Ekin was there with me, in the Victorian world, Ekin’s clothing glowed. It was as if she were a cutout overlapping an image of something not quite real. I wondered if this was how Jon saw me on those rare occasions that he sight. “Do you accept the responsibilities and hardships that this life offers?” Ekin asked me.
“What’s my mission?” I asked.
“You will not be privy to that,” Ekin said.
“Well, how am I supposed to accomplish something specific if I am not allowed to know what that specific thing is?” I asked.
“You said you wanted to demonstrate love, why not start with that?” Ekin asked.
“Hypothetically, if I were to say no?” I asked.
“Because of the nature of the conversation on the other side, this life will likely end,”
Ekin said.
“Which means a power shift will occur, and what, Effie will now be the subject of Lord Williamson’s abuse?” I asked. It didn’t have to be her. There were other people in his care that could be the subject. It could also cause him to find another paramour and start the cycle over.
Ollie was just trying to keep him in business and functional, because without his income, and the family inheritance, their lives would drastically change. She was banking everything on her husband, and had him very well insured. I noticed Ekin was not responding as I was thinking through my own logical pathways. Would Ollie actually kill her husband? Did she have a paramour for herself? How would that flip the scripts? How would it affect Keera? Effie! Not Keera. But now that I knew, how could I shake it? How could I saw no after all of this energy and all of these people watching from various perspectives.
“I accept,” I said.
There was thunder and I found myself drawn into Adelia’s body and was overcome by
sleep. When I awoke, Ollie was sitting there. My wrist was bandage. She was rocking, but when she saw my eyes open, she stopped her rocking and leaned in close.
“Good,” Ollie said. She might have been embarrassed if she had to call the Doctor.
“When you’re through feeling sorry for yourself, I expect you to get up, clean up, and join me in the parlor. Don’t dally.”
I had all the memories of putting on Victorian clothes, but none of the actual practice; I nearly gave up. The fact that I was groggy didn’t help, and feeling groggy sucks. Feeling impatient with myself sucks. Feeling irritated sucks. I was feeling all sorts of things, but trying to focus on the clothing. The clothing is peculiar and not fun at all when you have to go it alone. One starts with a chemise, which is an undergarment. It has a drawstring at the neck; it fell just below the knees, and was quite comfortable all by itself and I would have worn only this had I not feared making a scene. Beneath the chemise was drawers, open legged, with button on back side, and if you can’t figure out what the open legs meant, well, it was so a person could urinate without having to undo one’s whole attire, which quite frankly was still inefficient in terms of accommodating bodily functions when you consider the entire outfit wasn’t designed for convenience. How this fashion was tolerated past a century is mind boggling. The corset came next. I nearly called for help, but I finally got it in place and tied, and though I was okay with what it did to enhance my figure, I really didn’t need or want the enhancement. Then there was the corset cover, followed by a petticoat. Whoever had starched it had made it stiff enough it could stand on its own. We fought, I won, which meant, I was in it, if that’s what winning is. To get in the hoop skirt, I basically crawled under it and forced myself through the opening and fought it into place. After all of this hassle, finally I could put the dress on. It was a fine, silky white thing, with embroidered flowers, which was alright, but I was so put out by how much effort it took to get draped over the hoop, I no longer cared for it. I blew off the hat and proceeded down to the parlor. My hair, no, not my hair, Adelia’s hair, was a mess. I got the most peculiar fright when I past a mirror, thinking, who the fuck is that, then I remembered: I am not me. I pushed past, perhaps forgiving of the state of the hair because it wasn’t me. I found my way to the parlor.
Effie laughed. “Going somewhere?”
Effie was standing before mother. Mother was sitting on the edge of an armless chair, sipping tea. The chair legs were covered with cloth. Though mother was dressed more severe, she was not wearing a hoop. Her hair was balled up. Effie was transparent in her every day wear, a simple gray dress that buttoned at the neck and only hinted at her femininity. She was just as well-endowed in this life as her next. Mother sipped her tea, deciding it was best not to comment on my choice.
My body had an emotional response to the spoken and unspoken criticisms. You need to understand that I did not respond; my body reacted. I felt flushed, heat rising from my chest into my cheeks. This was a conditioned response that existed before I took over this body. My body nearly reacted verbally, but with a great deal of effort I suppressed it and initiated a new response. I surprised them both by hugging Effie. I held her tightly and whispered in her ear, but loud enough mother heard:
“I love you.”
Effie tolerated the hug only for a moment then extricated herself.
“What is wrong with you?” Effie asked.
“I have been insufferable and I wish to make amends,” I told her. I turned to mother. “I apologize for all the trouble I have caused the family and will endeavor to be more successful in all my future endeavors.”
“How many of those pills did you take?” mother asked.
“Too few, I suspect,” Effie said.
“Effie,” mother corrected.
“No, mother. How many times has she harmed herself now?” Effie asked. “In my
opinion, she should be committed to the asylum.”
“And when you run this house, I will consider your opinion,” mother said. She turned to me. “Though your declaration is pleasant to my ear, I will suspend responding until time reveals that you have put minimal effort forwards to achieving something with your life.”
A maid entered and said our piano instructor had arrived. Mother set her tea down and stood, asking that the instructor be shown in. I hugged mother.
“Adelia, I am very uncomfortable with this sudden display of affection,” mother said.
I saw Effie looking at me as if I were an alien.
Lady Ward entered and smiled to see me hugging mother. “Well, someone is in a good
mood,” Ward said.
“I hope it doesn’t affect her lesson,” mother said.
“I find a good mood improves memory,” Ward said. “Have you been practicing?”
“I have,” Effie said.
Effie took the seat at the harpsichord and began playing a piece by Bach. I think it was accurate, but I was more worried about how I would perform than critiquing her performance. I
had the knowledge, given to me by Adelia, and I am certain Jon had given me a musical download when he was providing preferred attributes, but I couldn’t specifically recall performing, much less practicing. And, I don’t believe it is actually necessary. I have heard of people who have never touched an instrument that after a stroke suddenly had the ability to play better than someone who had practiced for sixty years. I am curious how they knew to even sit down at a piano long enough to discover, unless, that too, was a compulsion that was sparked by the brain change. Witnessing such a thing could make you wonder where things came from. Who knows, maybe those folks arrived at Safe Haven for healing, but lingered long enough to acquire the ability to play, and when they returned, they simply had the ability.
When I sat down for my turn, I was hesitant. Effie told me to stop being fearful and get it on. I put my fingers on the keys and began to play the piece just rendered by my sister. It was anemic at first, but I quickly found confidence and before I knew it, I was so absorbed in my memory of this, coupled with the present playing, coupled with improving it, as if I knew what it should be compared to what it had been, and there was this flash that blended the three perspective and I was no long playing the idea but the ideal. You would think Bach wouldn’t make people cry. On completing the piece, I found Ward shedding tears. Effie was angry.
Mother was confounded.
“I don’t believe I can teach you further,” Ward said. She turned to my mother. “Her
ability has surpassed mine. I could recommend an instructor if you wish to pursue this talent to a greater proficiency, but quite frankly, she could be performing.”
“Let me think about it,” mother said. “Adelia, you’re dismissed. Go change, and find something useful to do. You may continue with Effie.”
“I am through,” Effie said.
I was departing the room, not sure if I should be pleased or concerned.
“If your half-sister can get this, you can get this,” mother was saying.
I left the room, wondering if I had just caused more trouble than warranted. I went to my room, extricated myself from the formal wear, which was just as arduous as putting it on, and my impatience with the thing made it all the worse. I felt like a cat trying to extricate myself from a tight space. I had to force myself to slow down, focus. Dressing magically is so much easier. I dressed in something more common, proceeded down to the kitchen in order to be useful. The staff chased me out. One of them accused me of being manipulative and not genuinely interested
in helping, while another suspected I was just being maliciously contemptuous of their station. I went outside and made my way to the stables. I found the company of horses more enjoyable than people.
निनमित
Family dinner came, and it was an ordeal. Theodore was protesting being sent off to school.
Effie was still sulking about the music lesson, and completely ignoring the fact mother and father were actively discussing her future arranged marriage. One of the staff who was serving kept eyeing me as if I were a stranger. I think she was mad that no one else seemed concerned by my inexplicable presence. I was more interested in the fact that mother was constantly refilling father’s wine glass. I managed to go through the whole dinner without so much as a word. Adelia would have been upset that no one cared that she had just tried to kill herself.
The meal was finished, we kids were dismissed. Mother and father continued their
conversation, even as father was beginning to make less sense.
I offered to brush Effie’s hair, she declined. I checked on Theodore and asked if he would like a story before bed and he said he was big enough to read his own stories. I hugged him and agreed, he was much bigger. He shrugged me off and told me to leave him, in a very ‘lordly’
fashion. I retired to my room. I could have read under an oil lamp, but instead I sat in my bed, lotus pose, meditating. My drapes were open and I could see Venus. It was the brightest object in the night sky, and I found it pleasant to have it so framed in my bedroom.
I listened to the sounds of the house as it wound down. I heard the ring of urine hitting a piss pot in the room next door. That would have been Effie. I heard dogs barking outside. They were probably chasing a rabbit. I heard what I thought was the last door to close. In my mind, I sought all the players in the house, trying to understand the dynamics. Father was downstairs in his study. He may have actually dozed. Mother was in her room brushing out her hair, by herself.
Eventually, everyone was asleep but me. I was not tired. Was it the change in time zone? I chuckled at the thought. I had left more than a time zone. How far in space and time had I traveled to arrive here?
And this is the place we have to discuss something serious. It needs to be discussed. Just because I took over, didn’t mean I had more magic and more abilities than anyone else. When the dream or whatever it was caused father to stir, whether he was full awake or not, whether he
was consciously choosing his actions or not, he came to my room. It was kind of creepy. You can hear the floors creek. He came in darkness. He came slowly, probably hoping to find me asleep so he could do his business and retreat without too much fuss. I had the memories of him lingering over Adelia’s body, now my body, now my memories. Sometimes, it would just be him watching. Sometimes, the memories found him lightly brushing this body’s hair. Sometimes Adelia would wake and be startled and his hand would go to her mouth and he would tell her to be quiet.
It is not my job here to sway you into believing a certain thing. I don’t want to move your opinion on the subject, or tell you how to feel about the people who abuse children. I would ask that you strive for clarity. I had clarity, and it was the only thing I had that Adelia didn’t have.
When I saw Lord Williamson in my room, my eyes having adjusted to the room in pale
moonlight, I saw him not as the man, but as the child he was when his own abuse started. It was perpetrated on him by his father’s brother. His father had been unsuccessful and applied to his brother for help, and part of the payment, unspoken of course, was his brother took liberties with his family. Usually victims of abuse have more than one abusers, and though was instigated by the uncle, there was another victim in the mix which only further complicated the situation. The uncle enlisted his own daughter and had them play sexual games for his amusement. The uncle’s daughter had already been well groomed into her situation, but for young Williamson, who liked his cousin, it came with more than just confusion. There was shame, there was fear, and there was pleasure. If you don’t think a young male or female can’t experience pleasure, then you’re not paying attention. He was compelled not to speak of it, and there was serious fear that if he did, his father would be turned out on the street, along with his mother and sister, and so there was good reason not to tell. He was a ‘man’ protecting his family. When you add society’s disdain for sex, for sexual appetites, and definitely a hatred for any sexual abuse, you now have a recipe for lifetime shame and fear which perpetuates itself and the activity that in need of repressing. If a person doesn’t have an appropriate way to release inner pressures, they will only employ repression, which will get you down the road, but eventually either the pressure becomes too great and a behavior occurs, or situations occur in which the person will take liberties.
I am not passing blame on any of the players, but there were other players involved in this. Lord Williamson wife didn’t love her husband. Maybe she did at once, but the marriage was more about her position in society and her desire to run a house. She ran her husband the way she
ran her staff, and applying alcohol gave her some control. It also decreased his ability to resist his inner urges. At some point, a threshold was met where the inner six year old took over his body. And this is the truth about trauma. A person tends to get stuck at the age when the trauma was initiated.
In an ideal world, trauma and abuses don’t happen. In the world next step down, people are aware that abuse and trauma happen, but they allow pathways to short circuit its continuance.
If people were allowed to discuss Lord William’s activities, without threat of locking him up or killing him, they would find ways to allow him to never be alone with a child. One person, in a nuclear family couldn’t do this, because everyone has to eventually sleep, and a person blocked will tend not to sleep or sleep as well until that inner urged has been quenched. It is the engagement of the urge that perpetuates the cycle, because the shame and self-disgust immediately go back into repression of the urge, which puts them on a trajectory towards the next incident. A commune, or a group home, allows people to work in shifts.
Lord Williamson was not an evil man. He wasn’t violent. He didn’t beat his wife, or his children. He absolutely took liberties with Adelia. He frequently chose to get his fix by visiting a prostitute, but since Adelia’s mother’s death, he had not taken that pathway. And, it wasn’t a guarantee that his abuse of Adelia wouldn’t still happen. He could have all the sex he wanted, dozens of prostitutes, and even his wife, and there would still be this predilection, and it was because he was initiated into sex at age six with complex social and emotional binds.
He came to my room. It was no longer Adelia’s room. It was no longer Adelia’s body. It was no longer Adelia’s problem. It was mine. I knew this was coming. I could have packed up my bags and left. I could have just left. I am a smart girl and I would have survived Victorian era London. That pathway would not change Lord Williamson or help his family. My absence just meant he would find another victim. Perhaps a member of the staff. No one would support the staff, legally. No allegations from staff would be believed, and the accuser would be severely punished to teach other workers in society not to speak up. Lady Williamson would deny it and vouch that he was her the whole night. The staff would pressure the victim to keep quiet, don’t ruin their good thing, because most of their lives here were pleasant, and finding another place to work was too difficult. Some of them lived on site, and so finding new work also meant finding a new place to stay, and people would ask questions, like why did you leave Lord Williamson’s employment. If you speak badly about a Lord, you don’t get hired. You’re considered a
malcontent and contemptible. Even if they believed you, they would not hire you. That means, you’re forced to lie. If you’re a good liar, they might hire you, but then you have only added to the social structure that we don’t talk about sex and we don’t talk about abuse.
I could kill Lord Williamson. I had the strength, the knowledge, and the ability. In his present state, he was a drunk man at best, a six year old child at worse. I could fight him, seriously injure him, and make him think twice about harming me ever again, which again either results in him finding a new victim, or escalating his attack, or plotting to take greater advantage of me through opportunity or drugs. It was better to kill him than injure him. But Effie, Theodore, they would never understand or believe I was abused. This would polarize them against me. I would likely be hung as a murderer, even if the majority of the legal force believed me. They couldn’t allow for all the abused rebelling and killing their abusers. The family would be affected in that there would be loss of status. I would have no sympathy from Lady Williamson.
Even Adelia loved her father and did not want him dead. You may find that strange, but it also part of the confusing aspect when you’re abused by a parent. Kids love their parents. They don’t love the abuse, but they still have love. Maybe that is Stockholm’s syndrome. You have to love your abuser in order to survive. I appreciate that argument, but then I submit to you, all children love their parents due to Stockholm syndrome due to the significant power differential.
You will never experience true love from your offspring until they are adults. Even asking a child if they love you is not only manipulative of their emotional being, but it is more about you and your need to be loved, than the wellbeing of the child. I mean, seriously, how can a child respond to “do you love me?” How is that question not a trap? If they say they don’t love you, there is a risk of penalty. Less food. Less toys. No ice-cream. A no response could results in some serious power plays by the adults to win the child’s affection, or, it results in flat out bitterness and abuse, as the parent withdraws their emotions, “well if you don’t love me, see if you can get better elsewhere.” That in itself typically results in initiating future sexual abuse.
Anytime a parent’s affection is tied to a behavior or a belief, and the child refuses to play the emotional game, an inner schism is secured in which the child will seek affection and nurture anyway it can, even by force. And the more a person forces, the less love and affection they get, which exasperates the condition. Incarcerating a person doesn’t cure the person, it simply
suspends the situation until the end of the incarceration, and exasperates the need: to be accepted and loved.
I tell you all of this, not to tell you how you should respond. I tell you this not to justify my response. I tell you this so that you can understand that I have clarity, and I that I am making a purposeful choice to love and ease suffering. There was no way Adelia could ease his suffering because she was too caught up in her own pain and misery, confounded by her view of herself through a social lens. I have no stigma about sex. People engage in sex for many reasons. Some for love. Many for lust. Some for power. Most use it as a currency for trade. It can even be a combination. Few people give sex freely, because that, too, can come with a social cost. And this is not just a man thing. This a human thing. There would not be a prevalence of mother son, mother daughter, step mother son, step mother daughter, and father daughter and step father daughter porn if this was not something lurking in our brains. It’s the things we don’t discuss that get perpetuated.
Lord Williamson hovered over me, a little confused that I wasn’t asleep.
“You’re awake,” he whispered.
“I am,” I said.
He considered it. “Are you okay?” He was never an evil man. He just had this thing.
“Yes, thank you for asking,” I said. “And you?”
He sat down on my bed. He was seriously confused. This was not the script. I sat closer to him, put my arm around his back, a side hug.
“It’s okay, father,” I said. “I love you.”
Lord Williamson began to cry. He held his hands against his face and cried. He sobbed. I anticipated the whole house coming to see what was wrong. If anyone heard, no one said anything, but from this point forward, there was a change in the house. I did not cure him of his predilection, but he could no longer engage me because it was clear, I loved him and I was deserving of his protection. The six year old him wanted to protect me from the older, more lecherous him. And the truth was, I didn’t need or want protection. I was more than willing to proceed with an act of sex to accommodate him. Had this been a more violent man, maybe it would have ended differently. There were all kinds of maybes. I didn’t focus on what could have been, only what was. I pulled him to me until his head was on my shoulder, which was awkward because he was a large man.
When he finished, and his breathing had calmed, his mouth too close to my neck, he sat up, kissed my forehead and stood to leave.
“We should go downstairs and have some coffee together,” I said.
“When did you start drinking coffee?” he asked.
“Tonight,” I said.
“We might wake the staff,” he said.
“Maybe,” I said. “But, maybe people should be awake when the master of house is
awake.”
So we went down stairs and I discovered he was a complete imbecile when it came to
preparing food or drink, and so I made coffee and I made us a sandwich which I cut in half and we each had half. It was pretty thick sandwich, with thick slices of ham. It didn’t occur to me that sandwiches weren’t a thing and so he looked at the meal oddly, but found it agreeable, and so said nothing. We were indeed found by staff and mother, both coming to investigate with their own candles.
“What the devil is going on here?” mother asked.
“We’re having a bit of a snack and coffee,” I said, for father wasn’t sure what to say.
“Would you like to join us?”
“I would not,” mother said. “It is time for sensible people to be asleep.”
“I am finding it difficult to sleep tonight,” father said.
“Perhaps because you are drinking coffee?” the staff asked.
“Perhaps,” he agreed. “However, the restlessness began before the application of coffee. I would like you to join us, Ollie, but if you prefer, you may retire to your chamber, and I will come visit you shortly.”
“Visit?” mother asked.
“Yes,” father said. “I want to speak with you.”
“Is it so urgent that it can’t wait till morning?” mother asked.
“Aren’t you the one who has warned against procrastinating?” father asked.
Mother was at a loss for words. She looked at me as if I had instigated something. I gave the subtlest of smiles, one that suggested innocence. I had no clue what their conversation was to be about, but I was hopeful for it being about one thing.
So the next day, I found myself back in the kitchen, wanting to help. Saddie, one of the staff that was 15 years old, was stirring the pot. I asked if there was something I could do and she reminded me that Mary wouldn’t want me in her kitchen. I told her I knew, and we struck up a conversation, and before I knew it I was tasting the soup and adding spices, and we went on talking. The smell of the soup was clearly altered and we both tasted it. We were pleasantly surprised by its improvement. That’s went Mary walked in.
“What are you doing in my kitchen?” she asked, setting the eggs down.
“Just wanting to help,” I said.
Mary could smell the difference, and went straight way to tasting. She blushed. With some effort and cloth pan holders, she took the stew outside and dumped it straight way. The dogs fell on it. She put the pot on the work table, took me by the hair, and led me straight to the parlor where mother was entertaining a guest. I went without protest, as she really had a good lock on my hair. I would have gone with her even if she hadn’t taken me by force. Saddie seemed sad, but kept it to herself. I tried to smile at her, but was carried out too fast to make good eye contact.
“I must insist you keep this witch out of my kitchen,” Mary said.
“Mary, what is going on?” mother asked.
“Lunch will be significantly delayed, due to her interference,” Mary said.
“Let go of her hair, Mary,” Mother said.
“I swear, there is a devil in her, and you would be wise to go fetch the Bishop to come exercise it out of her,” Mary said.
“Please explain what you were doing in the kitchen,” mother said.
“I was trying to be of helpful,” I said.
“She added something to the stew and made it unfit for consumption,” Mary said.
“It tasted alright to me,” I said.
“May I sample it?” Mother asked.
“The dogs ate it,” Mary said. “We’ll be lucky if it doesn’t kill the lot of them.”
“And, who taught you to cook, Adelia?” mother asked.
“No one. I just made some assumptions,” I said. “Call it an experiment.”
“You are your father’s child, not mine. It is completely on my good graces that I continue to suffer your presence here. I will not have you experimenting on my family,” mother said.
“If I am not permitted to explore and experiment, how will I ever find my way to serve?”
I asked. “Perhaps I could run a soup kitchen for profit.”
“Yes, definitely your father’s child. There is no profit in feeding the poor,” mother said.
“And if you continue with this insolence, I will never be able to find you a proper husband.”
“And if I don’t wish to have a husband?” I asked.
“It doesn’t matte