A Trip to North Yorkshire

Clarke Manor

  The rhythmic up and down, up and down motion of the carriage becomes a comfortable way of life as we bounce across the foggy coast, the warmer inlands, the marshes and villages of England, my new home. The journey took four days, and we stopped at inns for meals sleep. The first inn was a small, packed one, full of drinkers and the acrid smell of beer decaying in the air. We left early. The next few are a blur of meager breakfasts, small beds, and simpering hostesses - and oh, the carriage ride. In just a few hours William, Rose and I exhausted all possible topics of conversation, and we had to sit there in silence, remarking occasionally on particularly sunny weather, or on the size of the towns we passed through, or James the kindly chauffeur pointing out that the next stop should be soon, ladies and gentleman. Rose, I can't help noticing, entertains herself by gawking at William, and William sneaks a few glances at her in return.

     They seem happy. I don't feel such happiness, and I'm beginning to get angry at myself. Rose is naive, yes, but she can make light of any situation with her childish awe of the world. Maybe this isn't a flaw as I originally thought - perhaps it's an asset. 

     The day we reach the dreaded Clarke Manor is contrastingly sunny, in comparison to the weather I've seen so far. We're immersed in the mild sweetness of early spring; the damp, muddy odor, almost transparent new leaves budding, smallish flowers popping up, and the soft blue sky radiating warmth. This is a season I've always liked, maybe because I'm a self-confessed harsh person; I'm attracted to the vague gentleness of April and May.

     My insides clench when I see the vast stone edifice towering above us; it's a finely crafted stone building, rather Gothic architecture, with the most detailed work from the carved archway that leads into a courtyard to the symmetrical, meticulously formed windows. It's beautiful, casting an engulfing shadow over the shrubbery and small flower gardens dotting the entrance. I am stunned, both from my fear and from the fact that this is to be my new - home. No, I remind myself, I'll be returning right home to New York to study after I "fail" to find a husband here.

     Rose is as amazed as I am, letting out breathy "Oh!"s and "Ah!"s. Initially I am shocked to see William so calm upon approaching such glamour, but immediately I remember the obvious; he's lived here for years. 

     James pulls us to a shuddering stop in the center sun-streaked courtyard, unhitching the snorting horse and leading it to what must be a stable back behind the entering arch. Almost momentarily he returns, and with a nod to the three of us, unloads our trunks and begins with carrying William's to a mahogany wooden door on the other end of the yard. 

    Shakily I step out, followed by a bouncy Rose. William exits on the other side, closing the door behind him. Offering me a small, reassuring smile, he nods to us towards the door. "Go on."

    With trepidation I shuffle towards it, already frantic upon the thought of having to meet my future host. Rose keeps a jaunty pace,  though I can see the nervousness in her tense lips and darting eyes. Rose is one for a stellar first impression, and with a background as a relocated American teenager, I can see she's not very confident in the face of meeting someone of higher class.

     William catches up to us and knocks the carved handle. Here we are, the dawn of a new era, the next chapter in the story of our lives. 

     To my surprise, the door is opened by a gaunt, gray-skinned old woman, with sharp cheekbones and piercing eyes  - certainly not Mr. Clarke. "Mother!" William begins, but his greeting trails off hesitantly as he notices the tears welling up in the corners of her black eyes. I'm puzzled. Is she crying simply because she's laying eyes on her son once more? Or is it . . . sadness?

     Shakily, breaking the silence, I reach out a hand. "Alice Goldstein."

      Her voice cracks as she speaks. "It's nice to see you, girls, but . . . "

       "Mother?" William prompts questioningly. 

       She responds.

       Mr. Clarke's killed himself. She's just found the body.