InsaneJournal

                                                                                                     More than a single lifetime

She was standing by the window looking out on the wet cobbles of the street and instinctively pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. The thick fog that has descended on the city during the night barred her view on the house on the opposite side of the street and gave her a sense of being locked inside her room that she desperately wanted to make warmer and friendlier by lighting more lamps than necessary. But for no avail. The sparse November light revealed what her house truly was – a cold fortress built on social expectations out of necessity, maybe tenderness too but still furnished with unfulfilled needs.

 

There was a deep sigh from the neighbouring room. He was awake. She should go and see him. But her legs wouldn’t move. Why was it so difficult? Was it the fog? Had it penetrated the room and was it pushing her down, paralyzing her? It certainly felt like it. She had been living in England all her life and got accustomed to the creamy whiteness but this… this was different. This mist was coming from far away and was bringing unexpected pain. She just knew it and her heart was trembling in fear despite the soothing words of her rational mind. Of course, it was much more likely that it was only her severe hatred against autumn in London. She hated it because it was the opposite of everything her husband craved for – the punishing heat, the palm trees swaying in the gentle breeze that would bring no relief, the sea deep green like his eyes, the golden sun like the smile of somebody he had once known… The yearning was always strongest at this time of the year.

 

She shivered slightly and moved to see if her husband needed anything, but something she saw outside made her stop. First it was just a shadow in the infinite fog but as it came closer the shape could be made out more easily. A man. Young and full of life, so much could be judged by his energetic steps. First it seemed he would walk past their house but he suddenly stopped as if he had just realized he had found the place he was searching for. He looked familiar but she didn’t seem to be able to remember where they had met. Curious, she used to have such a good memory. Suddenly she couldn’t shake off the absurd feeling that it was time, that the past finally caught up with them. She shivered slightly at the thought before she forced herself to move to the mirror and make sure her hair was neatly arranged in a tight bun. One can’t face the past without looking as best as one could. Which wasn’t much these days, she thought bitterly. The last years haven’t been kind to her. Her once shining auburn hair had turned grey and the first wrinkles had appeared on her pale face. The dark circles under her eyes from sitting up all night didn’t improve her appearance either. She just shrugged lightly and smiled sweetly at her reflection. No need to mourn such trivialities, too much would be lost too soon, anyway.

 

There was a hesitant knock on the door and after she responded with a silent ‘Enter’, the shy, inexperienced face of her new maid appeared in the door – the fifth since Molly’s death and she wouldn’t last longer than all the others.

 

“I’m terribly sorry Ma’am but there’s a man at the door for Master. I didn’ know what to do.” she didn’t quite dare to look at her and fidgeted uncomfortably.

 

“Did you ask his name?” she smiled at her briefly to encourage her to speak and it seemed to help.

 

“’e wouldn’ tell Ma’am, ‘e says ‘e wants to talk to the Master no one else.”

 

“Tell him, I will be with him in a minute.” she was faintly irritated by the apparent lack of manners in the visitor and her maid’s clumsy bow, too. Maybe she was too picky when it came to maids, maybe simply no one could match Molly’s abilities, then again Molly had been with her husband long before his marriage, the old woman always knew where she was needed even without orders. If only she would be here now, she thought sadly not for the first time that week, Molly would know how to give the strength she needed so much now. She let her hands glide over her dress to chase away any wrinkles of the soft fabric and with a deep breath stepped out of her room. She stopped in front of her husband’s door for a moment and placed a gentle hand on the wood before silently going downstairs to meet the stranger with the bad manners.

 

He was standing in the parlour, obviously feeling out of place in his simple dark breeches and brown coat. Admittedly, his clothes were terribly out of fashion and dusty from the dirt on the street. He seemed to try hard to stay still and straight but he was too full of life to completely succeed. He was looking out of one of the windows and didn’t notice her, so when she cleared her throat gently he almost jumped at the sound.

 

“You startled me.” The young man laughed, coming closer. He couldn’t have been more than 23. “I’m sorry I was expecting-“

 

“I’m his wife. I’m afraid you must be content with my company at the moment.” She gave him one of her polite, reserved smiles and slowly sat down on the sofa, looking at him expectantly.

 

“Oh.” he only said as he sat down in one of the armchairs beside her. He was smiling warmly but there was nervousness in his brown eyes. And there it was. Realization and a sharp pang in her heart. She knew this boy. She had never met him but she knew exactly who he was and why he came. He was clearly his father’s son, the same dark, slightly curly hair, those chocolate brown orbs, that innocent smile and that strange, too early maturity. She could recognize all the traits though she had never met the father either, but she had seen him often enough in her husband’s haunted eyes on dark winter nights or sunny summer mornings at the breakfast table. 

 

“How do you know my husband?” she didn’t need to ask, but she did anyway.

 

“Oh, I’m… I don’t, I mean my father does… did… I’m James Turner.” Another sharp pang of pain.

 

‘James’

 

“May I inquire about the nature of your visit, Mr Turner?” She asked as if she didn’t know and even managed to keep the tremor out of her voice.

 

“Well, my father used to know James back in the Caribbean…” James? So it was simply James, now? Her cheeks flushed in anger but she kept silent. “He died some months ago.” She knew of course, she had heard the startled gasp of her husband that night after a dream and she had felt his change of mood. He was giving up. “He asked me to come here and give him this.” He nodded to the small box he had placed on the table. “You see, they have been… close.”

 

So he knew. She didn’t know what to feel – anger? fear? relief? sadness? pain? – so she settled on being practical.

 

“Please leave” she said but pronounced it “Follow me.” and led him upstairs to a room she used to love but now feared to enter, always trembling if she still found someone inside.

 

“He’s dying.” She whispered after a long silence, looking deep into the dark eyes of the boy. She could see herself in them, thin, grey, old. She felt so much older than she was in the unbearable brightness of youth. She didn’t wait for his reply just opened the door and stepped inside. She was welcomed by green eyes that used to be brighter even if they hardly shined since she knew him and a tired but gentle smile. She sat down on his bedside and took his cold hands into hers as she leaned closer and silently said:

 

“Someone is here to see you.”

 

Weary eyes followed the nod of her head towards the door and she had to look away as they lit up when falling on the boy.

 

“Will.”

 

Love. Hope.

 

“No. I… I’m his son.”

 

Pain.

 

He had no eyes for her once he saw the boy and he didn’t even realize she was gone as she closed the door behind her, stifling a painful sob.

 

She wanted to leave, to wait for them downstairs to finish but her feet wouldn’t comply and she found herself crouching by the door, her eyes pressed close to the keyhole. And she hated herself for having sunk so low as to spy on her own husband. She had never been jealous. He had never given her reason to be. How could she feel jealous of him now? How could she feel jealous of a dying man? But she was. Jealous of that gentle, wrinkled hand that moved to touch a tanned cheek but lost strength mid-air and gladly accepted the squeeze of a strong, young hand. She was jealous of those bittersweet tears welling up in shining green eyes – they have been dead for so long, she had never been able to fill them with life, what right had they to come to life now? She was jealous of that tender, almost content smile on his dry lips as the young man spoke – was there hope too? happiness? a promise of being reunited with a loved one soon?           

 

She felt a teardrop sliding down her cheek and had to close her eyes. She straightened up and leaned heavily against the cold wall. Why did it hurt so much? She had known this day would come. She had known from the day she met him that he had a secret, a pain he wanted to escape so he came back to England and left the Navy. He was always silent and distant and she found herself mesmerized by the emotions caught in those deep eyes whenever he thought no one was watching. She was a young girl of 20 years back then, he was 15 years older and broken. He fascinated her. She wanted to help him, to save him, to pull him out of the maelstrom of the past but she got pulled inside herself. First he resisted, he didn’t want to taint her but she was determined and got what she wanted.

 

He told her on the night of their engagement how he had lost his fiancé to a blacksmith back in the Caribbean and she thought she knew what ailed him. And she only found out after the wedding that she was mistaken, when in a moment of unconscious bliss she could feel him reaching for something she was lacking. After that she could never truly enjoy his closeness because she knew she could never be enough. He was always tender and caring but his heart was not in it – it was beating far away in a land of fire and passion, not in the lukewarm rain of London. 25 years have passed and she had to realize that while his resolve and silent sadness had been appealing at first, after their marriage his distant silence was like a sharp sword aimed at her heart. He was a gentle, patient husband and a devoted father. He gave her a beautiful home, security, companionship, yes even deep, loving friendship. It was more than she could ever have hoped for in a marriage of convenience. But she had married out of love and it was simply not enough.

 

She forced her legs to move downstairs, she couldn’t sit though, she was too nervous? hurt? confused? angry? disappointed? terrified? relieved? grateful?

 

Not much later the door upstairs opened and closed gently and the stairs creaked under silent steps.

 

“He’s asleep. I think seeing me brought up too many memories.” he said looking straight in her eyes and she couldn’t find the strength to look away. He was so open, so direct, so naked that his eyes pulled her like magnets. Was this openness of the father that had mesmerized her husband?

 

Do you feel betrayed? She wanted to ask the boy. Does your mother? She had often thought of that other woman, far away in a world she had never seen but hated. Did that woman feel the same pain? Did she cry the same tears? She wanted to know but was too proud to ask and too scared to acknowledge that she had known for years.

 

“Mother” She was suddenly jerked out of her thoughts by a voice from upstairs. “is the doctor already here or can I… oh…” A young girl of about 20 years came almost flying down the stairs, though as she saw the stranger she suddenly stopped and almost fell in her effort to regain some dignity. She was not upset by her clumsiness, though, in fact she seemed to try very hard to suppress an amused chuckle as she flipped back her long, dark hair that she had not yet pinned up, not expecting any visitors so early in the morning. “I didn’t know you had a guest.” She said smiling at her mother.

 

“This is Mr Turner. He… he came to see your father. Mr Turner, meet my daughter…” She couldn’t say it, she couldn’t bear the thought of seeing silent realization in that boy’s eyes, but her daughter was already extending a delicate hand and with an almost clumsy bow, that clearly suggested how ridiculous she found these expected movements, said:

 

“Wilma Norrington.”

 

There it was. Just a twinkle in those brown, innocent eyes, but she saw, he knew too well.

 

“How do you know my father?” It was so like her daughter to see immediately when she was in someone’s company who couldn’t care less about proper behaviour.

 

“My father knew him, when he lived in the Caribbean.”

 

“The Caribbean?” her bright green eyes lit up as she stepped closer to the young man, eager to know more the about the place her father had told so many bedside stories about. “Was your father in the Navy, too, Mr Turner?”

 

A soft chuckle. Brown eyes meeting green ones.

 

“No, he was a blacksmith. And, please, call me James.”

 

There it was again. Just a twinkle in green, innocent eyes, and she saw her daughter’s cautious glance at her. Of course she knew, how could she not? She was a bright young girl and clearly her father’s blood. They had such an intimate connection, such deep understanding that she sometimes felt as an intruder in father and daughter’s relationship. She should have known her daughter would come to realize where her father’s heart belonged. She should have know she wasn’t the only one to hear that when her husband spoke of the Caribbean, of adventures, the sea, the Governor’s daughter and her blacksmith, he truly meant ‘his’ blacksmith.

 

She was infinitely glad that there was a knock on the door and the doctor arrived to examine her husband, she could not bear to be pitied by her own daughter. She excused herself and led the doctor upstairs. She didn’t go inside, just waited outside the door for him to finish, as usual. From here she could still see her daughter and the boy, who were still standing by the stair, and she could almost hear their excited whispers. Under different circumstances she would have reminded her daughter to behave as it suits for a young girl in a man’s company but she couldn’t find the strength. Was this what her husband used to be like when he was young, before he had to realize what the world can be like, before he had to learn how to hide his true self behind carefully constructed masks? Was this a side of him no one ever saw? Did that blacksmith see it? Why didn’t she, they have been married for 25 years, why couldn’t she get to his heart?

 

They had never talked of his past, oh there had been stories of cursed gold and great adventures but they were always disguised as fairy tales for their daughter. He never told his wife he had left his heart in the Caribbean, in the hot fire of a blacksmith’s smithy. He had never trusted her enough to tell, or maybe he just wanted to protect her from the darker side of his self. He never realized that fearing a faceless enemy was the worst. She used to make up stories about them to soothe her trembling heart. One night they were close friends, scared of the deeper feelings growing inside their hearts, until one day one of them decided leave to save the memory of their friendship. The next they were enemies fighting for the same woman to disguise their true desires or lovers who knew it had to stop before anybody found out or… She used to torture herself with images of firm handshakes (a thumb, a slight twitch for any preying eye, nothing more, not a caress, still, everything), piercing green eyes meeting defiant brown ones (passion, hatred or love?), a piece of paper burning in the fire of the smithy (a note? what did it say?).

 

She kept her mind busy because the unknown terrified her more than the pain of these images. But the truth she did not know. She never would. She would not open that box the boy had brought either. It was not meant for her and she would not betray her husband with looking inside before placing it beside him in the hard coffin. She would never know the whole story, just bits and pieces here and there, but somehow it didn’t matter. Then what does? She didn’t know. Her mother had believed in God. Her father in endurance. Her brother in luck. She had never found consolation in any of these.

 

But now, as she looked down at her daughter, a storm raging in the sea of her eyes as she dreamt of a place of heat, magic, love and dark desires, a place where she would go with this man, whose eyes were burning with dark fire, this man whose father was loved by her father, whose father had loved her father… standing there in front of her husband’s room, waiting for the doctor to come out with death in his eyes, standing there, looking down on her daughter and the son of an enemy she could never learn to hate, bearing the future in their eyes, now she thought that perhaps some things take more than a single lifetime to complete…