Heaven and Earth
My mother often told me you can tell a lot about a person by the way they play piano.
Even if they were beginners, the way they approach the instrument gives you an insight into their attitudes. Were they hesitant or confident, timid or bold? Are they eager to attempt or have they given up from the get-go? How do they press the keys? Harsh like pressing a post stamp or do they keep their fingers soft? Do they let the music guide them, or do they hold back their emotions?
I wonder what she would say now if she could see me. I certainly do not hold back, but neither am I soft and gentle. I play only when I am furious. I pound on the keys harder than I’d knead dough, turning every pianissimo into a fortissimo. I am a rebel. I do not play to give justice to the music, but to command it. Far from its servant, I am its general. Every note I strike comes out of my body from a place of resentment, of rage, of spite. I imagine them as a rolling tide, surging through me as if to drown the heaviness in my veins and carry it far, far, far.
As my violent version of Pirates of the Caribbean comes to a halt, I begin to hear my heart again. The world is more still, though there remains a humming in the background—a warning that the anger had only ebbed but not fully quenched. Probably not for a while.
I lift my head up and am greeted by sparkling blue eyes. The woman in the portrait had hung above my piano even before I moved into this house, and she continues to sit there, looking equal parts amused and judgmental. She’d be chuckling if she could. She was the kind of woman with a quirk in her lips and a twinkle in her eye that makes you feel like she can see through you.
I have no idea who she is though. I always assumed she must be some ancestor, but I found no records of her. Even in the thousands of documents in the house’s three libraries, it seemed she left no trace. I had scoured every file, pored through books and family bibles, and still nothing. I had even reached out to the county register, the local library and the local archives, all to no avail. I had begun to think that she wasn’t a real person. But those eyes and that hair and the slim, sharp jaw—she couldn’t be anything else but a Wentworth. She was one of us. She was kin, even if I had no proof of it.
Judging from the paint and the paper themselves, the portrait was created more than a hundred years ago. Framed in mahogany—expensive even in today’s time. Whoever she was, she was certainly not unloved, unadored or unimportant.
“So what have you done?” I whispered as my fingers caressed the edges of the canvas. Surely something must have happened. It’s like her existence was erased, but cherished women like her are never suddenly forgotten. What evil had she done that they had obliterated her memory? What shame had she brought, what crime had she committed?
Was it a crime of passion, was she a rebel? Was she like me?
I think back to my own situation, the one that got me furiously playing at the piano in the first place. Everything felt fresh as if it had just happened yesterday. I woke up hazy on Saturday morning, happy and in love, marvelling at the gorgeous emerald stone that sits snugly on my left hand. Mark was beside me, peppering kisses on my neck. I smiled at him, and the world was perfect.
I had been excited to introduce him to the family. I lost my mother young, and I had not known my father until he passed. His blood and his last will were the only things that tied me to him, and as a natural daughter I had feared that the rest of the family would leave me shunned. But the Wentworths welcomed me with open arms, giving me the sense of familial bond I had always lacked. I trusted, loved, and respected them, and I wanted to include them in celebrating this new chapter of my life.
If only they had welcomed Mark as much as they welcomed me. It seems that I overestimated just how progressive they truly are. I thought if they could easily welcome a child born out of wedlock, then surely they’d have no problem that my fiancé is black. How wrong I was. They took one look at the man I love, at his wild hair and strong lips and skin as dark as night, and clammed up. They didn’t say anything—not at first anyway—but their eyes were loud. I could clearly see the judgement, the displeasure, the menacing look which implies ‘you’re not good enough.’
The chicken wasn’t even out of the oven when Uncle Bill started throwing questions at him. Where did you grow up, where do you live, which school did you go to, how much do you make? What’s your social circle, how did you meet her, and do you have any family left? It was more of an interview than an introduction, with side commentaries you can’t quite tell if they were made out of malice or simply ignorance.
Aunt Irene called his hair ‘interesting’ while Aunt Natalia all but pushed fried chicken onto his plate. He’s vegan.
Then there was Aunt Josephine, who had pulled me into the kitchen under the pretence of getting dessert only to ask me if this is ‘truly what I wanted.’
“What do you mean?” I asked her though I knew perfectly well what she meant. I didn’t know what else to tell her other than ‘mind your own business’ so I waited for her to elaborate. She looked askance as I put her on the spot, but I could never have predicted the next words out of her mouth.
“I’m not saying you can’t love who you love, sugar, but sometimes it’s better to stick to your own kind.”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s simply the responsible thing to do. Mark’s a sweet guy and he seems to really care for you, but do you really think you’re a good fit for each other? The Lord had marked them for a reason. Blacks are bound to receive prejudice wherever they go, even half-blacks are not exempt from persecution. Think of your future children. Do you really want that life for them?”
I was speechless. I was so taken aback, I didn’t know what to say. I pressed my lips together and carried the chocolate mousse as fast as I could out of the kitchen. I boiled with anger beneath the surface. Of all the audacious things to say. And from my favourite aunt no less. How could she? How dare she?
“Everything alright, sweet?” Uncle John asked.
“I’m alright.” I lied through my teeth, putting on a brave face for my Mark. But I wasn’t. I wanted nothing more than to run out of there, or else hurl my plate of chocolate mousse at them. When Mark finished, I was the first to say we had a prior commitment somewhere else. I didn’t kiss them goodbye as we left. I didn’t promise to visit again. I simply thanked them for the meal, grabbed my coat, and took to the streets.
I felt myself shake as the feral winter wind greeted me. Not because of the cold but because of the disgust and dismay blazing through me. Disgust at my family’s antiquated way of thinking, and dismay at my inability to stand up to it. I felt my knees buckle just as we reached the bus stop, but Mark reached for me before I fell completely. I clung to his neck and broke down in his arms like a kid.
“I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry,” I sobbed against his shoulder in broken tears. “I didn’t think…I didn’t expect…” Mark stroked my hair, lulling me with gentle shushes. “It’s okay love. I’m here, I got you. Just breathe.”
I did as I was told, debating whether to tell him. I thought he at least deserved to know what I was upset about, and then I’ll assure him that I love him and promise that nothing could come between us. But he already knew. Of course he did. I just didn’t expect him to agree with it.”
“Your aunt has a point, Lilian,” he said after a while. There was a crack in his voice, and I didn’t have to look to know that there were tears in his eyes. “I’ve told you this before, haven’t I? You’re just too good for me.”
I put a finger on his lips to shut him up but he kept on talking. “Look at you, Lilian, and look at me. We’re like heaven and earth. You’re from a good family. You finished college. You have a stable career. You’ve even started your own business and earn more than me. It begs the question, why ARE you with me?”
“You know very well why!” I challenged him. “I love you, Mark. Isn’t that what matters?”
“It’s not the only thing.” He shook his head sadly. “I don’t think you notice, but your family aren’t the only ones who look at us like we’re wrong. I see it everyday, Lilian. At the shops, at the grocer, at the theatre, even at church. People don’t think we belong together.”
“To hell what people think!” I screamed at him, thumping at his chest as I pulled away. “So what if they don’t accept it? They have no say about what I do or who I love. And I love you.”
“I love you too, Lilian.”
“Then why are you talking like you’re giving up on us?”
He shrugged. “I just don’t want you to regret being with me. You could have anyone else you wanted. So many men can and will give you a better life. Why settle?”
I shuddered. What a repulsive word: settle. As if all this time, our love had been one-sided. As if my feelings were inauthentic making this whole relationship a farce.
“What don’t you understand?” I grabbed his chin in my hand and glared directly into his eyes. “I chose you, Mark. I choose you. Isn’t that enough?”
He wiped the tears from my eyes and whispered, “I know. I’m just saying I don’t think you should have.” The bus came, and he kissed my knuckles as he led me up the stairs.
“You–you’re not coming?”
“Not tonight, love.”
That was three days ago and we hadn’t talked since. This was the longest time we’ve gone without contact, and the first time it happened because of a fight. It seems we have implicitly decided that we needed a break. Some time to think things through. I still have the ring, of course. If he thinks I’m backing off, he is incredibly mistaken. I never had any doubts about marrying him, and I sure as hell won’t start now. The only time I need is to compose myself enough to deal with my relatives.
A ping from my phone startled me out of my thoughts. My heart skipped a beat at the thought of seeing Mark’s name, but disappointment gushed through me as I read the display.
‘Let’s have coffee. When can we meet?’ —aunt Jo
She had been trying to get a hold of me since Sunday, but I kept leaving her on read. I turned my phone on aeroplane mode after her fifth call, and I refused calls and messages from other relatives as well. After what happened, I just don’t know how to talk to them without spewing profanity right at their faces. What do they even want to talk about? Do they feel sorry or will they just gang up on me to get me to leave Mark?
I slammed the piano cover and left the room with a huff. I had no intention to meet her, but I changed into outerwear anyway. I put on my cashmere coat and scarf and pulled up my hair. I still need my daily dose of caffeine, and no bigoted relative can stop me. It makes me calmer, and Lord knows I need all the calm that I can get.
Another message popped up.
‘Call me when you can, sweet. I’ll be in La Boulangerie all morning.’ –aunt Jo
I groaned. La Boulangerie is just across the coffee shop I usually visit. It’s a small café with only outside seating so she’ll definitely see my bike. I punched the wall hard.
I expected nothing more than a dull thud, but to my surprise, it clanged like metal. The high pitch reverberated across the hall—the wall was hollowed out. I ran my hands across the panel, feeling for bumps. Sure enough, there was something sharp just above the wainscoting. I pushed it down and fell forward.
The wall had opened up. It was a small room—empty save for cobwebs and dust, and a short wooden stair that leads up to a hatch. It had no locks. Its hinges creaked as I reached for the latch and with a gentle push, it fell onto its side, leaving a cloud of dust. I stepped back and coughed half of my lungs out.
It must be the attic. I always wondered where it was. Houses like this always had attics, but are often hidden through an obscure entrance. What secrets does it hold, I wonder, and so up I went. I’m not that stupid, so I did check first if my phone still has a signal. I took a big table and leaned it against the door, making sure that it would stay wide open. I also took a LED lamp with me to provide as much light as possible.
The floor creaked beneath my boots, but overall it wasn’t that bad. Sure, it felt almost like a horror movie and I half expected some gruesome being to jump out at me, but upon closer inspection, the whole room was just boxes upon boxes of printed materials. Some books, some journals, some blankets. Lots of newspapers.
Something slid across my feet and I let out a small scream. I then laughed at myself when I realised it was only a mouse, scurrying away into a chest on the far side of the room. I could not help but be drawn to it, so I approached.
It was blue and painted with flowers, forget-me-nots to be specific. I rummaged through its contents, finding letters and newspapers and framed photographs. Nobody I knew but they did have a resemblance to my aunts and uncles.
Looking up, I noticed, for the first time, an old organ. It was the kind that had pipes, hierarchically arranged and symmetrical, with an elaborate wooden case painted with birds and wonderfully carved with intricate vines. If I had to guess, it was probably from the Georgian era.
I really shouldn’t have been surprised. The house itself was around 300 years old, with the original estate being twelve times larger than the current house. Ten generations had lived here before me, of whom I barely knew anything. I advanced to take a closer look, and that was when I saw the notebook. It’s blue, much like the chest. The cover was made of leather and it had a rose embossed on the front. I picked it up and a picture fell face down on the floor.
I reeled back in shock when I saw what was in it. It was an extremely well-preserved watercolour painting of a woman—the exact same as the portrait down below. Her shining blue eyes looked back at me in merriment, almost as if to say ‘hello!’
Below it, written delicately in green ink, read
Alice Wentworth.
Firstborn daughter of Michael and Jane Wentworth.
Born 15th June 1704.
My beloved sister.
