Athenia's Choice (ON HOLD)

Athenia's Choice: Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven

As Cordelia’s screams were heard throughout the room, I knew this was entirely my fault. Ida was sobbing her heart out, comforted by Charles, whose face had creased into a pained expression. He reached out to draw his sister into a hug. They clutched each other tightly, spilling tears for the person I had killed.

I had killed him! The shock was sinking in and my whole body was frozen. I went in search of a blanket because I needed to cover Henry’s body, as his still eyes were haunting me. I was shaking; I was a murderer. That was the most awful choice I had ever made. If I hadn’t sneaked away to see the Queen and met Charles, Henry Beaumont would still be alive.

“What shall I fetch?” I asked croakily, as Ida looked up, seemingly powerless and shrunken.

“The local doctor,” Ida instructed weakly, sagging, clutching onto Charles. I nodded, glad to go away to the other side of town where the doctor’s was, so the Beaumonts could spend some valuable time together and Henry’s expression of pain wouldn’t haunt me.

The doctor was very sympathetic when I blurted the sorry story out to him, promising to try and win round the apothecary, but he was uncertain if he would press charges against me for stealing the medicine. Charges- Court- Prison- I let out a moan.

The doctor was a kindly old soul, with twinkling eyes and a bald head, trying to convince me I was utterly not a murderer, but in my heart, I knew I was. We walked back to the Beaumont household, and I tried to remain calm when he asked me my name, because I was on the run I could not reveal my true identity.

“Miss Thena Brown ,” I mumbled (which was a shortened version of Athenia). Mama had given me my name because her grandfather had taken his honeymoon in Athens, where the name Athenia presumably originates. When I thought of Athens, I imagined golden beaches, endless laughter, and clear skies, not the miserable dreary Sussex I was accustomed to.

*****

When we got back to Ida’s equally dull and dusty house, she cried out fearfully:

"Who’s there?" As I rapped on the door knocker, I felt bad for her that she was so badly worried when it was my fault.

“It’s only me, with the doctor,” I called back reassuringly. Charles opened the door for us. His face was covered in tear-stains, which he hastily tried to wipe away. My face fell immediately into a sympathetic look that someone so strong had been so emotionally and physically scarred. My belief had always been that men don’t cry. I had certainly never seen my I’m-so-wonderful-father cry.

After a few minutes, in which the doctor examined Mr Beaumont, he confirmed that he had indeed died within the last hour. Before the doctor could state what of, Ida burst into another choking sob. Unable to bear this sorry scene anymore, with all this guilt poisoning my body, I decided to find something adequate to pen a small letter to Ida’s parents, which I had offered  to do after both Cordelia and Charles' refusals.

From the pen of  Mrs Ida Beaumont’s new maid, I would like to inform you of the sad loss of Ida’s husband,Mr Henry John Beaumont. I hope you could support her during this emotional time and that this letter reaches you safely. Sincerely, Miss Thena Brown.

Ida had my Great-Auntie Charlotte’s address on a card in her drawer, so I found a slightly musty envelope to write it on. The doctor offered to ensure it was sent whilst on his way to the undertakers. He refused to accept my last two farthings, and I wished now I could give them back to Rosemary’s struggling family; I was just so selfish.

As soon as he was off, Ida broke into noisy tears again, supporting herself on the battered sofa, running her hand through her greasy brown hair. Cordelia was staring at the covered-up body of her father, fiddling with her doll’s poorly stitched clothes.

“However am I to pay for this? I always thought Henry would die from his fondness of drink...” Ida wailed, to which I assumed she was talking about the funeral. They were really quite poor. If only I could go home and steal some money from my comfortable, prosperous family, but that was not an option. I could not abandon this broken family.

“Mother, I’m sure you’ll find something,” Charles responded unconvincingly.

“We shall have to live with whatever is in the cupboards, then!” Ida snapped miserably. Cordelia had her hands over her ears, eyes darting, lips trembling, teeth chattering as an unwanted breeze pushed through the windows and lifted up the patchwork curtains. I went over and swallowed her up in a enormous hug- it was the least I could do.

The undertaker arranged the funeral for four days away: it would be a pauper’s funeral. The word pauper stung the Beaumont’s pride. Ida’s sobbing became more intensely sorrowful as the undertakers carried Mr Beaumont out on a linen stretcher, and the townsfolk gathered round, gossiping, watching the family fall apart.

They should've been laughing at me, delving into my heart and ripping my life apart- not the Beaumonts. At least I would've had some satisfaction, pure punishment. I didn’t blame them if they thought it was my fault.

*****

Later, we all sat in silence. The pathetic fire had died out. Charles stared constantly at the threadbare carpet. Cordelia shakily sipped water out of a chipped glass. I didn’t know what to say. CHINK!

Cordelia’s glass smashed into tiny little shards, resembling her family. Her hands began to tremble, and inside I trembled too, aware of the mess this had all become and the isolation and fear I felt inside.

“Don’t worry, I’ll clean it up,” I muttered. Ida and Charles looked up, as if they hadn’t remembered I was there, watching their pain. I wanted pain, as I picked up the shards, I so wanted to satisfy myself by digging deep as if finding the underlying cause of my murderous traits. My hands were bleeding more heavily than ever as I emptied the glass outside and I liked the way I was punishing myself for wounding, scarring them all.

Suddenly, there was a bang on the front door; I rushed to open it. The question was fired immediately by the angry man in front of me:

“You stole the cough medicine, did you not, you little thief?” I gasped as the fuming apothecary towered over me, fat face fully red and blazing. Stirring inside me was the unknown, the burden of being caught, the relish in getting pay back for hurting Charles and his family.  The relish of pain; deep pain. I had already confessed to the doctor, so was there any point in lying? Fear started pumping slowly into me.

“Yes, I did, sir…” I whispered, shame-faced.

“Henry Beaumont is now dead,” the apothecary’s lip curled, “You, girl, are a vicious murderer!” My knees began to tremble; my eyes began to flare with worry.

“Don’t even think about running away. I’m going to report you to the constabulary.  No, don’t blink like an idiot. The police! Prison! Stocks! Hanging!” Nausea gripped me; my worst nightmares were going to come true…