March 11th 1872
ROSALYNN MAYFIELD
Two days before the fire.
"May I braid your hair, Miss Rosalynn?"
Siobhan has been watching me intently for the last ten minutes as I play the piano. It's slightly unnerving, to be honest, but I don't really mind.
Shouldn't you be somewhere else? I think, but I don't say it out loud.
"Alright," I reply, feeling sorry for her. She's such a small, wretched thing.
Siobhan claps her hands happily, and stands behind me, taking out my hairpins with a bit too much enthusiasm. I sigh and start playing the first movement of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata.
Siobhan finishes taking out all my hairpins and arranges them neatly in a row on top of the piano. My hair falls over my shoulders in a silky curtain.
"Oh, you have such gorgeous hair," she gushes, "So long and black - like midnight." I hide a snort.
Siobhan begins to run her fingers through my hair, brushing it.
She tugs at sections of my hair, gentle yet firm at the same time.
I lose myself to the music. I haven't played the Moonlight Sonata for such a long time. I don't know why. It's one of my favourite pieces. I love the first slow, thoughtful movement, coupled with the light and playful second movement, what I think of as the 'calm before the storm', before the final movement, fast, loud and downright exhausting.
The Moonlight Sonata was the last piece he ever taught me before I...left him. It's been nearly three years already, I realise. Has it really been this long? Have I really been stuck at Chapworth manor for nearly three years?
"There, all done."
I gasp as I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the shiny, polished surface of the piano. Siobhan has plaited my hair and piled it on top of my head in an extravagant coil. I turn my head from side to side, admiring it. It's beautiful. I feel like a princess.
"Where did you learn to braid like that?" I ask, astonished at the intricacy of it all. And then, before I could stop myself: "Did your mother teach you?"
"I can't remember my parents," she said in a nonchalant tone, "They left me at the orphanage when I was only a baby."
I could slap myself. What was I thinking?
I've assumed that Siobhan had parents all this time. I thought that perhaps they had sent her daughter her to earn a little extra cash, that's all.
How selfish I've been. I'm not the only one who's ever lost a loved one. I'm not the only orphan in the world. She only wanted for someone to love her in this strange new place, but all I ever did was ignore her, look upon her condescendingly, find her insufferable.
"I'm sorry..." I begin, but Siobhan shrugs off my concern.
"A kind old lady took me in, after that. She was very good to me. She taught me to read and sew and braid hair, and she always told me stories before bed and let me chose sweets from a big jar she kept on her shelf when I'd been good."
Siobhan watches my fingers intently as they dart up and down the keys. Like a butterfly, she once told me.
"She liked to brush my hair, too," Siobhan mused, "She said that my hair was long and soft and beautiful, like silk." Her voice became soft. "She told me that it reminded her of her daughter's hair."
Her voice becomes sad.
"But she was very old, and near the end she became very confused. She started to think that I was her real daughter, and I didn't have the heart to tell her otherwise." Siobhan sighed. "When the old lady died they took me away to be trained as a maid, and when I turned thirteen, they said that they had found a job for me in a big house in the countryside, so here I am."
I had never realised. I had no idea that Siobhan was an orphan too. I never thought to ask. I didn't think to care. I had been so caught up in my own misery, my own petty problems, that I never thought that I wasn't the only one.
"What's wrong, Miss Rosalynn?"
"Huh?"
I realise that I've stopped playing. My fingers hover over the ivory keys, shaking slightly.
"Oh. I'm sorry." I start playing again. Softer, this time. More thoughtfully.
I'm only now beginning to realise how young Siobhan is.
I know how she feels. In some ways, our stories are almost identical. She, too, lost her parents. She, too, was taken in by a kind benefactor. We both found out way to Chapworth manor. Perhaps it is fate that brought us together. And yet...
"Tell me about you, Miss Rosalynn," She says, her eyes wide and innocent. "You always seem so sad. Tell me what's wrong. I want to help."
What happened in my past has been my secret for all these years, my secret alone. I've not dared to tell anyone, not even that kind gentleman who took me on and taught me piano before I came here. But somehow, I feel like I can trust little Siobhan. Perhaps it's the unlikely connection we have. She's been through suffering, too. She's lost people she love, just like me.
"My parents died in a fire, eight years ago."
Siobhan gasps, clapping her tiny hands over her mouth. "Oh, I'm so sorry, Miss Rosalynn. I shouldn't have asked."
I shrug. "Being sorry about it won't change the past." I play louder, as if to drown out my thoughts. I know that if I think about it too much I will change my mind about telling her. But she deserves to know the truth about me. And besides, I'm tired of hiding everything, all the time. I tell more lies than I tell truths these days, and I want to change that.
"They were workers in a factory," I say, "We were poor, but we managed. Those earliest years of my childhood were the happiest. Mother always made sure that our clothes were clean and ironed, and that we never went to bed on an empty stomach. My parents couldn't afford to send us to school, but they taught us everything they knew. My mother had been respectable once. She had been the daughter of a wealthy family - they owned an ironworks company - I think. A long time ago."
Siobhan doesn't ask me how she had been disgraced, how she was cast off by her own family until she was little more than a pauper, and I don't intend to tell her.
"I remember that my parents were always working. They did everything they would to keep the two of us alive." Eliza and me.
I had loved Eliza so much. Even though she was less than two years younger than me, I felt like I was responsible for her. I was always so protective of her, trying my best to keep her out of harm's way. But in the end I couldn't save her.
"I had a sister too," I told Siobhan. I had thought that digging up all these buried memories would hurt, but strangely it doesn't. I feel so detached from it all. So emotionless. "Her name was Eliza May, and I loved her more than anyone else in the world."
I tell her about ice-skating on the Seine when it froze over in winter, making shadow puppets in the dim light of the candle stubs we lit, and about cold winter's nights huddled up in front of the fire, telling each other stories about pirates and adventurers and princesses in golden castles that glistened under the sun. We often lay in bed dreaming of scrumptious feasts; roast duck and chicken and turkey, honey-glazed hams, iced buns and bowls of strawberries and cream. I suppose that we were some of the lucky ones. Even though often there was nothing to eat but dry bread, at least we got something. Anything was better than starving.
"What happened to her?" Siobhan asks, he voice soft, as if she was afraid of what I would tell her.
"She died," I reply without meeting her eye. "Consumption. There was nothing we could do to save her."
Chopin's nocturne no. 20 in C sharp minor is sometimes given a strange nickname: Reminiscence. I've never really understood why, until now. The music reminds me of my childhood and encourages me to remember my past. It feels good, to finally tell someone and get a load off my chest. I've kept it pent up for too long.
"Eliza died, a week after her seventh birthday." My voice is a lot steadier than I expected, or hoped for. "She was so brave, even at the end. She never stopped smiling."
"Miss Rosalynn..." To my horror, Siobhan is sobbing uncontrollably. "Oh, Miss Rosalynn, I'll be your sister!"
She wraps her arms around me in a tight hug. "You don't have to be alone anymore, Miss Rosalynn. I'll be here for you."
I'm speechless. I sit rigidly on the piano bench, not knowing what to say, not knowing what to do.
At last, I break out of my stupor and gently hug the sniveling girl back.
"As I with you," I say. Siobhan looks at me with large, round, chocolate brown eyes, brimming with tears. "I'll be your older sister, Siobhan. I'll take good care of you."
But somehow I'm unable to meet her intense gaze, because deep down, I know that it's all a lie.
-------------
After dinner that night, I return to the parlour on the second level of the manor. I seem to spend much of my time here, these days. It's not too extravagant, compared to some of the other rooms in the manor, yet it has a lovely view over the gravel drive that leads to freedom. And it's warm here. There is always a fire burning in the heath. I believe that it is one of Siobhan's duties to keep it burning. She has done a good job, I can give her that.
Almost subconsciously, I find myself hoping that I will see her again today. I have grown awfully fond of that girl.
I suppose there's nothing trapping me here, really. Nothing tangible, at least. The heavy iron doors are usually open, and I don't suppose there's anything they can do to me if I do decide to step out of the property one day. But there's something I must do, first. I'm here for a reason, and I don't intend to leave before I have completed what I came here to do.
Not yet, though. The time has not yet come.
But soon. Very soon.
I glance out the window. The last rays of afternoon sunshine are beginning to disappear, swallowed up by the darkness. I shall have to light a candle soon, if I wish to keep playing.
Candles used to be a rare commodity for us. They were expensive, so mother would limit us to one a month. There was a little tray we kept our candles in, a little brass tray. We would catch the bits of melted candle that burnt off, and try to use it again. I remember mother would often darn our socks and skirts in the light of a candle stub, squinting in the dim light. It ruined her eyes, it did, but we had no money to buy her glasses.
"That was beautiful, Rosalynn."
I jump, startled from my reverie.
Nicholas Chapworth is leaning casually in the doorway, a small smile on his face. I must have been so caught up in my thoughts that I didn't hear him come in.
"I didn't mean to startle you," he says apologetically, "I'm terribly sorry."
"N-No," I stammer, "It was my fault." I stand up hurriedly and drop into a clumsy curtsy. "I'm sorry, Master Chapworth, my mind was elsewhere."
"Nicholas," says Nicholas, "I don't want any of this 'Master Chapworth' business. My father may insist on being addressed by his official title all the time, but to me it sounds far too formal."
"Yes, Nicholas," I say, hiding a smile.
"I like listening to you play," he murmurs softly.
The room is so quiet I can hear the old grandfather clock down the hallway quietly tickling away.
My palms have gone sweaty. I quickly wipe them on my skirt, hoping that Nicholas doesn't notice.
Why does he matter so much? He's only a Chapworth, like the rest of them. Why should I care what he thinks of me?
"I came to ask you...that song you played at dinner," he says, "The one you played when they were bringing out dessert. It was so beautiful...yet so sad. What is it called?"
I feel my cheeks warm. "I didn't think anyone would notice that," I admit, "It was nothing. Just some silly thing I made up then and there. It was inspired by the sticky date pudding." I allow a small smile.
It reminded me of birthdays gone by. It was a sort of tradition. Whenever Eliza or I had our birthdays, we would get a sticky date pudding with a small candle stub on top. It was a sort of tradition we had. Mother was the best cook I knew. She could make a feast out of everything and anything. Anything except for dry bread, that is.
"You truly are incredible," he breathes.
"I beg your pardon?" This certainly is unexpected.
"To have created something so beautiful and inspiring out of a mere sticky date pudding."
"...Thank you." I reply, not quite sure if he's serious or making fun of me.
It might be the firelight playing tricks on my eyes, but is Nicholas blushing a little?
"Do you think you could play something for me?" he asks shyly.
My heart is racing at a thousand miles an hour. "What would you like to hear?" I ask, breathlessly.
He hesitates. "I can't say that I have much of a musical knowledge," he admits, "I couldn't name any pieces if I tried. All this time you've been playing for us, but I never bothered to learn the names of anything that you've been playing. I'm sorry."
At least he acknowledges my playing. Usually Lord Chapworth treats me as if I'm part of the wallpaper, unseen and unheard. As if I don't matter.
"Greensleeves," I say suddenly, startling myself. "It was the first song I ever learnt," I add. "My mother used to sing it to me, before I went to sleep." I pause, wondering if I've said too much. "Would you like to hear it?"
"I'd be delighted," he smiles.
I start playing the opening bars of the piece, my heart beating so much I struggle to hit the right notes. Why am I so nervous, all of a sudden? I play in front of people all the time.
I smile as I see Nicholas gasp in recognition of the tune. Perhaps he isn't as clueless about music as he seems to think.
I sing the lyrics in my mind as I play. It seems appropriate. I don't dare to sing them out loud. Unfortunately, despite my talent at the piano, my singing is mediocre at best. And besides, I wonder what Nicholas will think if he realises what the lyrics are.
Alas, my love, you do me wrong to cast me off so discourteously.
And I have loved you oh so long, delighting in your company.
Off the corner of my eye, I see him hum it softly to himself. Well, he seems to be enjoying the tune, at least. I just hope that he doesn't realise that Greensleeves is a lover's lament.
Suddenly the door slams open.
Lord Chapworth storms in, his face red. He does not look happy at all.
"Nicholas?" He frowns. "What in the devil are you doing here? We have a meeting with Albert Campbell, of the Scotland branch, in five minutes, or have you forgotten about that?"
Nicholas stands up and apologises. "I'm sorry father," he says, "But I fear that the time has completely slipped my mind." He smiles at me again. "Thank you for playing for me."
Lord Chapworth frowns. "There's no point trying to thank her, boy. She's only a servant."
But Nicholas shakes his head. "It doesn't matter who someone is, father, everyone deserves to be treated with kindness." Lord Chapworth scoffs, and walks to the door, tapping his fingers impatiently on the door handle. "Well, coming, Nicholas?"
"Just a minute." Nicholas turns to me again, smiling. "I trust that I'll see you again at breakfast tomorrow morning? I look forward to hearing you play again."
I nod, not daring to say anything to him in front of his father
"Goodbye, Rosalynn."
Despite everything, Nicholas Chapworth has been nothing but kind to me.
He follows his father out of the room. As he leaves, he flashes me one last smile. I smile back timidly, my heart racing uncontrollably.
It is at this precise moment that I realise something. Something that I should have realised a long time ago.
I am in love with Nicholas Chapwoth.
I shake my head vigorously to clear the thought. After all, what hope is there of romance between us? He's Nicholas Chapworth, heir of the Chapworth fortune, and I am nothing but a lowly servant girl, and a worthless one at that.
Even so, I can't bear the though of him falling in love with another woman.
The door shuts behind them with a decisive click.