Rose Manor- Part 5

Emilia’s aunt’s house was not much to behold, she thought. But after having endured a miserable breakfast where the boys were quickly bustled out the door for school, much to their own distaste, Emilia had wandered around the house searching for any interest to occupy her. She had grown up in this house and it had always seemed just as boring and awful as it was now. Sighing, she slumped against the wall in the corridor leading to the bedrooms. She could vaguely remember something happening in this spot when she was little, but not for the life of her could she remember what. Urgh, I hate this town! She grumbled to herself. Her hatred had much to do with the infamous Victoria Black, and the old manor on the country lane, her traumatic memories would always dwell in the rotted timber of that house. She shuddered and pushed the thoughts to the back of her mind, filling them instead with her mother’s face when Emilia had told her that she had no intention of ever marrying or having children. The only guilt she had ever felt towards her mother, had been when she’d told her that.

A rogue tear had managed to force its way out and now trickled down Emilia’s warm cheek. She sighed again and her head rolled backwards to prop against her shoulders, in exhaustion, and her eyes caught sight on a small, square trap door on the ceiling.

She frowned, but her expression cleared as she slowly realised that this was what she had been subconsciously aiming to find.

Grumbling in protest at her measly jumps in attempt to reach the small length of cord rope that pulled down the door, she finally managed to grab hold of the end and tugged down hard.

Quickly, she got the door out the way in order to strain her arms to keep the heavy metal ladder from crushing her to the wood tiled floor, and carefully edged it toward the floor, propping it precariously against the edge of the trapdoor.

A deep breath and she clasped her hand around the first rung, continuing to climb to the top after taking several more deep breaths. When she did reach the top, she fumbled around the timbers above her head for the light switch and flicked it on. Everything suddenly flooded in light, and Emilia took a proper look at the attic and its contents. Rotting teddies, their stomachs spilling the cottony filling, lay crushed in damp cardboard boxes and split black bags; cracked dolls began to warble droningly at Emilia’s arrival; ancient books, their stained pages crisp and torn, stacked in boxes; carrier bags stuffed with rotten, holey clothes. All around her lay ancient, broken objects subject of cherish and sentiment- and others lay forgotten and dead to the rest of the house.

Side-stepping past cobwebs and random nails jutting out of the wooden planks, she spotted some blackened timber in the front right of the attic. Narrowing her eyes, she walked across to investigate, taking large un-rhythmic steps on her tip toes around heaps of bags and boxes and pyramids of other non-important objects. Reaching the blackened wood, she ran her hand down the rough splinters, it had left a charcoal mark across her palm. A frown on her puzzled face, she obliviously tucked her shoulder-length auburn hair behind her ringed ear and delicately rubbed her thumb across the charred wood. It had been burnt. She had no idea how long ago or when, but she knew decisively that this part of the house if not more had, at one point been on fire and rebuilt. Stretching across to see the other side of the thigh-thick rafter, she accidentally knocked down another cardboard box, cello taped unevenly as if in a rush. At first she paid no attention to it, but then curiosity began to dwell on her and she looked down on it. One corner was torn but provided no clue as to its contents, the cello tape covered the battered sides, ensuring it wouldn’t split. She bent down and peeled off the weathered parcel tape, revealing… a basket. A small wicker basket, mould growing on the cotton sheets tucked inside it. A large brown envelope was inside too, she picked it up, a frown still on her face, and tore it open. Removing four certificates, another smaller envelope, a hand-written family tree in fountain pen and five sepia photographs, she studied them carefully in interest. The first certificate was the birth certificate of John Richard Hugh Jr.- 14.04.1900, 08.09PM, the second was the birth certificate of Peter James Hugh- 24.10.1903, 03.45AM, the third was the legal adoption certificate that stated that Anne-Rose Black was the legal daughter of John and Wendy Hugh and the fourth was a death certificate of Peter James Hugh- 17.02.1908, died of fatal puncture wounds to the heart and lungs following manslaughter from stabbing of window glass after being smashed by attackers. The first photograph showed a young man proposing to an equally young woman in a luscious lawn of green grass and wildflowers and cherry blossoms, the second: a woman laid in a hospital bed with a newly born baby in her arms, a beautiful smile of pride illuminating her face, the third was of two young boys on separate swings in a park, being pushed by a grinning man and woman, the fourth was of an older boy holding the hands of a year or so old girl, as she took cautious steps and the last was of the man and woman- both considerably older- sat on a park bench beneath a browning willow with a teenage boy and a girl at least five years younger with auburn, shoulder-length hair under a pink lace bonnet. Emilia had never heard of or seen these people before, yet their faces were still hidden in her mother and aunt’s attic. She took out the folded letter in the smaller envelope and slowly read through the ink, now crusted with age:

           

To Whom It May Concern, this may be one of the hardest things I have ever had to do, abandon my only baby daughter to the mercy of the residents of Grenwich. Care for her, is my desperate plea to you, and never let her know of her true origin- which was of Victoria Rose Black. My babe can no longer hold her faith and hope upon me, for I can no longer bestow such luxury upon her. So please accept her and protect where I no longer could. Her name is Anne-Rose Black.

Yours, V. Black

Emilia’s heart skipped a beat.

And then began to race until it pounded in her ears, hammering the message she didn’t want to decipher into her brain.

She shook her head, because it couldn’t be true, it wasn’t true.

But as she unrolled the family tree, the delicate calligraphy mocked her disbelief as it proved it.

 “I- I can’t believe it,” she stuttered, the roll of crisp, browned paper falling from her hands and onto the floor. “No,” she denied. “No!”

She had put two and two together too late, and now its sudden appearance had almost winded her.

She was the direct descendant of the baby left on the street to die over one hundred years ago.

She was the direct descendant of the cruel, insane serial killer.

She was the direct descendant of Victoria Black.