like
this!” he barked, refusing to look at me. He kept pivoting around
when I crossed into his vision to make him look at me.

“Is this what you don’t want Richard to
draw?” I spat. “My body? My nude body? The body you refuse to look
at?”

“You stop it right now, Lillian!” he
demanded, his eyes, blazing with fury, locked onto mine.

“You’re not my father; you’re not my husband.
You are nobody, Warren Stone. You can’t tell me what to do!” I
yelled, striking his face. I slapped it so hard he stumbled
back.

As I went to strike again, he blocked my
blow, grabbing hold of my arm. “That’s enough Lillian.” His voice
had softened, his anger fading into sadness. “Go and put some
clothes on.”

I ran back inside, slamming the door, and
falling to the bed, sobbing. I didn’t hear him come in.

“My God,” he gasped. He was standing over me,
staring at my scarred back.

“Go away, Warren,” I shouted. He didn’t
listen, but came to the bed and lifted me into his arms. “Who did
this to you?” he demanded. I buried my face in his chest and
refused to answer. As much as I wanted to be a woman, I felt more
like a child than ever. “Did your daddy do this to you?”

I lifted my head, shocked and appalled that
he would think such a thing. “No, of course not!”

“Then who left you with such gruesome scars?
Who whipped you?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “Let me be,
Warren.” I slipped out of his arms and curled up in a ball on the
bed, my back facing him.

“She did that to you? That wicked, evil
woman,” he mumbled, gently touching each of my scars with his
finger. “How dare she?”

My mind shut off; I was tired of losing every
battle that came my way. I just wanted to sleep, but Warren, in my
most vulnerable time, was unable to refrain from coming to me,
cradling my body, and lightly kissing my back.

His kiss lingered, and eventually, he put his
hands on me, lightly rubbing my back the way I had once done for
him. I stopped crying as my body reacted to his tender touch and
warm kisses, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to feel such excitement, I
had second thoughts about Warren becoming my lover. He confused me,
he angered me, and I just wanted to be left alone.

“Please, stop,” I whispered.

“I’m so sorry she hurt you,” he murmured
through his kisses. “You poor thing.”

Warren’s hands eased around to my front and
brushed up against me. My heart raced, and my body felt an
exhilaration I had yet to experience, but my mind screamed for him
to stop. I wasn’t ready as much as I had once thought and wanted
him to stop.

“Warren, please, please stop,” I cried. But
my pleas went unheard. My stomach felt queasy, and I began to
tremble. I tried to squirm out from under him; I pleaded for him to
stop. In his eyes, I saw the lust and yearning I had once hoped
for; I felt his craving build by the second, and before long, he
was having his way with me.

“No!” I cried over and over and I sobbed
uncontrollably. The pain was unbearable. I dug my nails into his
back and bit his chest; I bawled and screamed for him to stop.

When it was finally over, I flew out the bed
and ran outside, where I heaved up the contents of my stomach. When
that stopped, I fell to the ground and shook uncontrollably. I wept
continuously, and didn’t stop when Warren came out. He knelt and
covered me with a blanket then in a remorseful and ashamed voice,
said, “Can you ever forgive me?”

I refused to look at him, and pulled away
when he went to stroke my hair. Then, his head hung low in
disgrace, he went back inside. He left the door open for me.

Because of that one, single, unspeakable
moment, I no longer saw life the same. The sun didn’t shine as
bright; the sky was no longer as brilliant and beautiful. The birds
chirped and sang sweet songs in the trees, but when their music
reached my ears, the sounds were lackluster. The scorching days of
summer seemed more oppressive than ever, and when I went to the
well to soothe my parched lips, I found no relief as my mouth and
throat reminded tight and dry.

In the days after Warren took my innocence, I
stayed quiet. I went to the creek to wade in the water to stay cool
while he was at work, and I couldn’t help but add my tears to it. I
hated everything about myself. I was so unhappy. Every fantasy I
had about finally becoming a woman had been proven a sham. I wasn’t
humming a tune, and my face didn’t glow the way Momma’s used to
after she and Daddy shared each other. I felt dirty and soiled,
tainted for life. I swore I would never want to be with another
man, ever. I cursed every curve in my body; I hated the large bosom
I once felt fortunate to posses. My beauty was a personal burden.
However, I might have to use it, just to gain the funds to leave
Savannah for good. There was no way I could stay with Warren any
longer. I wanted to go home.

Warren didn’t expect me to cook or clean, and
he prepared his own supper when he returned after a long day’s
work. He still had it in his mind that we would go to Cape Cod to
live happily ever after. I could see the shame in his green eyes,
and he believed he could win my forgiveness by taking me to the
sea, but I was devising a plan that would take me far away from
him. I would seek out Richard and offer to be sketched—and paid.
Then I would have the money for the long train ride home.

When Saturday came, I expected Warren to make
the ride into Savannah, but that day he said he had extra jobs to
do and would put off going into the city until next week. I was
crushed. I didn’t want to wait another day and decided to walk to
Savannah myself. I could get there and back before he returned to
the cabin. But it was sheer luck, I thought, that I got two miles,
and up the road came Richard! He stopped the buggy as soon he saw
me.

“How good to see you, Lillian.” he said.

“And you, too, Richard. What brings you out
this way?” I asked, looking up at him.

“My wife sent me to look at some land she
wants to acquire. It’s a few miles from here.”

“I was on my way to see you,” I told him,
getting straight to the point. I couldn’t bear to let him see the
anguish I harbored inside, and I prayed he wouldn’t be able to tell
that I had unwillingly lost my innocence.

“Is that so? What, may I ask, for?” he asked,
his white teeth gleaming as he smiled.

“How much will you pay to have my portrait
put in your magazine?”

Richard looked at me and his eyes sparkled
with delight, then he said, “How much do you want?”

“As much as a train ticket is worth.”

Richard climbed down from his seat, and when
he stood before me, he narrowed his eyes. “And why do you need
money for a train ticket?”

“I’m going back to Maine. My father has sent
for me, but he has fallen on hard times and couldn’t send me the
money.”

His eyebrows rose, his face twisted with
doubt. “I thought you lived with your father.”

“No, Warren is a friend of the family. He was
looking after me until Daddy got better. He has been sick for
nearly three years. Now he is well enough to have me again.”

“Warren has no money to see you off?”

“Do we have a deal?” I asked, extending my
hand, avoiding his question.

“Well, certainly. I’m not going to miss such
a chance,” he replied, and we shook on it.

“Do you have the time now?”

“I suppose I have an hour or so. Good thing I
always carry my sketch book and pencil with me,” he chuckled.

“Can we do it here?” I asked. I didn’t want
to take him to the cabin. There was no way I wanted him to see
where Warren had me.

“Certainly. Let’s go by the creek. I see a
rock you can sit on; the light is just right.”

He reached for his things, and we walked a
few yards. I sat and waited while he studied me. Richard kept a
keen eye on me as his hand flew over the once-blank page of his
sketch book. He told me how to hold my head and which way to tilt
it.

“Pull your shoulders back,” he instructed.
When I didn’t do it just the way he wanted, he whisked over and
went to put his hands on me.

“No, please don’t,” I said in a panic.

Richard took a step back and frowned, but
respected my wishes not to be touched. “Just pull them back about
an inch,” he said.

“Is this better?”

“Yes, that’s perfect. Stay just like
that.”

He sketched my image with passion; drawing
was his true obsession. After everything that had happened to me,
my body and face were the last things I wanted anyone to observe,
admire, and capture, but I knew I had to use it, if only for a day,
to get what I needed—money. I cringed every time he muttered how
stunning I was, and that it was an honor to create my likeness on
paper. Richard didn’t notice, and when he was done, he rushed over
to me.

“Well, what do you think?”

It was a work of art. His portrait made me
look angelic and virtuous; nothing like what I felt on the
inside.

“It’s amazing,” I said, quickly brushing away
a tear before he noticed.

“A job well done, Lillian,” he said, reaching
into his pocket and pulling out an Indian head gold dollar. “This
is for your beauty. I’m leaving first thing tomorrow morning, to
return to New York. If you can, travel with us, and I will pay your
way home.”

The offer was too good to be true. I had some
money, and now Richard was going to cover the cost of my ticket
home.

“I will be there; thank you.”

“No, thank you, Lillian. It has been an
honor,” he said, taking my hand to place a gentlemanly kiss on it,
but I abruptly pulled it back and hurried off.

“Bye, Richard. I will see you tomorrow,” I
called, running back to the one place I had to make peace with
before I left Georgia.

_______________

Sutton Hall loomed ahead, but its ominous
presence no longer frightened me. The house stood just as lifeless
as the day I left, but it still possessed a menacing aura. The
gardens of the plantation were even more overgrown, and thick,
green vines had begun to overwhelm the exterior.

As I approached, I stopped for a moment to
catch my breath and reflect on the past. Not one good thing came
from my days locked away. I was left with scars inside and out,
wounds that would never completely heal. I was no longer the naive,
innocent girl that believed in fairytales, the bond of family, and
the promise of true love. I was a shattered version of the girl I
once was.

With a heavy heart, I made my way up the
gallery and inside. Weather had entered the grand house and left
mud and rain-soaked floors. There was evidence of wild animals
living inside. Over the walls grew ugly black mold that made it
difficult for me to breathe, but I wanted to take it all in and
headed up the grand staircase and down to the room that kept me
prisoner for as many days as was chalked on the wall. I knelt and
counted each day I had been locked away.

The mattress that I had cried into and bled
onto was full of holes from some critter that needed a place to
call its own. All that remained of the blood-soaked rags were old
stains in the wood floors. On the floor beside the bed was the
dress I had on when I found the photograph under the trunk in the
attic. I lifted the dress and put my hand into the skirt pocket to
pull out the photograph. It was badly damaged; water stains covered
most of it, but I put it back in my pocket; just to have. I then
opened the doors to the armoire and gazed at Momma’s dresses and
picked up each of her books, the books that got me through the most
lonely, isolated, and dreadful of days. Then as I reached for a
particular book, I felt the key that had given me freedom. I
recalled the first night I stole out and bumped into Grandfather. I
would never forget his soft, kind eyes.

With the key in hand, I went into
Grandmother’s wing and stepped into her room. It seemed so hard to
believe Momma’s life began in that room, with the callous woman who
resided there. It was easy to remember Grandmother’s sinister eyes,
horrid voice, and menacing authority. It was impossible to forget
the terrible day I was tied to the bed and whipped; I could still
feel the blood ooze from my back.

I shivered and left the room. At the end of
the hall was the door to the attic. Upstairs was showered in the
light of day, and I could see all the way to the end and the last
wall. No ghosts roamed; I heard no eerie laughter while I walked
the wide planks, looking at the floor to see if anything had been
left behind. But there was nothing. The attic was as barren, as
stripped, as I remembered.

My last stop was the cemetery. First, I
visited Grandfather’s grave and noticed a tombstone down from his
that I had overlooked. It read “Beatrice and Violet Arrington
1851-1862.” I had no idea who the girls were, and possibly would
never know. But I knew of Hamilton and wanted to say goodbye and
thank him for saving my life. Hamilton was responsible for my
freedom and the opportunity to finally go home to Jasper
Island.

I walked through the waist-high weeds, and
just as I passed the slave quarters, I stopped in my tracks,
thinking I saw Abigail. I closed my eyes and opened them again, and
she was still there. But as I drew closer, I realized it wasn’t
Abigail, but a woman twenty years her junior. The slender woman was
standing before Hamilton’s grave, dabbing her eyes with a
handkerchief. Her clothes were modest, though she wore a beautiful
burgundy bonnet that I admired.

I stayed back and waited, allowing her some
private time until she sensed my presence. The attractive Negro
woman slowly lifted her head and turned in my direction. “Are you a
ghost?” she called.