“Yes. In that case, he found me playing naughts and crosses with the son of one of the tenants. We were using sticks to scratch the game into a patch of dirt. We were quite engaged in our pursuit and were bent with our heads together, and when I won in an upset, the boy threw an arm around me in congratulations.” He paused. “I did not know my father was watching.” Another pause. “I believe he thought I preferred the company of other gentlemen. Other boys. He sent the boy away and turned on me.” He huffed a bitter laugh. “If only he knew how things have transpired.”
“He would not approve of Miss Evans, either,” Simon said gently.
“Indeed, he would not. But perhaps it would raise my estimation in his eyes all the same, for at least she is a member of the fairer sex. Not that I shall be breathing a word about her.” No. He would not allow the poison that was his father to infect anything to do with Julianna.
“What about your mother?” Archie asked. “Where was she in all this?”
“She was there,” Effie said. “Not at the naughts and crosses incident, but in general. She knew what was happening. When she was present, at the wardrobe incident, and when Father found me with the kitten, she would protest, but ultimately . . .” He shrugged. Ultimately, Mother would never defy Father. No one would. Not even Effie, could he have helped it. That was the problem, though: he couldn’t. He defied simply by being.
“And you forgot about these episodes until recently?” Simon asked.
“Well, obviously I knew that I broke my arm, but I seem to have remembered it more as an accident. And as for the other incidents, yes, I’d plain forgotten them.”
“And now they have returned as nightmares,” Simon said. “How do you know theyarememories and not mere nightmares? I am not doubting you, only seeking to understand.”
Because he could smell the cedar of the wardrobe, feel the terror of being left alone. Because he could feel the particular mixture of indignation and shame—and searing pain—that resulted from the bone in his arm breaking. Now that these sense memories had been reawakened, they were with him all the time.
He didn’t want to talk about that, though, at least not now, so he said, “I just do.”
The boys nodded. They believed him. Of course they did.
“I have heard of this,” Archie said. “Chiefly among soldiers returned from war. They somehow block out what has happened to them.”
“You wrote a poem rather recently,” Simon said, “that seemed to be about confinement. I’d thought it metaphorical, but perhaps it was literal.”
“It was both,” Effie said quietly. “I wrote that after the wardrobe episode . . . resurfaced.”
“Do you think there are more episodes waiting to be unearthed?” Simon asked.
“I dread the thought.”
“This is why you cannot sleep,” Simon said. “You are avoiding additional unearthing.”
Effie nodded.
“Do you remember last year, with the dressing gowns?” Archie asked, and they all laughed. Effie was glad for the levity. “You had yours made in pink, and we were surprised it wasn’t black. You used to wear black all the time.”
“I did. I felt black reflected my essential outlook on the world.”
“But on our trip last year, you said something about being drawn to color. About being happier.”
“Yes. I think that was the influence of Julianna. Miss Evans,” he corrected, though he did not know why he was bothering with the boys.
“And that influence must have continued, because every time I see you these days, you are wearing a rather outrageous waistcoat.”
“I suppose I contradict myself. I tell you on the one hand that these awful memories have come back, that they are keeping me from slumber. Yet on the other hand, it is true: I am happier than I have ever been.” He quirked a smile. “I know not what to say other than that I do indeed contradict myself.” He grew serious. “In truth, I think it’salldown to Julianna—the happiness and the memories. I think I started remembering because she began asking me about my childhood. She’s the one who commissioned that poem ‘A Summer’s Day.’ Do you remember that one?”
The boys, bless them, nodded.
“That was an interesting one,” Simon said. “Given the title, one expected it to be a light bit of verse. And it was, to start, but then the mood took a turn.”
Yes. “Do you remember the line ‘broken bones, turned to stone’?”
“Oh, dear God,” Archie said, “that was your arm!”
Effie shrugged. “It was and it wasn’t. I think the memories, and the poems I’ve written about them, reinforce each other. One comes from the other and vice versa. When I try to think how to express something in verse, my mind . . . Oh, it is very hard to explain. It’s as if my mind goes into a different place. As if a curtain is drawn back. Not always. Not often, actually. But the best poems come from when this curtain is drawn, allowing a glimpse into a different realm.” He paused. “I am aware how ridiculous I sound.”
“I don’t think you sound ridiculous,” Archie said.
