Chapter 235: Chapter Two Hundred And Thirty Five
Anne sat at the ornate vanity in the beautiful, sunlit room but she did not see her own reflection. Instead, her mind was a chaotic collection of voices, a torment of conflicting truths that had been echoing in her head since the day her mother was arrested. She stared at the pale, haunted face in the mirror, pondering the words that had torn her world apart.
Henry’s voice, weak but certain: "Anne is not my daughter."
Fredrick Garrison’s voice, smug and unsettling: "You know, you look a lot like me."
Her grandfather Edgar’s voice, full of a sad, weary truth: "Your mother was with him before she was arranged to marry my Henry."
And Delia’s voice, calm and cutting: "You should know by now, all your mother knows how to do is lie. She told me all my life that I’m fake and you’re real."
I’m fake and you’re real. The words twisted in her gut. For her entire life, the opposite had been the central truth of her existence, the bedrock on which her identity was built. She could hear her own mother’s voice now, the same words that had been chanted to her like a lullaby since the day she was born.
"Anne, you are the real one. Delia is the fake."
The voice in her head was relentless.
Anne, you’re real. Delia is fake. Delia is fake, you are real. You are real. You are real.
She was trembling now, a violent shudder that started in her hands and spread through her entire body. She clutched her head, her fingers digging into her scalp, scattering the pins from her elegant hairstyle. She tried to block out the noise, the chaos, the voices of lies and truths that were screaming in her mind.
"No," she whimpered, rocking back and forth on the small velvet stool. "No, no, no..." Her whisper grew into a desperate cry, a raw, ragged scream of a soul in torment. She shot up from the stool and, with one wild, sweeping motion of her arm, sent everything on the vanity crashing to the floor.
Silver-backed brushes, crystal perfume bottles, delicate porcelain pots of cream—they all shattered on the polished wood, the sound a violent, discordant symphony. The air filled with the mixed, cloying scents of a dozen expensive perfumes.
"It can’t be!" she screamed at the empty room, at her own fractured reflection in the mirror. "It can’t be true!"
She stood there in the middle of the wreckage, breathing erratically, her chest heaving. And then, through the haze of her panic, another voice came to her. Her grandfather’s. It was not an accusation, but a suggestion, a path.
"Go to the manor. Go to her room. You can go there now that she is gone. Search it. Check to see if you can find something that might help you understand."
A new purpose seized her. She wasn’t looking for the truth. No, she was looking for proof that the truth she had always known was the right one.
"I’m just going to double-check," she said to her wild-eyed reflection, her voice a strange, high-pitched whisper. "I’m just going to find the proof that it’s not true."
She left the manor in that state, a woman on the verge of madness. Her hair was in disarray, her eyes were wide with a frantic light, and she didn’t even notice the beautiful new dress Philip had bought for her. One of the maids, seeing her rush toward the entrance hall, called out in concern.
"Are you alright, my lady?"
But Anne just walked past her as if she weren’t there. She burst out into the courtyard where a carriage was waiting. "To Ellington Manor," she commanded the driver, her voice sharp and breathless as she climbed inside.
The driver looked at her disheveled appearance, a flicker of fear in his eyes, but he knew better than to question a command. He climbed into the driver’s box, flicked the reins, and the horses surged forward, carrying her back to the source of all her pain.
~ ••••• ~
Anne entered the Ellington Manor like a storm. Mrs. Doris tried to stop her at the entrance. "My lady, you cannot just..."
But Anne didn’t pay her any heed. She pushed past the woman and ran up the grand staircase, her destination clear. She went straight to Augusta’s bedroom. She threw open the door and began to search.
She didn’t know what she was looking for, but she was looking for something, anything, a letter, a diary, a document that would tell her that she’s real, that Delia was the fake, that her life was not a lie.
She pulled open every drawer, her mother’s fine silks and laces spilling onto the floor. She swept books from the bookshelves, their pages fluttering as they fell. She was looking for an absence of proof, a confirmation in the silence.
Then, she saw it. Tucked away in a hidden compartment behind the large vanity mirror, was a small, leather-bound box. Inside was a stash of letters. They looked old and fragile, and their edges were charred and blackened, as if someone had tried to burn them, but they were rescued from the flames at the last second.
Anne brought them out, her hands shaking. They were six in number. With a feeling of cold dread, she sank to the floor amidst the chaos she had created and began to read them one after the other, her eyes ignoring the burnt spaces and focusing on the faded, masculine script.
The first letter was short. "I’m coming to see our girl. She must be getting so big now."
The second was filled with a father’s love. "She looks so beautiful and precious, Augusta. She has your smile, but my eyes."
The third was a desperate plea. "Augusta, come back to me. Forget this foolish plan, forget this ambition. Let’s be a family, the three of us, with our daughter."
And the fourth, its edges more heavily burnt, was a threat. "I will not let you do this. I will not let you pass my child off as another man’s. I will expose the truth to the Baron. I want my daughter."
They were all signed with the same name. Fredrick Garrison.
The letters fell from her numb fingers and scattered on the floor. The truth, in his own handwriting, was undeniable. It was not Delia’s lie. It was not Henry’s madness. It was the simple, terrible truth. Fredrick Garrison was her father. Her entire life was all a lie.
She just curled up there on the floor, amidst the wreckage of her mother’s room and the ashes of her own life. Her body began to shudder with deep, silent, soul-crushing sobs.
She didn’t know how long she had been crying when she heard a voice from the doorway.
"What should we do with her, My Lord?" a guard asked, his voice a low, respectful murmur. He stood at the entrance to Augusta’s room, looking down at the broken girl on the floor.
Anne looked up through her tear-blurred vision. Henry was there, sitting in his wheelchair, his face full of a sad, quiet pity. The butler stood behind him.
Henry looked at Anne, curled up on the floor, her heart and her world completely shattered. He answered the guard, his voice soft and full of a surprising, loving grace. "Nothing," he said. "Let her be."
With that, he gave a small nod to the butler, who turned the wheelchair around. They left, leaving Anne alone with the terrible, liberating truth, to grieve for the life that wasn’t hers.