By Enid Cokinos
Lady Cavendish’s untimely passing had the manor house staff scurrying about, dispatching possessions hither and yon, as the family’s solicitor, Mr. Fielding, pinstriped and bespectacled, directed from his perch beside the library fireplace between sips of Earl Grey.
“Ah, yes, crate the heirloom china for Beatrix Von Ernstrom in Switzerland.”
“Deliver Lord Cavendish’s watch collection to the Victoria and Albert Museum straightaway.”
“The 1948 Rolls-Royce Silver Wraith goes to Sir Geoffrey Montague in Edinburgh.”
The assignment of possessions, along with the transfer of staff to various friends and family members’ households, seemed never-ending. Yet, there was no reference to my fate.
My greatest fear was ending up in cousin Rupert’s home. I still bear the scars from his unruly brood ramming their toy lorries into my fragile ankles. And those noisy tea parties between my legs! Snickering like lunatics as they smeared Jammie Dodgers raspberry filling in unmentionable places.
By week’s end, I was en route, presumably to the British Museum, or perchance the château of Lady Cavendish’s dearest friend, Verity Holland-Price. Either would be pleasurable.
A cacophony of vulgarities and the stench of rotting cod drew me from my ruminations.
“Oy! Get them crates loaded. Rich folks ‘cross the pond don’t take kindly to waiting.”
An unexpected turn of events, but undoubtedly, I was bound for a grand home in one of America’s historic cities.
After days at sea followed by motorized transport, I arrived at my new home. Or so I hoped. All the knocking about was quite vexing.
Two men wearing PACK ‘N’ STACK MOVERS t-shirts uncrated me beside the rubbish bins outside a dingy block of flats. Heathens. These deliverymen—an older, rather corpulent fellow, and his sidekick, all skin-and-bone and low-slung jeans—had no business moving a priceless antique. I feared for my safety as they bumped and banged their way up three rickety flights, before depositing me, in a most indelicate manner, in a shabby loft.
A kitchenette, futon, and café table with two mismatched chairs filled the room. Through the bathroom door, I spotted ladies’ sundries cluttering the counter. And, good heavens, the open toilet.
The Cavendish Manor library had been my home for over two-hundred years. Floor-to-ceiling oak bookcases filled with classic literature and poetry. Button-tufted leather wingback chairs by the fireplace. Footsteps hushed by hand-knotted Persian carpets; masterworks of silk and wool. Now, my elegant cabriole legs rested upon threadbare carpeting the color of day-old porridge.
What had I done to deserve this?
A woman, perhaps thirty years of age, in head-to-toe black, sporting garish purple hair and chipped blue nail polish, removed the envelope tied with a ribbon to a drawer handle. I immediately recognized the embossed cream-colored stationery and hoped she would convey its message aloud so I might understand my predicament. As if hearing my thoughts, she began:
“Dear Hazel,
“This desk has been in our family for generations and I could not bear leaving such an exquisite piece of history to just anyone. Although your visits to Cavendish Manor were few, Alistair and I so enjoyed our time with you. It was clear even at a young age, you are someone who sees the beauty in this world.”
Wait. This ridiculously clothed excuse of a would-be lady is that same five-year-old? A swirl of blond ringlets and frilly pinafores, who sat quietly paging through books on the Old Masters? It cannot possibly be.
But then, I notice canvases—cityscapes reminiscent of Hopper and Vermeer—leaning against the wall, an easel peeking from behind the futon. Hazel is pursuing her passion. Finally, an indication of refinement.
“Our relationship with our daughter became strained after she married your father, a man we neither respected nor trusted. Before we knew it, they had whisked you off to New York City and forbade us from contacting you. Alistair was always hopeful Elizabeth would come around, often saying, ‘Just give her time.’ But even after Victor ran off with her trust fund, pride would not allow Elizabeth to return to England, or accept our help.
“Please know that your grandfather and I wanted desperately to provide for you, and I deeply regret obeying Elizabeth’s wishes. However, with Alistair’s recent passing, and as I approach the end of my life, I must follow my heart and make things right.
“You may do with the desk as you choose, but I hope you will honour its place in the Cavendish history. All my love, Grandmother.”
The lack of information pertaining to the family riches made sense. Lady Cavendish smartly anticipated prying eyes, or worse: Victor intercepting the delivery.
Hazel studies me. Oh, dear. Is she contemplating how I would look distressed or decoupaged? Or what I might fetch on that dreadful internet thing? But her eyes are filled with admiration, not greed.
She kneels, inspecting the results of those buffoons’ careless handling, her fingers reverently tracing the nicks and scratches with the same inquisitiveness as when she was a child. I still recall that sweet cherub tracing pudgy fingers over my scrollwork, as if sensing the secret hidden within.
Will Hazel’s curiosity guide her to the compartment that holds the key to her inheritance? I pray so, because I shudder at the thought of remaining in this hovel.
“Hm. I’d say a bit of cleaning is in order.”
My cherry wood surfaces had only been polished with specially blended emollients—the scent of cedar, patchouli and beeswax notes still present—but I currently expect a wipe-down involving an aerosol can infused with the scent of lemons.
From a drawer beneath the two-burner stove, Hazel extracts a tea towel, surprisingly downy-soft, with which she caresses my surfaces, embellishment carvings, and brass filigree pulls. “I promise to take very good care of you.”
Upon reflection, I realize this living arrangement is not abysmal, per se. After all, Hazel appreciates art and beauty, and I am, of course, both. But more importantly, I will not live in fear of a band of boisterous barbarians wielding raspberry jam.
Enid Cokinos’ short fiction and creative non-fiction pieces appear in various online journals including Flying Island Literary Journal, Medium (formerly 1:1000), and Story Circle Network’s Anthologies. In addition, her plays have been performed across the United States, as well as placing in contests in the U.S., England, and Toronto. Enid is a member of the Indiana Playwrights Circle and the Indiana Writers Center. Visit her online at www.enidcokinos.com.
Academy of the Heart And Mind 