Portrait of Heart’s Desire

Prologue

The night before we moved was the worst night of my life. Laying in my sleeping bag in my twin bed, with only my teddy bear to comfort me in the dark. My room was bare except for the furniture that the new renters would use. This was the last night I would lay in my bed, in my room. Tomorrow and all the nights following, I would be in a new house and a new room.

I liked my house now. I had my room, bed, and dresser in a pretty lavender color. My desk was sturdy, and my closet perfect to fit all my clothes. My walls were wall papered with fairies and unicorns dancing together. This was my home.

My older brothers were ecstatic about the move. Our new house was only five miles away, so they would still be able to play with their friends. And they would, after almost three years, have their own rooms. Since the twins had been born, our once large house had become cramped. Before the twins where born, all three of us had our own rooms. My oldest brother, Chris, had the room downstairs, that they both now shared. Andrew had the room where the nursery was. And I had my wonderful room. Daniel and Matthew, my little brothers, had to come and ruin our perfect house by demanding Andrew’s room and all our parents attention.

So when Great-Grandma Sophia died and left us Kent Manor, my parents started organizing the move.

Kent Manor was our small town’s crowning achievement. It was the home of Lord and Lady Edmund Kent, who had owned a large portion of the county for a very long while. Though since the Kent’s original arrival they had lost almost all of their land, the house remained in their family’s holding, until it came to us, one of the last generations of decedents. Kent Manor was our families legacy. Though we lived so close to it, we had seldom been invited to the house. Great-Grandma Sophia was strange, not liking company besides her nurse and two maids in her large home. My parents where shocked when she had left them the house, thinking that she would have given it to the Historical Society or one of her other relatives.

“It’s because of Erica,” Chris had said after we found out. None of the children had been permitted to the funeral or reading of the will, for which we were grateful. We didn’t particularly like Great-Grandma Sophia, and funerals and such were still too dramatic for us to see. “She hated the rest of us, but she loved Erica.”

Though I wanted to deny it, it was true. When ever we went to visit her, she scoffed at my brothers and demanded to see me. While the other children could go and play elsewhere, I was forced to remain with my parents and other adults in her parlor. She made me sit beside her and forced me into conversations. The only time her lips would turn up in smile was when she looked at me, though I thought it more of a grimace. Chris once told me she was thinking of the best way to steal my youth, that was why she always wanted me around. Those thoughts just made me fear her even more.

My restless night became a rushed morning, with Mama trying to get all of us dressed and ready in record time. Before the new tenants came into the house, my parents had hired a cleaning crew to do a final sweep of the house, and they were due to arrive soon. The only one not happy and going about their business was me, who was still angry and upset.

Mama with her short blonde hair and green eyes, was in jeans wrestling with the almost three year old twins. The twins were identical to my mother, and were fussy. For once I was glad that I had little brothers. Though I would be punished for fighting my parents, Mama only tried to coo and calm them down. Her efforts were unsuccessful.

Papa was running around telling us last minute things to do. His rich brown hair and blue eyes were frazzled, and his glasses kept on slipping off his face, as he hadn’t bothered to put them on properly.

Twelve year old Chris with his blonde hair and blue eyes, and eight year old Andrew with his brown hair and green eyes were following Papa’s ever command without complaint, a feat never before witnessed in our house. My big brothers were always squabbling about something or other. Though I hated the way they acted, I disliked the current happy and helpful ones more. They were so excited about the new house.

Finally there was me at six, who was doing nothing to help or hurt my family. I had my father’s brown hair that curled around my body, and unlike the rest of my family, I had deep matching brown eyes. I stood in the middle of the dinning room, not moving.

“Erica, please help me dress your brothers,” Mama called.

“Erica, take one of the smaller boxes down,” said Papa. I responded to neither request and no more was made of me. I don’t know if it was because they thought I was helping the other, or didn’t even remember calling me.

88888888

Much to my anger, we arrived at Kent Manor by late afternoon. The movers had been their earlier in the week, so the majority of our things we were bringing were already moved in.

The drive way was horse shoe and made of loose stones rather then pavement. The lawn was vast, over five acres, with well kept gardens that I would spend years exploring. Trees lined the sides, leading off into Kent Forest, which would later become my greatest escape. On the grounds stood rundown huts, a cabin, and kitchen, which I would later spend hours tucked away in reading and drawing. Their was a fountain opposite the house, blowing water out of the stone spout into a large basin, which I would spend many hours swimming in. But for the moment, I hated everything about Kent Manor.

The Manor itself was vast. Easily two of our old houses could fit inside. The Manor was brick. The front center of the house was deeper then the sides and had a large staircase leading to the front door. On either side of the door was a window. The sides of the house was showed that the building was two stories. Each story had three windows in the front, back, and sides. The roof was dark brown with twin brick open bell towers on either side of the roof. Even though I loathed the house, it was still awe-inspiring.

Then we started our move.

We were done within two hours, in time to drive to town for dinner. Dinner lasted forever, not because of us, but of everyone asking about the new house. The local newspaper had wrote a story about us inheriting the house and all of our pictures were shown. Everyone in town knew who we were. I was grumpy and didn’t care to answer any of their questions, though my parents and siblings gladly told them about the house. Finally we finished and could go home, and be given the ‘proper tour’ of our new house.

Though originally the Manor had no electricity or plumbing, all the modern convinces had been added over the years, and several rooms converted to accommodate a modern family.

The first floor originally had two bedrooms for family use, a school room, a large storage room, a room for the house keeper, a small kitchen, a spinning and weaving room, and two rooms for servants to leave and enter the house through. Over the years the schoolroom, sewing room, and house keeper’s bedroom had ben converted into normal bedrooms. The small kitchen became the house’s only kitchen and had a stove, refrigerator, dishwasher and every normal kitchen thing installed. The servants entrance next to the kitchen had become a washing room. The storage room had become a family entertainment area, complete with a big screen television. Bathrooms had been added in the two biggest bedrooms, old spinning room, and the new laundry room.

My older brothers were thrilled. They would have this entire floor to themselves mostly, as my little brothers and I would have upstairs bedrooms. When the twins were older, they would move into one of the bedrooms downstairs, but on the other side of the house. Currently, Chris and Andrew had the two original bedrooms, and were already planning what to do with them.

Next we went to the main floor, which mimicked the ground floor in rooms and their sizes almost. Above the storage room was the great hall, where my ancestors use to hold huge entertainments. Nothing much had changed about, except the candles on the wall and chandelier were now electric. The room above the kitchen was my parents room, and the one above the servants’ hall was the nursery the twins would use. Across from there was the dinning room and a room that was used for after dinner entertainment, but had become more like a living room. It held a small hidden televison, but mostly looked the same as it originally had. On the other side of the great hall stood the parlor, library, and the final bedroom which would become my room.

My older brothers had abandoned the tour on the first floor, and after showing me my room, my parents went off to put the twins to bed. I was alone. Though my brothers were thrilled to have a floor all to themselves, I wasn’t. My parents room was on the other side of the house, and my brothers had each other downstairs. I had noone. I didn’t want to stay in that room, so I decided to explore the rest of the area.

My room was in the upper west corridor. Across from it was the parlor, that really was just a second dinning room about, and was used to entertain guest nowadays. Next to it was the passageway that lead downstairs, into my brothers area. I was sorely tempted to rush down it and run into their rooms, but I knew I would be unwelcome. They had hated me when I got my own room and they had to share. They were pleased when my parents decided I was too young to sleep on the ground floor, and that the nice bedroom on the top was perfect for me.

Next to my room was the library, which had a few shelves of books, most too old for me to understand and focused on our family history. It held a old fashion desk, which my father would later use as the library was also his office. Finally, when I could explore no more, I went into my room.

Like every other room in the house, mine had been converted to allow for a bathroom and light, yet also had the old fashion furniture of the others. I had a huge four poster bed with a canopy and curtains, a matching wardrobe, chest, vanity, dresser, and writing desk. A small table stood in the middle, and pictures, both old and new were on the walls along with shelves holding my precious things. My teddy bear laid in the vast bed looking at me. The room was too big and old, and I wanted out. In my clothes, I curled up with my bear and feel into a deep sleep.

88888888

I awoke three hours later. Mama had been in the room, as I was under the covers and a nightlight had replaced the overhead. After my long nap, I no longer felt tired and just stared at the light that flickered against the wall. It had an odd affect on the pictures, giving them a ghostly aura, but one caught the light so brilliantly, I had to rise to study it.

It was an oval frame, edged in gold. A scalloped border separated the frame from the work. In the center was a portrait, but around it was another thick border of aged ivory with flower like suns and vines. The portrait was also edged by a leave gold border, and finally there was her.

She was beautiful. Her skin was almost white, and her face perfectly portioned. Her demeanor was of serenity and grace. She had deep brown eyes and plucked eyebrows. Her lips were a deep rose. She was dressed in an old frilly gown of white and blue that was low on her shoulders, exposing one alabaster curve all together. Her body was turned to the right, but her head to the left, and a cascade of rich brown curls fell over her . She held her hair to her chest with her left head. I could only gape at her.

To the right of the portrait was another painting, done by what looked like the same artist. It was a rectangle edged in gold, also with the border, ivory, border pattern. Though its outer border was a linked chain and its inner sun rays. The picture was of a dance in a garden. On the right was a large ornate stone stair case, and on the left trees. In the middle was a boy and girl dancing in old fashion peasant clothes. Two girls and a man sat on the ground to the right in similar attire in similar attire, while a couple sat to the left. Also on the right was a musician playing the flute, a couple about to join in the dancing, and a man trying to get a reluctant woman to dance. The picture was just as beautiful as the portrait.

I lifted them with gentle hands from their hooks to study them closer, but no artist name appeared, I even gentler turned them over, but nothing was written their either. I knew not who the artist was, or who the people in the painting were. And most importantly, I knew nothing of the young woman in the portrait.

88888888

Weeks later, I spent a dreary afternoon in the library. A maid was cleaning my room and had shooed me out and I nothing else to do. I picked up a huge leather bound volume of my family’s origin and starting flipping through looking at the stern portraits and gory war scenes that had been added amongst the dull dribble of the Kent family. Halfway through, I saw her again.

The portrait was different and was of her and her family. She sat in a too formal dress amongst her parents, and four brothers. The caption underneath read ‘Lord Thomas Kent and Family- 1559'. Nothing about the girl, except that she was a Kent. I turned the page to become reacquainted with the picture of her that hung on the wall.

The caption under the picture said Elizabeth Kent- 1560. I read the small paragraph about her. All it said was that at sixteen she was sent off to Italy to wed an Italian nobleman that was an artist. She died a few weeks after her wedding of unknown causes. Her husband had painted the portrait of her soon after her arrival, and the other picture had been a wedding gift for her. When she had died, her parents demanded her few things back, which included the portrait and picture.

I raced out of the library to my parents room and showed the book to Mama and told her about the pictures in my room.

“I am not surprised Erica,” she said. “She is one of your ancestors. There are several portraits of our family here, some even older then these.”

“But who was she Mama,” I asked. “All they said is that she got married and died.”

“Sadly, that may be all there is known about her,” said Mama. “In those days, a daughter wasn’t very important. Once she married and died, she was no longer a part of her family.”

I refused to except that. I vowed to learn everything I could about Elizabeth Kent.

Sadly, I had little to go on or to help me with. I knew nothing about her life in Italy, or even the name of her husband. That her husband was an artist was unhelpful, as he wasn’t a famous one. Besides what we had in our house, their was few text about the Kent family. The English Kent Manor had suffered a fire during the eighteenth centaury and then sold to pay for the family’s debts. I could not say what drove my passion to know all about her, it was like a part of my heart knew I must understand this woman and all her actions.

For two years, I devoted myself to finding out who she was, by doing so I dug more and more into the Kent family. By the time hopelessness had sat in my heart, I had fallen madly in love with the manor. I, with a heavy heart and hand, hung up Elizabeth’s portrait and her husband’s painting on their hooks in my room and went about my life.

But Elizabeth Kent never fully left me. My thoughts at odd hours turned back to her and what I might be able to do to find out about her. Yet, my research never resumed. I had a life to live. But when I reached my fourteenth year, every day I was reminded of Elizabeth Kent. Through genetics, heritage, and maybe just a hint of magic, I became her living portrait. Soon none thought the picture in my room was of Elizabeth Kent. They all assumed it was of Erica Davenport, and eventually so would I.

88888888

Author's Note: This story use to be known as Lady of My Heart, but I decided to do a rewrite to make it slightly more realistic. Kent Manor is actually based heavily on the floor plan of Stratford Hall in Virginia. Very beautiful house. The pictures of Elizabeth Kent and the painting are based on two paintings in my house that we are clueless to who they are. I only know they are from Italy, and the female of in the portrait looks like my mother when she was younger.