Chapter 15
“My Dearest Esme,
How glad I am to receive your letters and how grateful for news from the world outside. I must admit, I am pleased that you are returned home from the Midlands. I know that you continued to write and that I do not see you anyway, but just knowing that the two of us are in the same county is a great comfort to me.
I do miss you terribly and have thought, more than once, that I ought to make an attempt to return to the little church so that I might at least see you for a few moments on Sundays. But I am sure that you will understand that, after the way my father behaved on the last occasion, I think it will be impossible for me to return there in the future.
I am growing used to the little services at the Coldwell Chapel with Elliot, Mr. Maguire, and the staff. Even the Minister is not quite so repellent to me as once he was, although I am still dubious of his spiritual guidance given what I know of him.
I had thought that it would be an awkward thing for Elliot to be in the chapel in daytime, but he seems to manage it very well. He puts a good deal of planning into every move he makes, and I cannot help thinking that it must be truly exhausting.
He is the first to enter the chapel every Sunday, and I am certain that he is there for some time before anybody else arrives. I know, of course, that it is so that he can arrange himself in such a way that the ruined side of his face is turned firmly to the wall. From where he sits, there is none who can see it, not in its entirety in any case.
Even I, whose seat is at his side, am spared the full extent of his disfigurement.
And then, when the service is over, Elliot is always the last to leave. In fact, I have never seen him leave yet; he simply remains in the chapel. I am sure that he stays there until he is assured that there is none other present, save for Crawford Maguire. I do not think that Crawford ever looks away from him or shows any sign of repulsion. I think it likely that he never has.
He is a man of such goodness, although I cannot claim much personal knowledge of him. I learned that he has been the most genuine of friends to the Duke, and it gives me comfort. When Elliot first became scarred, I believe that everybody turned from him apart from Kitty and Crawford, and I am saddened when I think of all that Elliot must have been through. And when I think that I have been a part of that, I am made ashamed.
I do not talk solely of my own part in perpetuating the myth of the monster, for it was already a well-formed tale when you and I were children; we could do no other than carry it forward. But, in truth, I do not think that I will ever forgive myself for my reaction on the day we first met. To have somebody collapse to the floor in a dead faint at the very sight of your face must be an absolutely soul-destroying experience.
More than once, I have tried to imagine how I would feel myself in those circumstances, and it almost always reduces me to tears, so much so that I cannot think about it for long. If only I could break free from my own fear and prejudice and look upon him with ease, just as Crawford and Kitty do.
And I do not know if I will ever get the opportunity to try. Elliot is as determined that I should never see his face as I had been in the beginning. Everything is orchestrated, every move he makes, and I believe that it is all because of me.
I cannot help thinking that we are destined to spend the rest of our lives in darkness, in the near gloom of a single candle’s glow.
I have still not been back to the tower and wonder if I ever shall. But there is an idea which touches my heart and will not let me be. And every time that I look out of my chamber window and see Elliot making his way back out of the woods, every time I realize that he has been back out to that desolate tower, the idea prods at me a little more.
I know now that Elliot’s mother and sister died in that tower in a fire; Kitty has told me that much. Beyond that, I do not know any more of the circumstances and can only assume that Elliot’s own disfigurement has some connection.
When I saw that beautiful little portrait of his sister hanging in his chamber, I realized that he must have loved her very dearly.
I cannot get the picture of the little doll out of my mind, the one with the untouched porcelain face. It is clear to me now that the doll must have lain there these eighteen years, rooted to the spot where it had last been dropped by its owner.
The clothing is ragged, and it greatly needs cleaning, and I fear that if it is left there for many more years, it will disintegrate. It is dry in the tower, but still, it cannot be the best conditions in which to house something which ought to be a keepsake.
Esme, I have it in my mind to go out to the tower and rescue the little doll. I should like to make it a new gown and clean its face and its hair and have it returned to its former glory. And then, when it is done, I would like to give it to Elliot in the hopes that it will give him some comfort and peace.
Of course, I realize that I could be making the gravest error in doing so, and yet I am suffering the greatest notion that the Duke cannot move forward. It is as if he is trapped in a moment, not just a prisoner these seventeen years within the walls of his own mansion, but a prisoner within the walls of his own heart.
Even if I cannot look upon him properly, I should like to make some move that may help to ease his suffering.
I must think the thing through before I choose to do it, but I am almost certain already that I will try it. I will do something that will make a difference although, at this moment, I cannot tell if that difference will be for good or ill.
Wish me luck, my dear Esme.
With much love,
Isabella.”