Death of a Duchess, Nellie Steele [non fiction books to read .txt] 📗

John!” she screamed after him. “You cannot leave me here! You cannot leave me with this child!”

Without a word, my father climbed into the carriage. It pulled away as my mother stood weeping on our front walk. I followed her out. She bent over, grasping her thighs, gasping as sobs wracked her body. I put my hand on her back. “’Tis all right, Mum. Father will return for us. Until then, I am with you.”

My mother groaned, glancing at me. She stalked into the house, leaving me alone in the front yard.

After my father’s departure, my mother’s behavior took a bizarre turn. She roamed the house, her eyes glazed over, clutching her Bible. She mumbled to herself before locking herself in her room. With each passing day, Mother grew more despondent and fretful.

As she served my breakfast one morning, she said, “Lenora, if anyone asks, you were born on 1 November. Do you understand?”

“But why, Mum?” I queried, before spooning porridge into my mouth.

My mother spun me to face her, dropping to her knees in front of me. “Listen and do what you are told, Lenora!”

“But I was born on 31 October!” I insisted.

“Stop this nonsense, Lenora. From this day forward, you were born on 1 November and not a moment sooner. Now, do you understand?”

I nodded, not understanding but not willing to disturb my mother further. I rarely experienced a warm moment with her, but I still loved her. And I tried to be an obedient child. I came to realize my birthday suggested some defect in my character. I did not understand what deficiency existed, but my mother considered it wicked for some reason. When I was grown, of course, I realized the lore surrounding the day, but as a child of five, I reacted by working to please my mother.

On several occasions, she would lock me in my room. From my window, I would spy her leaving the house. She would return several hours later and conduct bizarre undertakings. After one of her trips, she insisted on serving only white foods to me. This lasted for two weeks before she, again, left for the day after locking me in my room.

After the second trip, she told me she had “special plans” for us, that we were to play a special game. She instructed me to tell no one of the details or else we would not be able to play. After I promised to never tell a soul, she led me to our small library. The curtains were drawn, plunging the room into darkness despite the days’ waning light. The area rug had been rolled back. Strange chalk markings decorated the floorboards. A ring of saltpeter was positioned in the center of the room. Candles rimmed the saltpeter ring.

The scene frightened me. I clutched my mother’s hand, glancing to her for reassurance. She pulled her hand from mine. “Get inside the ring,” she instructed. “Lie down and do not move from inside until I instruct you to. Do you understand?”

I nodded. I climbed inside the ring, careful not to disturb the salt or candles. I laid back, staring at the ceiling. My mother consulted several sheets of paper. She stretched her arms over me and repeated some incantation in a language unfamiliar to me. Her voice raised, she continued shouting.

She glanced down at me. I shook with fear, not understanding the meaning of the ceremony. She shouted again the strange words, her voice raising to a fever pitch. She stared down at me again, her eyes wide. The expression on her face frightened me more than the strange ritual. Raw panic shone in her eyes. Her face twitched and her mouth contorted into an odd shape.

“Mum?” I whispered.

The small sound caused her to descend further into her frenzy. She climbed on top of me, straddling me with her legs. She raised a candle toward the heavens, shrieking strange words before she began to shout, “DEVIL, LEAVE THIS CHILD!” over and over.

The hot wax began to drip on me as her frenetic rantings continued. I squealed in torment as the hot wax scalded me. Tears ran down my cheeks and I begged for my mother to stop.

I managed to wriggle free from under her. I crawled from the circle, gaining my feet as I reached the door. I clutched the doorjamb as my mother stared at me. “You are an evil child,” she growled at me. “I shall stop you!” she screamed as I ran.

I sprinted to my room and crawled under my bedcovers. I clung to the sheets, weeping until I fell asleep.

The next morning, my mother ignored the incident. I found the library restored as though nothing had happened. I began to wonder if I had imagined or dreamed the entire incident. Life returned to a semblance of normal for several weeks.

As the leaves began to turn to fall colors, however, my mother locked me in my room and disappeared for hours. When she returned home, she fed me a meager supper of water and white bread. After, she lured me into the yard behind our home, telling me we would spend the night gazing at the stars.

A large oak tree stood several feet from our home. My mother led me there and stood me against it. “Do not move,” Mother instructed.

“Will not the leaves block the stars?” I questioned.

“Hush, Lenora,” Mother warned. She reached and grasped an object from the ground nearby. As she approached me, I noted she carried a thick rope. “Put your arms at your sides and do not move.”

She disappeared around the tree. When she reappeared, she pulled the rope with her. She wrapped it around me, pinning me to the tree. “Ouch!” I complained. “Mum, this hurts!”

“Hush, Lenora!” she shouted. She secured the rope, testing its tautness. Satisfied, she glanced to the full moon rising overhead. She returned her gaze to me and, with a smirk, she spun on her heel and returned to the house.

“Mum!” I called after her.