This is the first of two entries into the writing contest this week. Enjoy:
Abigail idly assessed the invitation in her hands; she ran her fingers along the thick edge of high quality black paper. She felt the raised, golden lattice border. She ran her hand across the ornate golden words:
You Are Cordially Invited To Dine With Lady Valentine 6:00 PM Tomorrow At Manor House
It had been so long since she had been to the old Manor House. Bittersweet memories of her childhood home felt distant, like they’d happened centuries ago, yet so close, as if they were hovering just out of reach. As much as Abigail longed to simply throw the invitation in the trash and go about her life, she couldn’t. This was a proverbial olive branch, and Abigail could not turn it away.
The following day Abigail walked around in a daze. It was like no one else around her even noticed her existence. All the better: it would take every bit of mental energy she had to prepare herself for dinner that evening. She had not seen her mother in nearly twenty years; not since she’d horrified her family by leaving the family fortune to marry a musician for *gasp* love, of all things. A Valentine has to consider more than her own happiness, Abigail scoffed in her head. Admonishing herself she thought, That’s all in the past. It’s time to move on…forgive and forget.
Being a Sunday, traffic was light for Abigail’s drive, which gave her plenty of time to reflect on her past, and ways to approach her mother now. Growing up. Lady Valentine was the strict Victorian Lady her mother had raised her to be. Abigail, on the other hand, was everything her mother despised. Where Lady Valentine was cultured and pristine, Abigail was wild and untethered. Where Lady Valentine was organized and refined, Abigail was chaotic and free spirited. No matter how hard she tried, Abigail simply could not feel at home in the huge Victorian Manor House. Now, as she returned there, she despaired to think that she may never be able to bridge the gap between her and her mother.
As she turned onto the long drive that led up to the house, Abigail saw that the gate had most definitely seen better days. Bent sections disrupted the ornate beauty of the gate’s original ironwork. There were patches of rust large enough to be seen from the driver’s seat of the car, even in the twilight of the fading day. One hinge was damaged by age and weather, leaving the gate partially askew.
Abigail carefully avoided the gate, then started navigating the narrow drive. The trees and bushes along the edges of the drive created the illusion of a tunnel. The only light came from Abigail’s headlights, which seemed almost non-existent. The very faint glow barely illuminated the path directly in front of the car. Abigail was concentrating on how little she could see when something darted into the road in front of her. She slammed on the brakes, the car stopped, but she was sure she hit something. She got out of the car to see what had happened. As she started toward the front of the car, a doe went bounding by her. She sighed with relief, and got back into the car.
Now Manor House was coming into view. The large, Victorian house had fallen into disrepair, making it look far more dark and forbidding that it ever had before. Vines engulfed much of the exterior. The visible wood paneling had blackened with age. Broken shutters on the upper floors gave the house the appearance of an angry scowl. Abigail considered turning back, but thought to herself, I can do this. She is my mother. I can have dinner with her.
Abigail took a deep breath, slowly traversed the porch stairs, and tentatively approached the door. This is it, she thought. No turning back, now. With that she reached for the rope attached to the butler bell, but before she had the chance to pull it, her mother opened the door.
She looked exactly like Abigail remembered: every hair was in place, her elegant Victorian dress was pristine and beautiful, her make-up was subtle and elegant. She was every bit what a Victorian Lady was supposed to be. Abigail could only imagine how disappointing having a daughter like her had to be for the perfect Lady Valentine.
Her mother smiled and said, “I am so glad you decided to come. It’s good to see you again, Abigail.”
“Thank you, my Lady.”
“Oh come now, I am your mother. I do so hate those formalities.”
“Yes, Mother.”
Lady Valentine sighed, then said, “Well come in girl, it’s cold out there!” Abigail crossed the threshold into the foyer. The contrast between the interior and exterior was profound. Where the exterior had been beaten down by the passage of time, the interior seemed timeless. Everything looked just as it did when Abigail was a child. There wasn’t a thread out of place or a speck of dust to be seen. Lady Valentine smiled at the amazed look on Abigail’s face. “Come,” she said, “let’s have some tea in the sitting room before dinner.”
The sitting room, just off of the foyer, looked just as Abigail remembered: two large, ornate, red velvet sofas around a large oakwood coffee/tea table occupied the center of the room. The walls were decorated with portraits of Valentines past hovering over ornate tables filled with trinkets and baubles of family history. As beautiful as the room was, Abigail had always found it a bit…ominous.
The antique tea set was already sitting on the table for them. Abigail sat awkwardly on the edge of one of the sofas and peered around the room. Almost to herself she said, “Everything is just how I remember.”
“Memory is a funny thing,” her mother said.
“What do you mean?”
“Some call memories ‘ghosts of the past’ because they can haunt you in ways you don’t even realize?”
“Mother, I did not come here for riddles…”
“Let me explain. Often, people’s memories can exaggerate the pains of the past. The more the person remembers the pain, the more pain the person remembers. It’s a cycle that causes more pain and makes forgiving…and forgetting more difficult.”
Abigail started to become angry. Now her mother was trying to invalidate the pain she felt by trying to say that it wasn’t even real! Ok Abigail, she thought to herself. I can see this through. I can talk to my mother without getting angry and without yelling. She took a deep breath and said, “What if the pain is not exaggerated? What if a person simply remembers what happened…and it hurts?”
“Well, that’s the trick, isn’t it? How do you know one way or the other? The best way to figure these things out is to talk it over with other people. Remember things together. Try to find the truth of the memories together.”
Abigail had to admit, her mother had a point. Dwelling on painful memories alone was probably a bad way to sort them out. She took a chance and told her mother, “I wasn’t sure if I was going to come tonight.”
“I had a feeling. I know that Manor House harbors many painful memories for you. I hope that you will come to see that no matter what, this is your home.”
“It has never felt like home to me. I was always too free spirited to belong in such a ‘prestigious’ family.”
“You never did want to learn about our family’s history. Come,” she took Abigail’s hand and they walked to a portrait on the far side of the room. “This is your great-great grandmother, Cassandra Valentine. Much like you, she was free spirited. So much so that the townspeople labeled her a witch.”
Abigail gasped, “Oh no, what happened?”
“The townspeople wanted to burn her, but your great-great grandfather would have none of it. He locked Cassandra in the attic, and dared the people to try to take her. The townspeople were angry, but Alexander Valentine was well known for his swordsmanship. The people knew that trying to best him in combat would mean risking their own lives. So they plotted to burn the Manor. Fortunately, he had spies in town and knew about the plot. He waited and watched until the arsonists came lurking, then put his sword through them. The next day the townspeople found the two arsonists on pikes in the town square. After that, they decided to leave Cassandra alone.”
Wide-eyed Abigail replied, “I’ll bet they did!”
Smiling Lady Valentine said, “It’s time for dinner.”
The dining room was the same elegant, formal room that Abigail remembered. A long, sturdy, ornate, oakwood table sat in the center of the room surrounded by carved oakwood framed chairs with red velvet padded seats. A large florid candelabra in the center of the table offered the room a faint glow.
The two women sat before elaborate silver and china place settings. Lady Valentine spoke up, “Tell me about your life. I haven’t seen you in far too long.”
“No offense Mother, but when I left Manor House, I never looked back. Kye stole my heart with his music. I never regretted my choice to leave with him. We have been married for twenty wonderful years. At first I helped him produce his music while he focused on creating it. Now we work together to produce music that others create. It’s been a long road, filled with ups and downs, but I have loved every minute of my life with Kyle Richardson. I am no longer a Valentine; I am Abigail Richardson music producer and wife of famous musician and producer Kye Richardson.”
“I’m so glad you’ve had a full life. My daughter, your marriage did not erase your birthright. You are, indeed, Abigail Richardson: producer and wife. But you are also Abigail Valentine, beloved daughter of Norine and Julian Valentine, heiress to a great dynasty.”
“I was sure that by running off with Kye, I had relinquished my claim on anything this family had to offer.”
“Nonsense, dear. We are family, and family is forever.” As soon as her mother said those words, Abigail felt a flash of memory…something terrible, but she couldn’t quite make it out. Her mother saw that something was wrong, “Are you alright?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Go on, then. Tell me more about Kye. It sounds like the two of you had quite a love affair.”
Abigail was a little embarrassed, but continued, “Kye is everything to me. I don’t know what I would do without him. He is my rock, my shoulder, and always knows the perfect thing to say. He gets more attractive with every passing year. The more time I spend with him, the deeper I fall in love.” As Abigail was thinking about Kye, the flashes of memory returned. This time she could make out Kye screaming and searing pain in her head. She grabbed the side of her head where she felt the pain and abruptly stood. “What is going on, Mother? Why do I keep having these strange memories?”
“Memories can be a mysterious thing.”
Abigail had another flash: It was dark, she was in the car, and headlights were directly ahead of her. The flash jumped to Kye standing over her with blood on his face and hands. The pain in her head was unbearable. Abigail fell to the floor. “I have to go. I need Kye. I can’t do this without him.”
Her mother looked down at her with a somber smile, “I felt the same way about your father. Fortunately, he was here to greet me.”
Abigail looked at her mother with confused eyes, “But Father is…”
“Yes, dear, he’s dead.”
As soon as she said the word dead, it all came flooding to Abigail. She was driving. Kye was in the passenger seat. The were headed home after having dinner out. It was late, so the sun was down. The truck driver has fallen asleep, so the truck had drifted into Abigail’s lane. She tried her best to get over, but the large truck was taking up both lanes. She slowed down, but the truck hit their car full force completely crunching the driver’s side. A piece of shrapnel lodged in the side of Abigail’s head. She died on impact. Kye tried to free her body from the wreckage, but it was no use. No amount of medicine could have helped her. At the realization of where she was and what had happened, Abigail broke down into tears.
“There, there, dear,” said her mother. “Manor House has always been your forever home.”
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