Remember the Lilies

Ch.1: Sorrow's left unsaid

My life is a story that is difficult to write, one that is hard to explain, yet impossible to forget. My story has barely begun, for all that you've read were just the beginning chapters of a more complex realm of thoughts.

Five longs years have since passed from my arrival to America. I am twenty-six years old. Many know me not as the starting writer Samantha Clearwater, but as the accomplished romantic novelist Blanca Calla De Leon.

While I was sailing to Charleston, I had decided to take on the name of my mother and the name of the flower dearest to me; the Calla Lily. Combining these two names I had gotten Blanca Calla, or white Calla De Leon. It had taken time and an unusual amount of patience to reach such a title as female novelist.

For you see, the land I had viewed as free, was not very free at all. The great women of this land, who in England would be celebrated as queens, were required to obey their domestic duties and be the horrid little wife that I so despised to ever be even remotely considered.

With my new name, I had only caused myself more trouble. It took even longer for my work to be credited since the townspeople believed me to be a wicked Catholic Spaniard, which was close to the truth to some extent.

And so I did the only thing left to do; I lied. I had concocted a masterful lie on how I was indeed born in Spain, but later moved to England to live with a distant Uncle who died after some years now. I had decided to move to America to get away from his memory. This too was not far from a lie if you look at it closely.

The lie was accepted and soon afterwards, I was a household name for all enlightened housewives who enjoyed my tales of a love that blooms and dies or wilts and rots in stains. My stories were not the lovely tales of Jane Austen, but the sad and dark tales of real women who suffer like any other.

I had decided to live not far from town, near the suburbs that had such a lovely view of the great American plains I had heard so much about. The countryside was near my humble cottage that I had bought with the money I had earned for my work. The only thing I had taken with me from England was a very small suitcase and my mother's silver locket that held her memories and mine.

I was simply known as Calla, since many seem to have trouble pronouncing Blanca. It caused them physical pain to even attempt pronouncing it properly without chewing on their tongues too harshly.

I generally keep to myself and have taken a fond liking to walking along the dirt roads, something rarely seen in England; all the roads were paved with bricks. In this time period, 1841, West Virginia was considered moderate being Northern minded yet Southern cultured.

I watched during my days of repose, struggling from writers block, as the many black field hands hunched over picking cotton and tobacco. I had taken interest in these people and continued to watch them any time I decided to take walks. And then I wrote a novel.

This novel, unlike my others, was not about a proud and independent white woman, but of a set of black lovers, enslaved and forced apart. This piece of literature I dubbed, "Sun Rises To The East," and to my complete astonishment became a powerful motivator for many white abolitionists in Union owned states.

I was celebrated as an accomplished and insightful woman idealist and yet, none of this made joy return to me. I took pride in my work, but not joy.

It is still very hard to push down the memories from killing me.

-+-

Over these five years, Lord Watson had created a mass chain of fisheries that extended throughout Europe, parts of Asia and Asia Minor, and the America's.

Mrs. Clearwater had requested for Eric Rosewood to work for this fine gentleman as a manager for his enterprise. This, in fact, increased Rosewoods income, raising that of his wife, Mrs. Rebecca Rosewood as well.

Maria De Leon was head maid at the Clearwater manor and still had enough of Samantha's dowry to distribute amongst the workers. The mistress, Mrs. Clearwater, since entitled rightful owner to Clearwater Manor by her step-daughter was allowed to do with it as she pleased.

As cruel as this woman is, she did not overwork the workers, so long as they never crossed her path. Samantha's room was locked and off limits to all hands, not even allowed to be cleaned. The grand master pianoforte that had once belonged to the skillful girl was sold and replaced with a more appropriate tea table for weekly gossip and reunions with the lady friends of the mistress.

Never was the anniversary of Master Clearwater ever celebrated, except for small ceremonies by the servants who still felt him in the old house, watching all with tired eyes.

Nothing much has changed in England. Just like Samantha said, no one remembered her and completely forgot the matter. Only those still loyal to her still remembered her scent and smile. Remembered her soft voice and gentle touch. Remembered her gift for words and her gift of composure. Those who still remember all this have suffered more than any. Samantha had wished for them to submit to her departure and not think of her at all, but still they think and still they wait for a spirit that cannot return. And that is why they suffer. Because they know she will never come back and yet they dream of it.

Maria's golden eyes water at times and she never knows why. And then she realizes that she cries because somewhere, out there, Samantha has also shed a tear for her.

Jonathan is now a man, just reached his thirteenth year and already showed brief glimpses of just what man he will be with two more years. He still had his large brown eyes and mass of curly black hair, but his face was that of sorrow. One of a man. One of longing and regret for ever keeping the damned secret.

Martin Wiesenberger was a broken man. He now drank more than ever, since the only reason why he stopped was because he had promised Samantha. Just the thought of her brought on his depression and brought his hand closer to the bottle.

Eric Rosewood…

Many think him happy, even though he lost a son, but he never showed it in public. For he was good at keeping up appearances, but they cannot hold out forever. Every night he slept in his own room, far from the demon that he married. The demon held no love for him, of that he knew. He too held no love for her, and he hated her for ever ruining the happiness he might have had.

He knew the moment he had married that he would never see those warm chocolate eyes again. In just a week, London had been buzzing with the disappearance of Samantha Clearwater and fabricated a terrible lie dealing with Eric and Rebecca plotting together to murder Samantha so that they could marry without her interference. People knew it to be false, but for enjoyment they believed it and it took time for his reputation to cleanse itself.

These four individuals have not forgotten their Lily and they suffer at just the memory of her.

-+-

"Eric my boy!"

"Good morning Master Watson," Eric stated dutifully as he shook Watson's large fishy hands.

It was like any other day at the fish market. The aroma of fresh tuna engulfed your scent and entered your clothing, allowing you to reek of blood, guts, and sperm.

Workers kept themselves busy with gutting the fish, cleaning them raw, until the meat was perfect and ready to wash before cooling. Eric had become so accustomed to this line of work that he no longer had to rush to restrooms to purge his stomach contents.

In fact he had become so used to it, that the scent wasn't as terrible as many take it for.

"I have a job for you Rosewood and it better get done right away."

"And what might that be Master Watson?" he asked curious at the irritation evident in his voice.

Watson ran a heavy hand over his dark hair, "Some wiseasses in America thought it would be funny to run my business their way!" he grunted in outrage, sounding like a stubborn old pig.

"And what is it that you need with me?"

Watson placed his hand on Eric's shoulder while squeezing roughly, "I need you to go and take care of this matter for me at once! I cannot be made a fool out of by such beasts!" he pulled out a yellow handkerchief and tapped it to his forehead.

Eric winced at the pressure in his shoulder, "But sir I cannot leave my wife alone-"

"Your wife has a mother that will deal with her. Now do as I say and go," this time, Watson was serious. Eric nodded in understanding and the pressure in his shoulder subsided.

"I will go as soon as you wish me to."

"I need you to go now! This very day! I cannot wait another minute until this unrest is done!"

"Sir, if I may ask where exactly in America am I suppose to travel to?"

Watson mumbled some words before muttering, "Charleston."