One
Elizabeth Collins Stoddard was a woman of mature years, whose carriage still held the semblance of a proud and regal woman, the daughter of the richest man in all of New England. But the years had descended upon her, making her a nervous woman, always wringing her hands, biting her lip, and containing her emotions. All of this had the effect of a broken woman, a woman older than who she was. Her dark hair was beginning to show signs of graying, and was pulled back in a delicate knot at the back of her head. Her petite fingers held scores of expensive rings and her wrists were heaped with bracelets. Her eyes darted around nervously, waiting for something, someone to jump out at her any moment of the day.
She hated Collinwood, and all it stood for. That was why she ran off with Paul Stoddard when she was nineteen, and two years later, after the birth of their daughter, Paul ran off, leaving her and the child penniless and alone. She had returned to Collinwood, to beg forgiveness from her father. He had taken her in, willingly, but withheld his forgiveness, even beyond his death. Her inheritance was pitiful, barely enough for her and her daughter to survive on. Andrew, her older brother, took pity on her and settled an allowance on her, even allowing her to live in splendour at the family's French holdings in Paris. Her younger brother, Roger, had faired hardly better, marrying that harlot Laura directly out of college, which he had barely passed. They had wasted away his inheritance within a year, by the end of which they were divorced. Roger had returned, penniless of course, and Andrew had willingly given him an allowance as well.
And when Andrew had died, both were hopeful, thinking that he would pass on to them some of the Collins property. But he didn't. All had gone on to his son, Quentin, on the condition that he continue giving his aunt and uncle their monthly allowances, which he had done willingly. For Quentin was like his father in at least one respect; he loved the power he held over people dependent on him. If Roger complained that he wasn't getting enough money, Quentin told him that he should have been more frugal in his expenditures, and should, by now, have a healthy savings, of which he had not. Elizabeth had been a bit more prudent--she had saved enough for Carolyn to go to college, if she so chose, and a bit left over to live off of.
Of course, she'd much rather be off in Paris now, where she was supposed to be with her dear friend, Julia Hoffman. But she had not count on the tragic death of Quentin's wife. Being the patriarch of the family, Quentin insisted that all come for the funeral, and had even pressed Elizabeth to stay at Collinwood and look after his son David while he was in Europe, checking the current and future interests of the Collins family. And as she was but a mere poor relation, she could not refuse, even if the house was cold and unfeeling.
At least he had allowed her to bring Julia, she thought. One concession. And then he had called two months ago, saying that he would be home "shortly" and gave her permission to hire a governess for David. Which had been done a month ago, and the girl was settling in nicely. At least Elizabeth didn't have to look after the boy, who was a loose cannon and already getting himself in trouble. He had already been kicked out of the village school for trying to set it on fire, and was on his way to a military academy if he didn't shape up. He was too much like his mother, Elizabeth believed, and that was the problem. He had too much of Angelique's qualities in him.
"Mrs. Stoddard?"
Elizabeth turned around. The governess was standing in the doorway. "Oh, I'm sorry, Daphne, have you been waiting long?"
"Not longer than usual," Daphne replied, a worried smile on her face. "You've been staring out that window a lot lately."
"Have I?" Elizabeth began wringing her hands again. She walked over to the table and picked up her cigarette, which was down to the nub and sitting in the ashtray.
"Yes, you have," the girl replied. She walked over to Elizabeth and pulled the cigarette out of the older woman's hand. "You don't like it here, do you?" She asked as she ground the cigarette into the ashes.
Elizabeth frowned. Smoking was her crutch, and when she couldn't smoke, she drank. She began looking for the bottles of brandy and whiskey that were on a cart in the drawing room.
Daphne noticed. "I had Mrs. Johnson lock up the alcohol, Elizabeth. And before you get mad, I had her do it because I've been worried about you lately. You've been withdrawn and nervous."
"Yes, of course," Elizabeth said absently. "I've never liked it here, you know," she said quietly. "I shouldn't be here."
Daphne led Elizabeth over to the divan and had her sit down. "Why don't you go back to Paris, Elizabeth?"
"I can't," Elizabeth replied. "I told Quentin I'd stay here until he comes back--"
"Oh, forget about that for a minute," Daphne said irritably. " Forget about that. Tell Quentin you had to go back. David and I will be fine here, honestly."
"But who would take care of things here?" Elizabeth asked. She needed her cigarettes. Her hands were beginning to shake. Go against Quentin?
Daphne held Elizabeth's hands to help stop the shaking. "You need to stop being afraid of him. And maybe it will get him back home, where he's needed."
Elizabeth said nothing. She was turning the idea around in her head. Yes, she thought, she could do it. Maybe tell Quentin that Carolyn needed her back in Paris. She and Julia could leave as soon as they were packed.
"Don't say no, Elizabeth. Your well-being is what needs to be considered. You're a grown woman. You don't have to be afraid of this place anymore."
Yes, she did, Elizabeth felt like arguing. Daphne didn't know what went on here. It was a dangerous place.
"And if Mr. Collins doesn't like it, I'll talk to him about it, say that it was my idea," Daphne replied. "Will you at least consider it?"
Elizabeth nodded, at first hesitantly, and then more forcefully. "Yes, I'll think about it."
Two
To say that David was adventurous, or even precocious, was an understatement. Collinwood and the Old House--where he was forbidden to go--as well as the various buildings on the estate, were a treasure trove to the active tot. His favorite place was the Old House, which no one had lived in going on two hundred years, since Joshua Collins closed it up all those years ago. Every authority figure told him never to go there, that it was dangerous due to the weak timbers. The fact that it was forbidden made it all that more attractive to him, and every time he could sneak away from the overly watchful gaze of Daphne, that is where he would head. The inevitable punishment was worth the few hours of play. It was of no consequence.
It was the portrait in the old drawing room that attracted him. It was of a beautiful young girl with brown ringlets and old-fashioned dress. Cobwebs graced it as they did everything else in the house. It did not diminish her beauty; it enhanced it and made her beauty more mysterious. Her name was Josette Collins, the wife of David's ancestor Barnabas, and she had died over two hundred years ago due to tragic circumstances. Barnabas, unable to cope with the death of his beautiful wife, perished by his own hand only a few years later, as a broken and bitter man. This was all in the Collins Family History, a large tome that resided in the Collinwood library. The great book was written by a Collins, and therefore dwelled little on the tragedies, but enhanced the good the family did to the point of exaggerration and raising members of the family to sainthood. It was mostly, if not all, lies, and had little basis in truth.
But David did not know this. All he knew was that he was lonely, and Josette talked to him.
"Josette!" he cried. "I'm here, like I promised."
The dust in the air and what little light filtered in gave the portrait and ethereal glow. But no response.
"You promised you'd talk to me if I came back!" he cried, his voice cracking.
He waited expectantly for a few more seconds, but Josette never came.
David left having no other reason to stay there. That Josette never came didn't overly disappoint him; he was used to disappointment.
Three
He tried to sneak back into the house, but he didn't make it. Daphne saw him sneaking up the old servants' stairs; that she knew all of his haunts after a month unnerved him, though he wouldn't admit to it.
"Where have you been, David?" she asked not unpleasantly. She even almost smiled, trying to open him up. He wouldn't give her the satisfaction.
"None of your business!" he yelled. He ran up the stairs before she could detain him further.
She wished that she could get through to him; there were moments when she could poke through
and see what a sweet kid he was. She smiled. He wouldn't like being called sweet, she was
sure--what little boy did? Daphne knew it had to be tough for him, with his mother dying so tragically
like that, and then his grief-stricken father running off to Europe shortly thereafter, leaving David in
the care of a relative and a relative stranger. He was lucky; he had one parent left, but that probably
didn't matter in the least. It was almost as if he were an orphan, just like her.
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