First Draft

Chapter Three

Uncle was the closest relation Mama knew. She had not been writing to him for over years, but two weeks before Mama even invited Mr. Harrison over, she wrote a letter to her long-lost brother. His reply was sent back to us three days after Mr. Harrison moved into our house. I was right in my calculations. A man as young as him was bound to have a wife. Maybe even some kids. Sure enough a beautiful woman, though silent in her ways, relocated to our house with him. I liked her from the start—when we passed each other in the halls. At that time, Mr. Harrison still allowed us to pack what few possessions we had left. It was then that I also met Margaret Harrison. She took to me immediately and I to her.

In the neighborly gesture, Mr. Harrison bided the time before he ended all bondage with us. It was during this period that he invited us to dinner in his house now. When I walked into the store, I walked into it as a stranger.

No one noticed the pain I felt when I watched my regular haunts being made way for new merchandise. Mr. Harrison was still young in his ways—and extremely bold. He made even bolder business transactions because at that age he believed he had money at his disposal. He prided himself to be the gentleman, and not just the humble shopkeeper. This was one thing I despised about him. Though he was supposed to love the store, he hired another to do the work for him.

Margaret was constantly seen in and out the place, doing the washing and all. I fail to mention that she was heavy with child at this time. But Mr. Harrison hardly noticed her at all. To him she was just chattel. Men were oft times this way with women. I realized the rules now—somewhat bitterly.

As a child I had always fancied true love as the undying affection of a knight and his lady. The earliest version of romance I’d heard was the relationship between Guinevere and Lancelot. This was not to be in my life. Once the insinuations of lust were over, husbands generally left their wives alone. It was this way—or the wives forgot their husbands. Only rarely could one find a strong relationship like the one before Papa and Mama—before everything…happened.

But I have gone off track. Back to the letter…

For a brother and sister who have not heard from each other since the day they parted, Uncle’s words were surprisingly full of affection. He inquired after Mama’s health first—of course—then went off to say how pleased he was to meet his nieces, Izzy and me. “Of course I shall welcome you at my residence in London. Transportation will be arranged as soon as possible. You’ll see a carriage coming down your way a day or two after this letter arrives in your hands. Love always, Laurence Ellensburg.” He ended his letter with a fancy signature.

True to his words, the carriage came—and along with it, an equally affable driver. He introduced himself gaily as Jason. Mama was not entranced by his joyous mannerisms. She called him cocky in his ways. I, for one, enjoyed his presence. I was still smarting from losing the shop, and his gaiety cast a light in my heart.

It was on the 9th of August that I set out for my new life.

Margaret was there to see me off on the dawn of our departure. She held me aside from the rest of the group, primarily to talk to me.

“Have faith, child,” she said, brushing a tendril out of my face. “You have been so brave: caring for your mother and sister after your father’s…”

“It’s all right, you can say it,” I said.

“Your father will be right proud of you. Should I have a girl, and should my husband permit, I shall name her after you. Your valor and determination… It shocks me how aged a ten year old can be. You are…” Tears came into her eyes. “I wish you well Agatha Finley.”

“I will miss you, too,” I managed to choke out without crying. I don’t know what happened, but suddenly I was in her embrace. It was a strong embrace and reminded me of the hugs Mama never shared with me. Yet there I was, smelling Margaret’s soap scented apron, the tang of lavender clinging to her hair. After our grievances, she thrust something in my hand and bid me open. It was a locket, with a place for pictures inside.

“I have one, too.” Margaret pulled out a golden one similar to mine. “You place pictures of the ones you hold dear inside these little picture holders.” She indicated the thin bands of gold to me. “And then you slip it inside your dress… It rests close to your heart.” She held out hers for me to inspect. “I have a photo of my mother and father…when they were married.”

I stared at mine with mouth agape. I knew a “thank you” was required, but the words would not come out of my mouth. I was so surprised by her sincerity. And here I had nothing to give her save another embrace. I think she received the message though because she pulled away with a “thank you” on her lips. She helped me latch the locket around my heart, and there I held the memory of our last parting.

Mr. Harrison called at that moment. Margaret’s smiling face completely slipped off her face, as easily as that.

“Coming husband!” she called. She smiled for my benefit, but I feared that the moment was lost.

With one last “thank you”, I hopped like a bunny into the carriage which would take me away…far, far, far away to distant London. Our Manchester was considered a large city… But London? London where Queen Victoria lived? Now, that was just out of the question for a simple girl like me.

Not that I wanted to go to London mind you. I would have traded anything to stay home, with the store… I wanted to run my fingers over the shelves again…to smell the smell of safe and warmth…to be assured that nothing would go wrong.

I waved to Margaret (Mr. Harrison was beside her) until she was little but a shadow in the setting sun. We were traveling east, more east than I’d ever been before. The buildings of Manchester disappeared. First to disappear from my sight was the shop. In an interval shorter than a second, two other buildings came in my way. We then commenced to clatter through the grand mansions of wealthy people. Izzy marveled at this, and Mama did nothing but give a delicate sniff. Mansions turned now to marketplaces. These places were only just closing down for the day. Last, we arrived at the fringes of the city. Farmers lived here, toiling the earth.

“Land labourers” as they were called were often looked down upon by every group other than themselves. And sometimes even they have been known to curse themselves for their low station in life. We were in the middle class, and thus, thousands of miles above them. The wealthy, the aristocratic… Well, I remembered the imposing houses and refused to daydream anymore. The wealthy was as far away from us as the moon.

What I mean to describe is Manchester, not the social groups—but yes, as you shall see this will play a greater role in the later story. For now, all I knew was my name, my surname, and that we were going to stay permanently at Uncle Ellensburg.