Aeonian: Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Three
“Christmas Day dawned with a chill wind and a scent of promised snow on the breeze. I woke early to see skies of fire from my window, reds and yellows, gold and pink stretching out over the seas, so the waves were become things of flame themselves. The seas beneath the house rose and fell with grey-crimson fire, but the roar of activity in the kitchens and the warmth which rose from the masses of dishes cooking seemed to cover me in a glow of protection against the elements.
We were to ride out in the carriages that morning, dressed in our finest for Christmas Day service at the village church. But before that, I went to Anna’s room to give her my gift. I had left other presents I had purchased for the rest of the household in their various rooms; Bartholomew and Beatrice’s I had put on their desks in the study and parlour, gifts for Nancy, Bess, Gray and Brown I had left in the kitchen. Later on, Bartholomew and Beatrice were to play host to many families of the neighbourhood for Christmas Day tea, and I had been instructed to bring Anna to the following celebrations in the afternoon. There was to be a dance and gift-giving. I did not want my poor gifts to be examined next to ones that the household would give each other, for mine would be found wanting, so I was determined to give them out in the morning.
I went to Anna’s room and knocked on the door. “Anna?” I called as I opened it, “I have come to help you dress for church, and I have a little something for you…” I opened the door and stopped, staring at the sight within.
Anna was sitting on the floor before the great mirror in her room. She appeared to be staring blankly at the image of herself in the mirror, her face ghostly and pale. I had the impression she had been whispering something, for her lips seemed to come to an abrupt halt as I opened the door. She did not say anything, but simply stared at her own reflection.
“Anna?” I stepped towards her. “Are you well? Is something wrong?”
Her lips curled up into a most unpleasant smile which seemed to transform her face with an expression almost demonic. Her eyebrows knotted, and her eyes, which had been intent on her own reflection, fixed on me with a sparkling, horrifying intensity.
She whispered something, but the words were not in English, nor any language I was familiar with. For a moment, I had an echo of a memory which sounded within me, of the forest, of the coastal path, of words Anna had uttered to the beast who attacked me; the words that she had cried at it which had made the thing retreat. Then, suddenly, that unnatural expression of demonic delight seemed to lift from her face. She blinked and looked up at me. “Miss Mallory!” she cried, scrambling to her feet, “when did you come in?”
“Just a moment ago,” I said, stepping towards her again, frowning. “Are you quite well, Anna? I spoke to you just now and it was as if…” I trailed off, wondering if I should say what I had just seen. The child seemed normal now. Had she been sleepwalking? Or rather, sleep-sitting?
“What were you doing in front of the mirror?” I asked.
Anna shook her head; she seemed to be trying to avoid my eyes. “I don’t know, was I there?”
I gazed at her; she was still in her nightgown. It was still early, but she should have been woken by Bess some time ago. “We must get you ready for church now,” I told her, trying to shake off the uncanny feeling that her smile in the mirror had given me. “I came to wish you a merry Christmas, you must have fallen back to sleep and sat yourself before the mirror.”
“Oh.” Anna glanced at the mirror. “Yes, I must have.”
Perhaps it was the excitement of the day, I thought. There was to be a dance later in the house as I mentioned, and Anna had talked of it with something approaching enthusiasm, which was rare for her. The parlour had been cleared to make space for the chosen families who were coming to the dinner to dance in later on. Anna was allowed to attend for some of the night, so perhaps that excitement had somehow taken over her senses, making her a little abstracted this morning. I held out my gift to her, wrapped in a good measure of fine red silk and tied with a little pink ribbon in a bow. “Merry Christmas, Anna,” I said.
The girl flushed from the very base of her neck to the roots of her hair as she took the gift from me. She sat down on her bed, smiling. “I have never had a Christmas gift before,” she said in a whisper.
I frowned. “Not even from Bartholomew and Beatrice?”
She shook her head. “Until this year, we did not really celebrate Christmas here,” she told me quietly. “It’s been so nice, with the decorations from the gardens, and the food cooking.” She sounded almost wistful.
I stared at her. “You have never celebrated Christmas?”
“We were often travelling,” she replied with a shrug. “Sometimes servants that I was left with would try to do something. We sang carols when we were in France one year. Some years I was just alone though. I used to listen to the parties and the people outside, and that was nice, but it also made me feel more alone, somehow. We’ve been here three years now, I think, and we never did all this before. I never had a gift of my own for Christmas Day.”
I swallowed a hard shard of pain for the girl. Even in my own limited way, in the school I had attended, there was still a treat to be had on Christmas Day. We were often given more food at dinner, and a small book of devotions. It was not much compared with some, but at least there had been gifts no matter how small. Anna’s hard treatment by my cousins seemed to have no end. But I wondered too, if they had never celebrated Christmas in the past, why start now with this Christmas?
I smiled at Anna, trying desperately to conceal the sorrow I felt for her. “Well, you had better open it. I do hope that you like it, considering it is your first Christmas gift.”
She smiled shyly, and undid the wrapping carefully, putting the bow and the length of silk I had wrapped it in, in a neat pile at her side. It was as if each bit of wrapping and ribbon were as precious gifts as what they contained. When she unravelled the material and found the book, she let out a little squeak of pleasure.
“Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage,” she whispered as she turned over the dark cover of the book in her hands. “By George Gordon, Lord Byron. It is lovely, Miss Mallory, thank you.”
“There is an inscription,” I told my charge, sitting beside her and opening the book to the title page. “See here? From Philomena Mallory to Miss Anna Feria, with love at Christmas, 1899.”
Anna stared at the words, then looked up at me. “I love you too, Miss Mallory,” she whispered. There were tears in her eyes.
“Oh, Anna,” I said, taking her in my arms. I felt her little arms wrap about me, and her body shook with resounding tremors as she wept against my breast. “It was meant to make you happy, child, not sad.”
“I am happy, Miss Mallory,” she said, pulling her face from my chest, “that’s why I’m crying.”
I laughed a little, and Anna joined me. Eventually I pulled her from me and shook my head. “This won’t do at all, we have to be ready to go to the church soon, come, let me help you with your gown.”
“Can I give you your gift first?” she asked, her voice shy as a new fledgling.
I nodded. “I would like that a great deal.”
Anna walked to the bottom of her bed and took out a rectangle-shaped object; it was a small canvas in portrait shape. After a moment’s hesitation, she held out the frame to me and I took it in my hands, turning it towards me. I gasped and stared at the canvas, for in my hands was a picture of myself. Painted in soft, warm tones of browns, yellows, oranges and reds, it was an impression of my own face and shoulders and yet, to my mind, it looked almost nothing like me. The face in the portrait was beautiful, the expression in the glittering eyes was warm yet steady, the small yet full mouth was smiling slightly as if this lady knew all that she needed to know for the rest of her life. It was clearly me, yet I had never looked in a mirror and seen this impression of myself. I seemed to glow from the canvas of that portrait; a beautiful, warm and desirable woman, possessed of strength that seemed to flow from the painting itself.
I looked up at Anna, my face clearly astonished. She looked worried, then terrified. “You don’t like it?” she asked in a small voice.
“No! I mean… yes!” I stumbled in my shock, “I do like it, I love it. It is incredibly beautiful, Anna… it’s just…”
She smiled in a knowing fashion. “It’s just that you have never seen what everyone else sees when they look at you properly.”
I blushed a bright and rosy red and, feeling flustered, embarrassed and honoured, put the picture on the bed, stood up and hugged her once more.
“It is how you are, Miss Mallory,” she uttered softly against my embrace. She pulled back from me and gazed into my eyes. “You are the greatest friend that I have had in my life,” she confided with a serious expression on her face which made her seem much older than her spare years. “You are the only friend I have ever had.”
“Oh, Anna.” I felt my heart pound with sorrow and joy as I took her in my arms once more. “You are my friend too, and you always will be. I love you, child.”
“I love you, Miss Mallory,” said Anna.”