Somehow.
Sinking onto the bed, I find that I’m surrounded by windows.
All along one wall, they stretch from floor to ceiling. They let in the dying evening light, and I feel exposed. Getting to my feet, I pull the drapes closed.
I feel a little safer now, but not much.
My suitcases are stacked inside the door, and so I set about unpacking. I put my sweaters away, my toiletries in the fancy bathroom, and while I’m standing on the marble tiles, I envision my mother here.
She loved a good bath, and this bathtub is fit for a queen.
I imagine her soaking here, reading a good book, and my eyes well up.
She’s gone.
I know that.
I pull open the closet doors, and for a moment, a very brief moment, I swear I catch a whiff of her perfume.
She’s worn the same scent for as long as I’ve known her.
There are shelves in this walk-in closet, and on one, I see a bottle of Chanel.
Her scent.
I clutch it to me, and inhale it, and it brings a firestorm of memories down on my head. Of my mother laughing, of her baking cookies, of her grinning at me over the top of her book.
With burning eyes, I put the bottle back.
This isn’t helping anything.
I hang my shirts and my sweaters.
There’s a knock on the door, and Sabine comes in with a tray. A teapot and a cup.
“I brought you some tea,” she tells me quietly, setting it on a table. “It’ll perk you up. Traveling is hard on a person.”
Losing their entire life is hard on a person.
But of course I don’t say that.
I just smile and say thank you.
She pours me a cup and hands it to me.
“This will help you rest. It’s calming.”
I sip at it, and Sabine turns around, surveying my empty bags.
“I see you’ve already unpacked. These rooms haven’t been changed since your mother left.”
I hold my cup in my lap, warming my fingers because the chill from the English evening has left them cold.
“Why did my mother leave?” I ask, because she’s never said. She’s never said anything about her childhood home.
Sabine pauses, and when she looks at me, she’s looking into my soul again, rooting around with wrinkled fingers.
“She left because she had to,” Sabine says simply. “Whitley couldn’t hold her.”
It’s an answer that’s not an answer.
I should’ve expected no less.
Sabine sits next to me, patting my leg.
“I’ll fatten you up a bit here,” she tells me. “You’re too skinny, like your mama. You’ll rest and you’ll… see things for what they are.”
“And how is that?” I ask tiredly, and suddenly I’m so very exhausted.
Sabine looks at my face and clucks.
“Child, you need to rest. You’re fading away in front of my eyes. Come now. Lie down.”
She settles me onto the bed, pulling a blanket up to my chin.
“Dinner is at seven,” she reminds me before she leaves. “Sleep until then.”
I try.
I really do.
I close my eyes.
I relax my arms and my legs and my muscles.
But sleep won’t come.
Eventually, I give up, and I open the drapes and look outside.
The evening is quiet, the sky is dark. It gets dark so early here.
The trees rustle in the breeze, and the wind is wet. It’s cold. It’s chilling. I can feel it even through the windows and I rub at my arms.
That’s when I get goose-bumps.
They lift the hair on my neck,
And the stars seem to mock me.
Turning my back on them, I cross the room and pull a book from a shelf.
Jane Eyre.
Fitting, given Whitley and the moors and the rain.
I open the cover and find a penned inscription.
To Laura. May you always have the spirit of Charlotte Bronte and the courage to follow your dreams. Your father.
The ink is fading, and I run my fingertips across it.
The message lacks tenderness, but it’s still telling.
My grandfather supported my mother wanting to be independent. Somehow, I doubt Eleanor shared that same sentiment.