A hidden door swung open in the turret chamber. Rising from my chair, I stood before it. The lane leading passed Grey Friar's Vicarage stretched in front of me. I stepped through the egress and hurried along it. Home! My mind shrieked joyfully. I skipped through the welcoming privet fence and halted outside the open French doors.
I faced Papa's study. Prentiss Wills sat at the desk, his back straight and rigid. My younger self sat alone at one of several school desks.
"Norah," Prentiss called my name. His chiding tone prickled down my spine.
I watched myself stand and approach the curate. Nervously, my fingers tapped on his desk. Amity Bradshaw lingered in the hallway. I caught a glimpse of her blonde ringlets and bright blue ribbons. We planned to stroll into town and buy candy at the newsagent.
"I wish to speak to you about your composition," Prentiss exasperatedly remarked.
"Oh," I responded absently.
The curate straightened his back, his hands folded on its smooth surface. The sunlight streaming through the bow window cast him in shadow. I stood in front of him, my hands clasped behind my back. I wiggled my fingers in Amity's direction.
"Norah, the undead do not rise from their graves and walk the earth," Prentiss stated, indicating my assignment. It lay disdainfully before him as though it were a distasteful object. "Dead is dead. The soul resides either in heaven or hell, as God ordains."
"Marley's ghost appears to Scrooge in 'A Christmas Carol,'" I objected, mentioning Charles Dickens' latest novel.
"Mr. Charles Dickens is a heathen," the curate snarled, dismissing the great writer.
"Begging your pardon," I heatedly exclaimed, "Mr. Dickens is one of the greatest novelists of our time. I have read all his stories."
Eagerly, I awaited each new installment of Dickon's own periodical, Bentley's Miscellany. After Papa read the latest serialized chapter of 'The Pickwick Papers' or 'Oliver Twist,' he handed it to me. I spent many wonderful hours reading and rereading each one.
When Dickens published 'A Christmas Carol' as a standalone novel, Papa presented it to me on my birthday. I cherished it and kept it on the table beside my bed. It astonished me that Prentiss disapproved.
"The disturbance of a churchyard's sanctity is reprehensible," the curate continued, dismissing Mr. Dickens. "Kindly leave those who are at rest where they lay."
Snatching up my composition, I gazed down upon my father's assistant. His half-glasses perched on the tip of his sharp nose; his brown eyes bore sharply into mine. I captured them and held them for a moment. Then, turning on my heels, I fled through the French doors.
Outside, I walked into the churchyard. Grey gravestones surrounded me. The newer ones stood straight as soldiers guarding the recent dead. Further and further, I wandered into the cemetery. The chiseled older stones sank into the moist earth, slanting in misdirection. Bending, I swiped away the clinging moss and squatted.
157Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡlKwoQWuzxp
HERE LIES
PATIENCE MOWBRAY
1641-1658
BELOVED DAUGHTER
DEPARTED THIS EARTH
BEFORE HER TIME
BABY BOY MOWBRAY
1658
157Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ6T43PCkW1Q
Recently, the small village class studied Cromwell's rise and iron-fisted rule. Sitting back on my heels, I contemplated the young mother and child's grave. Suppose Patience Mowbray had the chance to return? What tales would she tell of the English Commonwealth years?
When Prentiss required a composition on the subject, I wrote of Patience and the babe she bore out of wedlock. I viewed my fictional self-told story of her life as a literary masterpiece.
The youthful Quakeress rose from her grave on the full moon night. Clutching her baby to her breast, she told an eerie tale of a night of passion and lost love. Ashamed, her family scorned her. However, after she died in childbirth, their hearts softened toward her.
As I knelt before the poor woman's grave, my heart raged against Prentiss. I loved him. Of course, I loved him, I assured myself. Papa expected me to. Nevertheless, there were times when I could not bear his hypocritical religious stance.
Papa did not hold as staunch a viewpoint as Prentiss did. My father encouraged my education and my ofttimes wild imagination. I dreamed of becoming a famous author like the Bronte Sisters and Jane Austin. Spinning tales of intrigue enchanted me. Nodding his support, Papa read my stories and made the necessary corrections.
The curate, on the other hand, disapproved of my ambitions. He expected me to fill my mother's shoes as the vicar's wife. Arranging flowers at the altar and hosting local fetes bored me. I longed for more from life. However, Prentiss closed his ears to my future plans.
I sighed and sat on my heels amongst the tilted graves. Night crept upon me as I contemplated my fate. The rising mist rose and swirled eerily in the cemetery. For a moment, I saw the hazy form of an ashen-faced woman cradling a babe in her arms. Grey Friar's Abbey loomed in the oncoming darkness. A lanky man stood in the shadows of the doorway. He beckoned toward me.
Standing on my feet, I strode toward the Norman church. I did not wish to confront Prentiss again. However, I would face him and defend my writing if I must.
"Boo!" A figure rose from the mist, startling me.
I gasped, then recognized Amity Bradshaw. She held out a bag of peppermint sticks, and I took one. Defiantly, I stuck my tongue out at Prentiss and hooked my arm through my companion's elbow. Together, we entered the vicarage garden and sat in the gazebo.
"Are you really going to marry the curate?" the squire's daughter asked.
"Papa and Mama want me to," I nonchalantly answered.
"Do you love him?" Amity suddenly grasped my arm and faced me.
"I…" I took a moment to consider it, then nodded. "I suppose so."
"Well…" She shrugged and turned to stare into the garden. "Mama's getting me ready for my London season. Mother wants me to marry Ellsworth Clement. He's her cousin's son. In the meantime, they want me to attend the balls and soirees for a season. I don't know." She shrugged again. "I'd rather just get it over with and marry Ell."
I sighed and propped my elbow on my knee. Cupping my chin in my palm, I glanced at Amity. As the vicar's daughter, I would not attend the London festivities. However, I often dreamed of experiencing a presentation to Queen Victoria. I pictured myself attending one of the grand balls the season offered and dancing with a handsome gentleman. Nevertheless, I knew I had to accept Prentiss Wills instead.
As my thoughts drifted toward the curate, I heard him clear his throat. My eyes traveled from his shiny black shoes, perfectly creased pant legs, and paisley waistcoat. Then, I met his sharp brown eyes. Beside me, Amity suppressed a giggle. I abruptly poked her side with my elbow.
"Do you plan to join us for tea?" Prentiss asked rudely. "The vicar sent me out to rouse you, my dear."
"Oh, is it that late?" I questioned innocently. Rising, I bid goodnight to my companion and walked toward the vicarage sedately. The curate followed close on my heels. We entered the dining parlor and joined my parents.
I blinked my eyes rapidly, clearing my vision. The vicarage faded, and I found myself curled in the armchair before the turret fireplace. The bright red and yellow flames danced merrily. A log crackled, and sparks flew up the chimney. I held an ancient copy of Chaucer's The Canterbury Tales in my lap. I flipped the pages until I discovered a folded paper. I spread it open and gazed upon my story of Patience Mowbray.
Suddenly, I longed for Prentiss but not in contemplation of marriage. I would force him to stand face-to-face with Baron von Helfin and tell me, once again, that the dead are dead.
ns 15.158.61.6da2
