The Edge

I sat there before the flickering flames, laid upon the hearth on the lovely white sheep's wool rug which had been a wedding present from Michael's sister and I embraced the silence and peace. The room was only dimly lighted, I had chosen to have only the fire light and a few candles, enjoying the shadows which danced over the walls and furnishings. The curtains were drawn and the stillness was a blessed release.

I had heard the front doors open with the return of the men, I had heard voices from below as I lay on the floor and pressed my ear against the wood. I felt like a child again, hearing the adults dressing for dinner after I was supposed to be in bed. At supper time Anna had brought me a tray of food from the dining room which I picked at. She took it away an hour later and bad me good night.

I stayed beside the fire. The clocks were striking eleven. I had already heard my husband go into his new bedroom. Now the house was still and peaceful. The rain outside was a gentle drumming and I allowed myself to feel drugged and sleepy. Then there was a quick tapping at my chamber door.

I got up and went to it, opening it slightly. Stephen was outside. In one hand he had a tray balanced. He was in his trousers and shirt. I stood aside and let him in the locked the door again. As he went to the fire, I felt a rush of sudden nervous fright. What was I doing? Being alone with a man, a man who was not my husband, in my married room? At night and with a locked door between me and the rest of the house? I had to be mad. But when he put down his tray and looked up at me I felt my fears evaporate a little. A man with such truth in his eyes was not about to ravish me.

I sat beside him, not knowing quite what to do. He began speaking first, gesturing to the tray.

“I am afraid I raided your kitchen! I wanted to bring us a supper to have together. I haven't had dinner, I chose to work on the doll's house and so I am famished. Besides, I thought it might be fun to relive the nursery fireside days.”

so saying, he took off the cover and displayed a plate of slices bread, a pot of butter, some sliced meat, fruit and half a fruit pie. He took up the toasting fork from its place beside the fire in the irons bucket- it had never been used- and proceeded to toast the bread.

We feasted that night in from of the flames and talked of our child hoods, our family's, our education. He had been brought up in Scotland, in a good school in Edinburgh and then had gone to university in that city, studying Fine Arts and History. He had then taken a partnership with his father, following his long held enjoyment of restoring furniture and antiques. He was a skilled hunter, and enjoyed killing and hanging his own venison. He had a small estate just outside of London, in Surrey and so he knew well the areas I talked of. He was the youngest of six children, with four sisters- all of whom were married- and one brother, the eldest child who was a respected doctor back in Edinburgh with a wife and four children of his own. He had been close to his father, and to his mother who had died four years before. He had travelled in Europe for his work and to aid his study and described the architecture of Greece as being his favourite, he loved its ancient beauty and matchless carvings.

Beside him, I felt very dull. I had grown up in Surrey in the same house I was born in. My mother had three sons and I was the only daughter. My brothers were all older and so by the time I was able to play with them, they were all off at boarding school. I had been taught by private tutors as my mother doted on me, which I found suffocating. She had died when I was fifteen and my father had sent me to a finishing school in Paris for one year. I had loved the city and the school, the company of the other girls was a breath of fresh air. We travelled in Switzerland and throughout France and Italy, to culture ourselves and I had enjoyed the wide variety of life. I had begged to stay and extra year and my father had allowed it. When I finally returned to London after two years away I discovered why. He had remarried, a woman in her early twenties, and who had born him twin daughters only seven months after their marriage. My brothers had all gone to Cambridge, my eldest was a barrister, the second a priest and the third was finishing his studies as a doctor. There was little need for me at home and so when Michael proposed to me after meeting around five times at the homes of mutual friends, I had accepted. It had been a way to escape from my fathers house. I had come to Wales, and found it as much a prison- of sorts- as the one I had just left. Michael had married me because I was young, from a good family and I had inherited a prosperous farm from my mother which was situated in Kent. I was therefore wealthy, educated and pretty which was all he wanted in a wife. I had grown to be very fond of him after our marriage. We had little in common but what of that? Until the night before we had never quarrelled, nor even raised voices to each other. I had been bored but satisfied by my role as his wife, as James's mother.

At this point I looked up. He had been staring into the flames as I told him about my life. Now he met my eyes again. He shifted slightly and picking me up, put me into his lap. With our faces so close, it was easier to close my eyes. I felt his fingers drift over my nose, my closed eye lids, my lips and cheeks. He cupped my face in his hands and seemed as if he were trying to remember the very contours of my bones. Then he kissed me. Long and sweet. We were interrupted by the clock striking one. At the same time, I yawned. He smiled.

“We have talked long enough for tonight. We both have work to do tomorrow. We can talk more when we are at our work.”

He got up and pulled me to my feet. One more kiss then he went to the door. I found myself asking him why he wanted to talk so much. He smiled at me, a full smile this time, and said softly “Because you need a friend even more than you need a lover.” Then he went out.

I lay down on my bed. The room was lit by just the dim coals in the grate. I spread my limbs out and revelled in the space and softness of the bed, my bed, all to myself. I fell asleep thinking of Grecian ruins, of olive groves and of walking through them in the warm sun, with a breeze in my hair.

When I woke in the morning I felt wonderfully well. I had slept deeply and as an added happiness, there was an autumn sun streaming through the windows and over the valley. I dressed in a light gown in pale green with gold leaves embroidered over the bodice and skirt. I brushed my hair back into its customary plait and looked myself in the eye for the first time since Michael had touched me.

The bruises around my mouth had almost gone, the swelling had ceased. My left eye was still a little blackened but I dusted some powder over it and then left my room, satisfied that I looked more myself, had more colour than the past few days. I went downstairs and spoke with the cook, with Mrs Levin about household matters and then went up to the room where Stephen was already at work.

He was waiting for me. As I entered his eyes seemed to light up. Crossing to me he took my hand then came close and asked if anyone were in the passage. On hearing that there was no one, he smiled and drew me to the work bench where my painting materials were already set out. He seated himself beside me and took up his tools, carefully carving some new details onto the dining table. As I began to paint the new wall paper for the sitting room, he said casually

“I forget whether you said you knew much of the history of this piece? I remember you knew that your husband's great grandmother created it.”

I replied that I knew only that she had designed and built it, and that after her death it had been stored somewhat carelessly so that the original dolls had been lost. He nodded and said that I clearly hadn't looked hard enough. Reaching across the table he drew a clumsily wrapped bundle and brought forth a shabby looking doll. He handed it to me for inspection.

It was a male doll, in a black suit. The face was smiling, there was a small moustache over the mouth, the black eyes were cunningly drawn to seem pleasant. All together it was in exceptional condition and a real treasure. The clothes that it wore were beautifully made, a true copy of those worn at the time the doll would have been made. I commented on these points and asked where it had come from. Stephen smiled grimly.

“Inside one of those cupboards in the bedrooms, fitted inside. But that isn't the most remarkable thing. What is remarkable is the strange way that the head has been made. Look.” And taking it from me, he swivelled the head so that the hair piece moved. It twisted around to cover the face and reveal another face which had until that moment been covered. This was the same as the first in features, with the moustache still present but now the mouth was twisted in a snarl, the eyes were angry and cruel. A cunning hand had drawn and coloured that face to seem the opposite of its charming twin. I looked at Stephen, the doll still in my hands. He spoke.

“You see it? Clever hands made this. Clever hands were careful to hide the duel faces of this doll. And then to hide it in the cupboard. I found it crammed in, the doors forced upon it. If this old woman did craft all this then perhaps all the dolls were like this. Maybe it was her who hid this doll here. I haven't yet worked out whom it is supposed to be. I was hoping to look at the family portraits today, perhaps I will find some clues.”

I suddenly wanted to join him. A mystery made the day all the better! We descended to the ground floor of the house where most of the portraits were to be found. On our way I insisted on collecting my son, I had been too long apart from him and Stephen readily agreed, putting my little boy onto his shoulders and breaking into a run to make him squeal! We went through the dining room, the sitting room and the halls without success. We then scoured the hallways on the first and second floors without success. We took little James back to the nursery and then Stephen thought that perhaps we should check the library.

A gloomy room which I seldom entered, the library was mostly walled with books but in one small cabinet there were displayed miniatures of family members. I touched on a youthful one of my husband and of his sister, done when they were children. There were individual ones of my mother and father in law, and of their parents and siblings. Stephen saw the portrait we wanted first. It was of a young woman and her husband. The picture was labelled 'Richard and Elizabeth'. This had to be the creator of the doll's house! She was a petite beauty with the dark curls and dark eyes which Lady Rhiannon had described. She looked very innocent and very young. Her husband was far older. He was clearly the man that the doll was meant to represent. He looked around thirty five. The moustache, the strong nose and cheek bones, these were all there but the eyes were heavily lidded and the mouth had a twist to it, seemingly caused by a scar through the lips, which the moustache was clearly meant to hide. He sat behind his wife with his large hand on her shoulder.

We looked closely at the miniature then at each other. There was not enough detail in this small portrait.

“There must surely be another. Perhaps a larger one exists.”

I suddenly remembered what Rhiannon had said! That her husband used to have a miniature of Elizabeth. Perhaps he had one of his grandfather as well, and that could only be in his study. It was a room which no one, save my father in law, the butler and on occasion my husband ever entered. I kept my thought on this to myself and asked Stephen to keep our discovery of the doll to ourselves. He pressed my hand again in answer. He wished to go to the village that afternoon, he wanted to collect some packages from the post office. He would see if any local gossip could be discovered. I told him I would continue with the painting. At once he disappeared to fulfil his quest.

I waited in the library until I heard the bell ring for the servants luncheon. At this point I left the library and crept up the stairs to the first floor. Empty of life, the passageway yawned at me. My father in laws study was at the far end, along with his bedroom and dressing room. My mother in laws rooms were at the opposite end. I went quietly down to his study and tried the door. It was unlocked! Clearly Lord Llewellyn thought that no one would dare venture inside his sanctum and for all I had heard, no one ever had! I slunk inside and shut the door behind me.

Inside it was dark, the drapes were partly closed. The air was thick with last nights cigar smoke and there was a musty smell of stale air. On the two walls either side were shelves with books. In front of me, a large desk littered with papers. The shelves had a few pictures done, one of Lady Rhiannon and their children before her accident and one large portrait of Lady Rhiannon on horseback was on the back wall. She looked so strong and beautiful in it, it was hard to reconcile with the real flesh and blood woman down the hall. I examined the desk.

It was covered with piles of papers, letters and bills and receipts. I pushed these one way and another but had no idea where to look. Then I sighted a small locked drawer behind these. The key was in the lock. It turned and opened to show a large faded envelope which appeared to be filled with papers. I would have turned it aside except that there was written on it in an unfamiliar hand “Lady Elizabeth Llewellyn, medical notes.”

My heart started to beat faster. I clutched at the packet. There appeared to be a hard small mental object inside, smaller papers, this had to be all I wanted! But then I heard the sounds of people ascending the stairs. Without thinking I shut and locked the drawer, pushed the papers back against it so nothing would appear to have been touched and with the packet still pressed to my chest, left the room and ran up to my own bedchamber.

No one would disturb me in here. To make sure of it, I locked the door. Then I tipped the contents of the package out onto the bed. There was indeed a miniature portrait inside there! I perused it. This had been made thirty years or so after the first, the date was on the back. 1772. She would have been around 50 years of age then. This portrait was far more detailed. It showed her face closely. The years had been kind in a way. The child-like fairness and the dark curls had become ivory skin and white ringlets. The eyes were still dark but now they seemed sadder. There were lines around them and around the mouth which showed that she was unhappy, which pulled the face into a look of supremely sober inclination. It could also be the fault of the way she was wearing her hair, it was pulled back and away from the face with no curls dropping beside the cheek to give softness. It took me a moment to figure out why the hair looked so odd and then I realised. It had been cut short. All of the glorious long tresses of her youth had been sheared away in some manner. I realised then that the drawing had not been painted but pencilled. There were smears of graphite on the paper which must be of poor quality.

I unfastened the frame around it and took it out. It had been framed to show only the head and shoulders, in reality the drawing was larger and showed down to the waist and the chair on which the woman was seated. Her hands were in her lap, twisted in her lap! The fingers twined about each other, knotted like rope! And her dress! It was a plain white one, made high about the throat and was without embroidery or shape. It looked rather like a night gown or dress of a nun or penitent. I stared at the drawing of the woman. I stared for some time then turned it over again.

In the bottom left was written the date as I had said before but I had missed the letters below.

They said simply “Drawn by Dr P Young, September of 1772, in Saint John's Hospital for the Insane.”