Chapter 10
When Mrs Lincombe had made this revelation in her raw, gravelly voice, Anne did not let out a cry of shock. She did not experience a wave of faintness, or the common hysteria normally occurring in females after a life-changing statement had just been made to them. Her breath did not even catch in her throat. She merely gave a soft, almost inaudible murmur and leant back in her chair, looking into the fireplace.
Anne eventually broke the silence by slowly getting up from the armchair and nudging the kindling in the fire with a poker. A spark leapt up and caught Anne on her small white hand before descending back into the fireplace, a golden snowflake. In time, the fire’s crackling silhouette shuddered and the glow of the fire dulled, paled then began to dim. Before the last ember had died, Anne spoke.
“Why did you not tell me, Mother?” she asked in a perturbed voice concealed with a facade of steadiness.
Mrs Lincombe looked up wearily from her perspiring repose. “I...I am not quite sure of the reason myself, child.”
Anne stared at the cameo glazed into her old enamel brooch. “So these...these are my parents? You are quite sure?” Though Anne did not need an answer, as she was long past her suspicion that Mrs Lincombe was afflicted with delirium.
“Quite sure.”
“Did you know them?” Anne could no longer pretend that she was composed; her voice cracked mid-speech and she thrust her hands up into her hair with agitation.
“No,” Mrs Lincombe said sadly. “No, I’m afraid I didn’t.”
“Then how did you –”
“I know,” Mrs Lincombe sighed inaudibly, “I know, I owe you an explanation. You see, Anne, me late husband – who ye’ll know as yer father - adopted you. Well, not adopted in the legal sense of the word. ‘E brought ye home straight after ‘is business travels in th’East, without much explanation as to ‘ow he obtained yer.
"I...I didn’t question him much in the matter, and ye were a bit of a blessin’ to me really, not being able to bear child for me husband. He went off, oh, on ‘is travels again, and as ye know, when ye were but twelve, he died abroad. And since I’ve brought you up by myself, as me very own.”
“Then...I’m an orphan?” asked Anne, her voice shaking.
“Most likely. Oh Anne, I am so sorry for deceiving you in this way. I...I scarce know how you came about Tynesfield, apart from –”
“Apart from?”
“Go to my room,” instructed Mrs Lincombe with a grievous sigh, “And bring me the small container sittin’ in the green ottoman.”
Anne did so, carrying the flat, black box out of the bedroom and gingerly placing it in Mrs Lincombe’s lap. “This is what you were asking for, is it not?” she asked.
“Indeed.” The woman opened it slowly, and from its depths withdrew a yellowing sheet of paper, curling at the edges, with a broken wax seal hanging on a crease. Ounces of scrawny light segued through the cracks in the windowpane, stressing a visual taint of Mrs Lincombe’s tired eyes, her full cracked lips from which derived an ever-increasing flow of spittle. Seemingly overcome, she handed the vellum sheet to Anne.
With hands bearing slight tremors, she opened it; the writing bore the palsied hand of the aged or sick. Anne began to read it.
- “Anne,
Beware of The Three Horseshoes.
You must go to Canterbury and find Gibbous.
Capeside Shipping.
Look behind the golden wrist.”
“What can it mean?” asked Anne, bewildered.
“I haven’t the faintest,” admitted her adoptive mother. “But I thinks me late husband ‘ad an inkling. He didn’t want to show it to me, but I stumbled across it and ‘e warned me not to show it to yer till the time was right.”
“Do you think I would be right to trust what is in this letter?” asked Anne. “It’s...it’s all rather vague. And besides – I have no way of knowing who wrote it.”
Mrs Lincombe nodded. “It’s not me husband’s hand, that’s fer sure.”
“And it seems like such...such a dangerous business. Maybe I had better ignore it...”
The bed-ridden lady shook her head decisively. “As far as I’ve learnt in me years, it’s not to leave things aside. They’ll always come jumping back at yer.”
“Then I should...obey it?”
“I dun’t know, me child. Wait a bit. Be sure to entrust this to nobody – though maybe that kind Mr Murdoch could be of assistance.”
“Never, Mother!” said a horrified Anne. “He is the least person I would go to in such matters. I know...I know you wish me to continue obtaining money from him – which I will do, to fund your journey to Brighton – but confiding in Mr Murdoch about such serious matters would be –”
“Alright, Anne,” pacified Mrs Lincombe. “Alright. Do not work yerself up so, it was a mere suggestion.”
Anne sat back down in her hand-sprung armchair, glum with the prospect of another meeting with Mr. Murdoch ahead of her, and the knowledge of mystery and danger outside.
That would be terrible, so I'll definately look it up to avoid clashing plotlines. Thanks for reading. xD
I appreciate it.
