Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
Chapter Seven
•••
𝓣he grandfather clock in the staff hallway had always given Amelia a headache. It's incessant ticking during all hours of the day would remind her of just how much time had passed since her parents dumped her at Bentley Hall. She could still remember that night. The hushed speaking in the lounge, the maids rushing around, packing things and avoiding Amelia as she sat on the stairs, peering through the banister at them through the cracked French doors. She hadn't seen her Father cry into the phone before, but she could feel it in the air that this wasn't alike anything else that had happened. Her Mother was crying upstairs, but she had been doing that a lot during that time.
He swept her up and they left the house. She was so young. She remembered holding onto her Father's hand as they got out of their carriage, heading into the new building. It was dark, past midnight as they entered the place she would soon call home. The foyer was only lit by candles, and Madam Fields stood with a few foot maids, but everyone had cloths covering their face. She was ushered away by Madam Fields.
She waited for her Father to come back, but days turned into months and months turned into years. Soon she got old enough to understand what a girls' asylum was, and why she was there in the first place. Amelia had always held a lot of resentment for her parents.
Thinking back on it, Amelia couldn't even remember what her parents looked like. When she looked in the mirror, the question plagued her. Who did she most resemble? Were her dark eyes from her Mother, or her Father, or both? Who gave her the wavy, untamable hair? Who was adventurous, and who was calm? Who were her parents? Where did they work? Where did they live? And who wanted her gone?
Sometimes, when she was little, she would sit at the foot of one of the older girls beds to ask them questions about her parents, but they could never provide her any information she didn't already know. They would just give her a hug and comfort her when she cried, repeating the same prayers again and again. Over time, Amelia forgot her sorrows. She was a ward of Bentley Hall, of Headmistress Clarke. She would sit for daily prayer, do her chores with the other girls, and complete her studies under Madam Fields. She ate with everyone else, made her bed in the morning, and comforted the younger girls when they arrived, just like she did so long ago. She belonged there as much as anyone else. That was her home.
"Amelia, come in now," The soft voice of the headmistress called out to her, and she stood from her bench, shuffling into the office. It was quaint but crowded with memories: photos of her children and the orphanage children, awards, bursaries, and scholarships. The shelves behind her were full of books, floor to ceiling. Headmistress Clarke was an educated woman who wanted to do better in the world and wanted young ladies to follow in her footsteps.
