Lady of My Heart

Prologue

I was the only one who every noticed them. Those two paintings hanging on the wall near the stair case, away from all the horrible baby pictures, other paintings, and the normal hubbub of our daily life. But they hung in plain sight that every one passed at least twice a day. Yet no one questioned why they were their or how. No one truly knew.

I was ten, when I made it my mission to find out. It was a rainy weekend. My two older brothers were out with friends, at the movies or their house. I didn’t know. I was too young to go, and my friends were few and far between. My three younger brothers were playing video games, already miffed about having to share between the three of themselves, not wanting another, let alone a girl, to join in. Father was locked up in his office, working on a big case, not wishing to be disturbed by any petty sibling squabbles. And Mother was also working, just at her office in town, probably seeing a patient who would blame all his problems on his mother, like I will one day to my therapist. Or so she claimed. The house keeper who functioned as our nanny also was cleaning out one of the unused rooms in our house, of which there was many.

Our house was always a fascinating thing. Historians were green with envy that we didn’t sell it to their society, or better yet give it to them. Our house was one of the first mansions built in the new world. By our ancestor, Michael Avery Williams, who made a killing on the tobacco plants and whose sons and generations to come managed to keep his money and make even more. The house consisted of numerous designs. Places that had been added shown Victorian Style. The house originally consisted of both Colonial, Tudor, and Gothic Designs. My favorite part was my room, the Tower.

The Tower was actually one of four, setting above each corner of the house. But this one was unique. It was designed as a room, making it the biggest one of all four. Michael originally made it for his youngest daughter, who never married, and demanded to have a room separate from the rest of the house hold. For some unspoken reason, he gave it to her. And she was the last to use it. That was, until my parents had the entire thing renovated before my oldest brother was born, and I decided at six it was the perfect room for me. And for once, they didn’t argue.

So, as a bored child I decided to hide out in the Tower for awhile. To get to it, one must walk up the grand staircase, turn left, walk down the entire hall, open the door right in the middle, walk up another flight of stairs, open the other door, and there you were. As I was in no hurry, I studied the pictures on the stair case wall. Over the years, they had accumulated. Some very good, such as my ancestral portraits, some horrible, like my latest arts and craft project, a drawing of the house. Still, a time line of my family could be found here. I named all of them I could, which was about one third of them. As I came to the top of the stair case, I noticed two that seemed very out of place.

They were paintings, one of a portrait the other a group one. They were much smaller and less taken care of then the others, even the one of Michael Avery William’s grandfather. The portrait was of a maiden in a large blue and white ball gown. She had long dark brown locks and wore a look of pure serenity on her pale face. The other was of colonial people dancing. Mainly about six young couples in a forest. Although I noticed not all of them were having fun. In the back, it appeared one of the women was being attacked by a man.

It seemed odd I had never seen them before. They were there, with the other family paintings. Though I could not even guess the story behind them. I made a note to ask someone that night.

And even though I was a ten year old, with the tendency to be a bit scattered brained, I remembered to ask.

My father looked at them briefly and just said the girl was a relative of ours from days past and that the painting had been a gift from a lover. I asked how she was related and why would a lover give such an odd gift, but he didn’t know. And I could tell he didn’t care too. Our family had too much history as it was, what was one relation with no story.

But to me, it was everything. I wished to know about this girl and her lover. What had happen to them, and why it had. I just had to know. I could never explain why. Mother said it must be an obsession of mine to know everything I could. Father said it was so I could pretend to be a detective. My brothers found it foolish, but liked that it kept me out of their hair with my research.

Within two years, I knew more about my family’s history then any one else in it. I could name all the paintings and their stories, except for the ones I was looking for. Nothing could be found about them. Still, I kept looking. I moved the paintings into my room, so I could study them late into the night. I found them addictive. I could study them for hours, and still forget details, such as the way the girl faced or how many people their were. I found it odd I could forget such things, but then I found out I wasn’t looking at the painting, I was attempting to look at the painter or the painted, finding out from this little glimpse into their lives, who they were. And as I grew up, the paintings were more and more familiar. Especially the portrait. For as I grew up, I saw the girl’s face every time I looked in the mirror. It seemed through genetics, obsession, or magic, I looked just like her. And was soon to find out, was more like her in many ways then anyone would like to name.