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

“Mum!” She continued walking as though she never heard my pleas. I wriggled in my bonds but found myself unable to move. In the distance, an owl hooted, lending an eerie tone to the quiet night.

As the night wore on, I wept. In a panic, I thrashed around, earning myself only brush burns as the taut rope tore at my flesh.

My mother returned for me at the break of dawn. My head lolled as I dozed from exhaustion. I snapped my head up and my eyes open as I sensed movement. My mother carried a large knife. She clutched it in her fist, staring at me for a moment. A tear spilled down my cheek.

“Mum?” I questioned, my voice hoarse.

She tightened her grip on the knife, then moved to my side. She sawed through the rope and I collapsed to the ground in a heap. Weary, I did not move. My eyes followed my mother as she stalked away from me. “Come in when you are able,” she muttered, leaving me sprawled on the grass.

I fell asleep there, dragging myself into the house only after the lunch hour. I longed for my father to return. Perhaps that would correct Mother’s odd behavior.

The only comfort I gained was from the arrival of my maternal grandfather one week after Mother tied me to the oak tree. I hoped his presence would settle Mother. Another three weeks passed without incident before the ill-fated tea with the woman whose name escaped me.

I recalled the woman arriving for tea. I played nearby with a doll gifted to me by the woman upon her arrival. My grandfather hovered over me as I played, teaching me a new game.

My mother served tea, chatting with the woman. After a time, the conversation turned to me. “How much longer will John be away?” the woman inquired of my father.

“Oh, until next summer,” Mother answered. “His last letter noted the beauty of India.”

“Does he plan to move you there?”

“Oh, I certainly hope not!” Mother exclaimed.

“Quite right,” the woman agreed. “The environment is far better here for raising a child. And Lenora will make a better match here than there when the time comes.” My mother offered a brief smile, staring into her teacup. The woman continued. “I realize it seems far off, but her eligibility to marry will arrive before you know it!”

“Hmm,” my mother responded.

“She seems a lovely enough child, Helen,” the woman said, glancing to me. “Very pretty. She can make an excellent match.”

My mother’s eyes slid sideways to glance at me for the briefest moment. “Oh, yes,” she murmured before trying to change the subject.

The women persisted in her inquiry. “Is not her birthday soon? Turning six?”

My mother waved her hand in the air as to dismiss the comment. “Yes, yes, a few days, give or take,” she responded evasively.

“All Hallows’ Eve, isn’t it?” the woman pressed.

“No!” Mother responded; her voice raised.

The woman’s brow crinkled. “My apologies, Helen,” she said. “I thought…”

“No, no, no,” my mother interrupted. “No, quite wrong. I went into labor on All Hallows’ Eve. Oh, I did panic! But Lenora was not born until 1 November. All Saints Day!”

“Ah, I see. My apologies. Not that it makes any matter, though Eleanor told me the child was born on All Hallows’ Eve. You should correct her. She is spreading some rather nasty rumors about the girl. And all based on her incorrect birthday.”

My mother set her mouth in a grim line. “Yes, I am aware of the falsehoods Eleanor whispers behind my back. She is quite mixed up! It was a difficult birth, and I was in labor for quite a long time. But I assure you, Lenora’s birth occurred on 1 November, mid-morning, in fact. After all, I was present!” My mother offered a nervous chuckle. “Oh, how I wish John was here to confirm this. I grow tired of defending myself!”

I stared at the women as they spoke, recalling the conversation with my mother. If asked, I should clearly tell the woman I was born on 1 November. Then Mother would be proud of me. Perhaps then she would cease her odd and frightening behavior. I waited for my opportunity. My grandfather’s hand rested on my shoulder. I glanced up at him, a smile on my face. Grandfather would be proud, too. I would obey my mother, and this would please both of them.

“Even the child herself will tell you! She knows her birthday! Lenora, come,” Mother called.

I stayed seated for a moment. My grandfather’s hand still rested on my shoulder. He leaned forward and whispered in my ear. I crinkled my brow and glanced to him. He nodded in encouragement. I swallowed hard.

“Lenora!” Mother said again, impatience showing in her voice.

I rose and approached the table. “Tell the nice woman your birthday, dear,” Mother instructed.

I stood straight, my hands clasped in front of me. I took a deep breath and said, “31 October.”

My mother’s eyes went wide. “Lenora! What have I told you about lying? Nice little girls do not lie. Now, tell the truth. When is your birthday?” My mother smiled nervously at the woman across from her.

I bit my lower lip. I glanced back to my grandfather, who nodded at me again. I turned to face my mother and her guest. “31 October,” I repeated.

The comment vexed my mother. She drew her mouth into a thin line, her jaw set. “The child is confused. She overheard our conversation,” my mother said as an excuse. “You realize how silly children can be.”

“I am not lying,” I insisted. “And I am not confused. Grandfather Murray said I should tell the truth. Never lie about who you are, Lenora, he said to me.”

The woman’s face expressed utter confusion. My mother’s face reddened with fury. I did not understand her anger, though I detected it. “Go to your room!” she shouted.

Confused, I ran to the top of the stairs but did not proceed to my room. I slumped to the floor behind the