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Heavenly Kingdoms - Chapter 7
From Margaret Playford to Caroline Playford, 16th of July, 1859.
Dear Caroline,
I hope you have received my last letter, as I will not be summarizing the content for context and will immediately begin my tale regarding Mr Charlston’s choleric distemper and the nightmare he presents to one who only wishes to care for him – like a dog in pain that lashes out to hands that wish to only express love. That evening at supper I found out where the old man had been sequestered away to by the piercing cry that sundered the peace and almost made me upend the table in fright. At first I forgot myself and thought it a wild beast roaming the house, and, perhaps as proof of a hidden bravery, found myself standing with a dinner knife in hand ready for some sort of martial combat.
It was then seeing that Anne was entirely unsurprised, exuding rather a resigned despair, that I knew the form of the beast that the cry had issued from. Mrs Cruikshank moved to leave the room but Anne motioned for her to stop, and evidently signaling without words, in a common language she and the servant share, that she would go herself. I for one was not about to let Anne go into the lair of the beast alone and insisted that I tag along, her initial dislike of this idea worn down by my truculence after much back and forth that I won’t trouble you with.
As we left the room and made down the hall, Anne, now no longer feeling it necessary to hide any details, explained to me how her father had been coaxed away from the fire and into Mrs Charlston’s old chamber. She had simply gone into her mother’s room and called her father’s name in as close a parody of her mother’s voice as she could muster, just loud enough for the old man to hear. Mr Charlston had heard; and, like a sleep walker, staggered down the hall, whimpering his lost wife’s name in an agony of hope - Anne leaving by a side door into an adjoining chamber before he arrived. There he had remained.
As to what he did upon finding the room empty and why he stayed knowing it did not contain the object of his desire, one could only guess. Perhaps he felt that the voice...
Dear Caroline,
I hope you have received my last letter, as I will not be summarizing the content for context and will immediately begin my tale regarding Mr Charlston’s choleric distemper and the nightmare he presents to one who only wishes to care for him – like a dog in pain that lashes out to hands that wish to only express love. That evening at supper I found out where the old man had been sequestered away to by the piercing cry that sundered the peace and almost made me upend the table in fright. At first I forgot myself and thought it a wild beast roaming the house, and, perhaps as proof of a hidden bravery, found myself standing with a dinner knife in hand ready for some sort of martial combat.
It was then seeing that Anne was entirely unsurprised, exuding rather a resigned despair, that I knew the form of the beast that the cry had issued from. Mrs Cruikshank moved to leave the room but Anne motioned for her to stop, and evidently signaling without words, in a common language she and the servant share, that she would go herself. I for one was not about to let Anne go into the lair of the beast alone and insisted that I tag along, her initial dislike of this idea worn down by my truculence after much back and forth that I won’t trouble you with.
As we left the room and made down the hall, Anne, now no longer feeling it necessary to hide any details, explained to me how her father had been coaxed away from the fire and into Mrs Charlston’s old chamber. She had simply gone into her mother’s room and called her father’s name in as close a parody of her mother’s voice as she could muster, just loud enough for the old man to hear. Mr Charlston had heard; and, like a sleep walker, staggered down the hall, whimpering his lost wife’s name in an agony of hope - Anne leaving by a side door into an adjoining chamber before he arrived. There he had remained.
As to what he did upon finding the room empty and why he stayed knowing it did not contain the object of his desire, one could only guess. Perhaps he felt that the voice...
