Rushbrooke End (Book 4)

Chapter 29

"Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart."

― William Wordsworth

Lilly spent the next few days doing her best to distract herself from the stinging feeling that was left after Luke's absence. She started to write in an attempt to pull her mind away from their arguments and his parting words. She was not going to admit aloud that she acted rudely and arrogantly and selfishly. Instead she wrote out her remorse in poetry and short stories, spending hours at the already crowded desk in her room, papers piling up around her in unorganized piles. Discarded ideas and and broken pen nibs filled the floorspace under her desk and her fingers were permanently stained with ink.

In space of three days she filled thirty-nine sheets of paper, back and front, with her small, cramped handwriting. She wrote and rewrote short stories and poems, her head becoming so full of her words it scarcely had space for anything else. She had become consumed by her writing, any thought that crossed her mind was transferred to the page and on the morning of the fourth day she sat at her desk, staring bleary eyed at the papers, her hand cramping, holding her pen loosely. The remnants of thoughts were swirling halfheartedly in her head and she couldn't bring herself to write them down. A single sentence seemed too much effort to her. She looked at the paper in front of her, the words scribbled out furiously. The wave of productivity she had experienced left her drained, unable to write a word more. She picked a paper up at random, snatches of sentences catching her eye:

'...was fleeting, for how could one so full of pride admit so quickly that they had made a grave mistake?'

'...departure had left her desolate, though it was his anger that had truly effected her.'

'...sorrier than she had ever been before.'

She crumpled the paper in her hand, letting her arm drop to her side as she stared out the window at the snowy gardens outside.

She wasn't sure how much of what she wrote was true, how many of the emotions conveyed in the words were her emotions, attributed to the characters she had created. She picked another paper up and started to read it, disappointed by her own words:

'William had left a week previously, carrying such cold fury in his eyes that Bessie believed he could never forgive her. She'd resisted the urge to follow him, to plead for his forgiveness, to show that she was sorry, beyond sorry, and that she missed him and would do anything to get him back. To tell him that she knew nothing she could say would possibly make him forgive her and she knew that, but she just wanted him to understand that she loved him dearly.

She did no such thing of course, too scared by the thought of rejection and more hurt. She'd stayed put in the top room of Doctor Nelson's home, weeping occasionally, spending most of the time staring into the fire, calmed by the flames. She had expected that after a while she'd forgive and forget and her heart would find some other prey to pine after. She didn't believe the fierce remorse and sorrow would last.

But it did.

It tormented her day and night and there was nothing she could do to rid herself of it. It consumed everything in her life and she could hardly make a move without being reminded of it.

She was so desperate that once a week had gone by she plucked up her nerve and went across to William's house, knocking firmly on the door.

It was opened by James and such a familiar face brought fresh tears to Bessie's eyes. She swallowed them down as best she could and offered up a smile.

"Good afternoon James, how are you?"

"Miss Elizabeth," James' expression was that of animosity and his eyes, the same shade of blue as William's, narrowed. "I expect you are here to see my cousin."