Shadows of Doubt (9 page)

 
The remains of the house overlook a bend in a wide river, the colour of which is muddy brown at times and green at others. There are tall pine trees, intermingled with elms, oaks, birches and weeping willows. Magnolia trees are scattered through the gardens, their white blooms scenting the thick air. Crickets and cicada sing their songs to me as I swat the mosquitoes providing accompaniment for their tunes. Kindly pray for more breezes.
 

Our property is nearby a lovely estate called Mt. Vernon, where the first American President, George Washington, lived. He established a fine gristmill and distillery (which also burned in 1814), and his grandson-in-law Lewis has kindly shared advice and recommendations for stewards and builders. It is in their best interests to do so since we will be away much of the time. Now my objective is to obtain a secret whisky recipe from him.

Wishing you were here,

Andrew Abbott

***

“Gwen! Gwen! Where is Edmund?” She heard a panicked voice from her bedroom. She threw back the covers and ran to her mother’s room.

“Mama?”
 

“Edmund! Edmund! I want to go home!” Her mother looked directly at her but didn't see her.

“Who is Edmund, Mama?” Was she speaking of her brother who had died as a child?

Again, her mother looked at her, but didn't seem to recognise her.

“Edmund!” She called out to him again and was growing angry, and rattled the door to escape.

“Take me to him. I need to go to Castlebury!”

“Castlebury? You have not been there since you were a girl, Mama.” She had to be dreaming.

“Take me there. Now! He needs me!”
 

Her mother’s face turned fierce, and she grabbed Gwen’s hands and shook them with uncharacteristic strength. What was she to do? Mama was clearly out of her senses. She needed a diversion, and quickly. Rationalizing was getting Gwen nowhere; she tried agreeing with her instead.

“Yes, of course, Mama, we can go and look for Edmund, but you cannot wear your night clothes. Shall we return upstairs and dress you?”

Her mother nodded blankly, apparently happy that Gwen was finally listening to her. Gwen hoped the older woman would grow tired or wake up. Fortunately by the time they had returned upstairs and she’d sat her mother on the bed, her mama did not resist being tucked in.

Gwen returned to her own room, sat on the edge of her bed, and began to cry. Her mother was worsening and she had no idea of how to help her. She would send for Mr. Norman tomorrow, but was unhopeful of any help.

She found herself unable to return to sleep, and longed to rise and paint to help her clear her head, but could ill afford the expense of lighting a taper for the rest of the night. Instead, she wrote a letter. Somehow writing the words helped her imagine she was not as alone in the world as she felt.

Mr. Abbott,

Mother is worsening. She has begun falling and wavers much in her gait. Her memory is unsteady. Some days she looks at me as if she doesn't know who I am. Other days she asks after my father, or for my brother who died in the war. She is mostly normal during the day, but night times reveal a completely different character, one who seems to reside somewhere thirty to forty years past.

I have little hope for her improvement.
 
I fear by the time my letter reaches you, my mother will have passed to our Maker. Mr. Scott had previously offered a teaching position for me at a local girls’ school—the one I used to attend. I would have room and board and a small stipend. It is more than I had hoped for. I will take over his teaching duties there when the arrangements are finished. Perhaps on one of my days off, we may visit again one day.

Write soon. I want to know everything of America. Do they truly use slaves? Are there savages? What do they eat? Are there large cities like Bath and London?

I enjoy reading your letters, I can picture River’s Bend in my mind. Does it look like this?

Sincerely,

Gwendolyn Lambert

Mr. Norman, the apothecary, arrived early but proved to be of little help. He had no idea what was happening, or how to assist with her mother’s attacks.

“I have heard described that
mad
patients often have a peculiar time of day, but there is no prescribed treatment aside from sedatives and restraints if violence ensues.”

Gwen grew more disheartened with every word he spoke.

“At the very least we may give her some sedating drops if she becomes uncontrollable. Otherwise, it will only worsen, I'm afraid,” he advised.

Gwen nodded, already accustomed to those fateful words.

“Miss Lambert, it is perhaps time you considered an institution.” These dreaded words were whispered. “There is a possibility she might become violent.”

“No! I promised her,” Gwen said adamantly. “I will not consider it. If it becomes difficult again, I have the drops now.” Any institution for which she could possibly scrape together enough money and put her mother into it would not do more than house her and lock her up. Mama would be neglected and starved, and would likely die of something more heinous and violent than that which she currently suffered.

Mr. Norman looked at her with pity but nodded and left quietly.

Chapter Seven

“Mr. Abbott! Mr. Abbott!” a shrill voice called from a distance.

Oh, no
, he thought. Mrs. Bradley. He had been taking a quick dip in the river, and he seriously contemplated diving headfirst back into it to avoid his neighbour, but it was not quite dark enough.

“Yoo-hoo, Mr. Abbott! Is that you over there?” Mrs. Bradley’s plump person had rolled out of the carriage, picked up her skirts and was hastening towards him.

Andrew quickly donned his sweat-soaked shirt. He did not mind the lady, truly. He especially did not mind the delicious food she served at her table. But he had no intention of partaking of any of her four eligible daughters.

“Mrs. Bradley.” He bowed regally. “To what do I owe the honour? You will excuse my appearance, I hope.”

She fluttered her fan furiously and took her time averting her eyes from his drenched person. She was old enough to be his mother. He tried not to laugh.

“Oh, Mr. Abbott.” She swatted him with her fan. “You and your British manners.”

He thought to himself ungraciously that she was not so far removed from a harpy in a country ballroom.

“We only just realized that Mr. Bradley had neglected to secure you for the church bazaar. It is my dear Jenny's birthday and it is her fondest wish that you dance with her.”

He hoped that he had suppressed the groan that he felt. There was no way to refuse and not sound like a cad.

“I came right over to fetch you when we realised our omission. There is also a pie contest and we need you to judge.” She smiled coquettishly at him.

“How can I refuse? I will get dressed and be right over.” Dared he hope there was a whisky-judging contest?

“I don't mind taking you in my carriage.”

“That won't be necessary ma'am. I could not live with myself if I knew I’d caused you to miss any more of the bazaar.”

“Oh, yes, indeed! You are so gentlemanly and thoughtful, Mr. Abbott.”

He helped her back into the carriage, resisting the urge to shove. He waved and smiled as she drove away, and looked at his porch swing longingly.

The bazaar was teeming with all the locals. He felt like a pig roasting on a spit when he walked in the door. He would give credit to his English counterparts, for they were for the most part superior in the art of subtlety. He immediately had a line of females asking him to dance. He considered himself open- minded, but this was beyond anything he had ever experienced.

He was certain the last time he had visited it had not been so
different
.

“Ah, Mr. Abbott, you have arrived at last.”
 

At last another man. “Good evening, Mr. Bradley.”

“I see you've already discovered our backwards bazaar. Forgive my oversight and for sending the missus to fetch you. I was preoccupied with my pie.”

Backwards was one polite way to put it. “Backwards, sir?”

“We do it every year for a bit of fun. The men do the cooking, and the ladies ask the men to dance.”

“You are very forward in your thinking, sir.”

“Perhaps, but there is really no harm is there? Now you see why the ladies were so keen for your arrival. Can I get you a drink?”

“Much obliged, sir.”
Please keep them coming
. He turned to face the crowd of hovering females and smiled.

“Who's first?”

Dearest Gwendolyn,

I attended the ladies’ ‘backwards bazaar’ this evening. Bizarre does not begin to describe it. They have a night where the men cook, and the ladies ask the men to dance.
 
I hope they made good money for the children's benefit; I left with bruised feet and a cracked tooth. I will say of Mr. Bradley (he owns a neighbouring plantation) that he makes a delicious pecan pie (a nut that grows on trees here), but the other pies were a bit impossible to chew. I was bestowed the honour of judging duty. My neighbours are what we would call new money or, less graciously, cits.

I believe I danced every dance. Mrs. Bradley saw to it that all four of her daughters were partnered with me. I cannot blame her entirely, for the unattached male crop is either overripe or under-picked. Speaking of crops, would you believe they distill rye whisky here? It is repulsive. I've almost convinced Mr. Bradley to convert to barley. They say George Washington was fond of whisky, and he had a proper Scot to run his distillery. He was, however, rather a stickler about moderation. Now you will be educated in all things important for your visit here. The house is almost ready for you to paint it. Your sketch was quite good, but looks more like the Mt. Vernon estate.

Yours,

Andrew

He put down the pen and crawled into bed. Life here was not so bad, but it was missing someone. With every decision he made about River’s Bend, he considered how Gwen would like it or what she would think. He was pathetic, especially because his feelings were not reciprocated. He'd hoped she might jump on a boat and follow him, but her mother was too ill. Not that his grandmother would allow it if her mother were not an invalid. Perhaps Miss Lambert feared she would wind up on a deserted island or be captured by miniature people. In retrospect, his gifts to her might not have been the wisest choice. Whatever the reason, he needed to stop obsessing about her. It would only make it more difficult later. But every time he closed his eyes, all he could dream about was having her in his arms.

***

Had it been months since Mr. Abbott left? It seemed as if it had been some fantastic figment of her imagination, for her daily reality was such that she was no longer certain what was real anymore. It was but a distant memory in the quagmire in which she was now caught.
 

Her mother’s nightly fits of confusion and agitation had worsened, and the sedating drops worked so well that she’d become dependent upon them. She watched her mother, who was now sleeping peacefully, and marvelled at the change from moments before. As soon as the drops wore off, the other person that inhabited her mother’s body would appear. She sometimes refused the drops and became more agitated and difficult, to the point where Hettie would have to help hold her down to get her to take them. No one should have to spend the end of their days like this.
 

Gwen was exhausted and feared for her own sanity. She only slept in small amounts, and even then with one eye open, too afraid of what would happen if her mother wandered away. No one else could calm Mama, even if she were to have anyone else. Hettie was not helpful, even though she meant well, but the servant had no patience for her mother in this state.

Gwen did not always have patience herself, and felt unconscionable guilt when she would snap at her mother. There were days when she did not know how much longer she could keep going like this. She constantly questioned whether she was doing the right thing. She could see her mother was dying, but she had no way to stop it. If she did not sedate her, Mama would change into an agitated aberration. She barked a mocking sound to herself. Either way you looked at it, it was brutal, she thought.