Read Online What She Left Behind by Ellen Marie Wiseman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ellen Marie Wiseman
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the gate is locked and I’ve seen the size of the trunk you brought with you. I can’t imagine you’d have a very easy time of carrying it out of your room, much less down the stairs and across the lawns.”
Clara’s face grew warm. She was about to tell him she didn’t give a damn about her steamer trunk. She’d leave without it if she had to. But then she realized he might take her anger as something else, as part of her “condition.”
Her first mistake the day she argued with her father was taking the time to pack a bag. She should have left the study, grabbed her coat, and run out of the house that very instant. She should have fled the minute she heard her father telling the lieutenant to bring a doctor. Instead, she’d hurried to her room and started packing her steamer trunk, forgetting that she’d have to carry the oversized chest down the stairs by herself, that the butler and driver would not be called upon to carry her luggage out to the car. After all, she was running away, not going on another overseas voyage. But she hadn’t been thinking clearly, her panicked mind unable to string two coherent thoughts together. All she knew was that she needed to take as much as possible, because, when she left, the clothes in the trunk and the dress on her back would be all she owned in the world.
Thinking about it now, she berated herself for being so stupid. She knew the police could be at her house within minutes because Ruth had called them numerous times—when she couldn’t find her string of pearls, when the candlesticks from the parlor went missing, when her favorite English tea set had disappeared. Every time, the police arrived and talked calmly to Ruth while she paced and wailed, convinced that the help was stealing. Then, like common criminals, the maids and butlers and limo drivers were lined up and questioned. Eventually, a logical explanation came to light; Ruth’s necklace had slipped behind her dressing table, the candlesticks were in the pantry waiting to be polished, the tea set had been returned to the wrong cupboard. After Ruth realized her precious things were no longer missing, she thanked the police for coming so quickly. Meanwhile, Clara did her best to apologize to the help.
If only Clara had remembered the speed at which the police could arrive, instead of being like Ruth and worrying about her “things,” she might have had the chance to slip away. When her father brought the lieutenant, two policemen, and a doctor up to her room, her steamer trunk was nearly full and the possibility of escape no longer existed. Henry ordered the men to close the trunk and take it away, along with his only daughter. She could still picture her father’s red face and wild eyes, his arms gesturing as if he were ordering a criminal taken out of his house.
“What seems to be the problem?” the lieutenant said.
“She was spouting all kinds of horrible accusations,” Henry said, shaking his head. “I’m afraid she’s imagining things.”
“It’s not true!” Clara said. “I just . . .”
Henry looked at the doctor, his eyes pleading. “Can you help her?”
Clara ran toward the door and a policeman grabbed her wrist. She struggled to break free but it was no use. “Let me go,” she cried. “You can’t do this! I didn’t do anything!”
“Has Clara suffered any emotional trauma recently?” the doctor asked Henry.
“She lost her brother,” Henry said. “And somehow she’s got it in her mind that I . . .” Henry hung his head, his clenched fists to his forehead, as if it was too much to bear.
“That’s not why I . . .” Clara cried. The policeman tightened his grip on her arm. “No, let me go!”
The lieutenant directed his attention to the doctor, letting him make the final call. The doctor nodded. Before Clara could protest further, the policemen grabbed her by the arms and led her out of the bedroom, down the stairs and outside, where she was shoved into the back of
Clara’s face grew warm. She was about to tell him she didn’t give a damn about her steamer trunk. She’d leave without it if she had to. But then she realized he might take her anger as something else, as part of her “condition.”
Her first mistake the day she argued with her father was taking the time to pack a bag. She should have left the study, grabbed her coat, and run out of the house that very instant. She should have fled the minute she heard her father telling the lieutenant to bring a doctor. Instead, she’d hurried to her room and started packing her steamer trunk, forgetting that she’d have to carry the oversized chest down the stairs by herself, that the butler and driver would not be called upon to carry her luggage out to the car. After all, she was running away, not going on another overseas voyage. But she hadn’t been thinking clearly, her panicked mind unable to string two coherent thoughts together. All she knew was that she needed to take as much as possible, because, when she left, the clothes in the trunk and the dress on her back would be all she owned in the world.
Thinking about it now, she berated herself for being so stupid. She knew the police could be at her house within minutes because Ruth had called them numerous times—when she couldn’t find her string of pearls, when the candlesticks from the parlor went missing, when her favorite English tea set had disappeared. Every time, the police arrived and talked calmly to Ruth while she paced and wailed, convinced that the help was stealing. Then, like common criminals, the maids and butlers and limo drivers were lined up and questioned. Eventually, a logical explanation came to light; Ruth’s necklace had slipped behind her dressing table, the candlesticks were in the pantry waiting to be polished, the tea set had been returned to the wrong cupboard. After Ruth realized her precious things were no longer missing, she thanked the police for coming so quickly. Meanwhile, Clara did her best to apologize to the help.
If only Clara had remembered the speed at which the police could arrive, instead of being like Ruth and worrying about her “things,” she might have had the chance to slip away. When her father brought the lieutenant, two policemen, and a doctor up to her room, her steamer trunk was nearly full and the possibility of escape no longer existed. Henry ordered the men to close the trunk and take it away, along with his only daughter. She could still picture her father’s red face and wild eyes, his arms gesturing as if he were ordering a criminal taken out of his house.
“What seems to be the problem?” the lieutenant said.
“She was spouting all kinds of horrible accusations,” Henry said, shaking his head. “I’m afraid she’s imagining things.”
“It’s not true!” Clara said. “I just . . .”
Henry looked at the doctor, his eyes pleading. “Can you help her?”
Clara ran toward the door and a policeman grabbed her wrist. She struggled to break free but it was no use. “Let me go,” she cried. “You can’t do this! I didn’t do anything!”
“Has Clara suffered any emotional trauma recently?” the doctor asked Henry.
“She lost her brother,” Henry said. “And somehow she’s got it in her mind that I . . .” Henry hung his head, his clenched fists to his forehead, as if it was too much to bear.
“That’s not why I . . .” Clara cried. The policeman tightened his grip on her arm. “No, let me go!”
The lieutenant directed his attention to the doctor, letting him make the final call. The doctor nodded. Before Clara could protest further, the policemen grabbed her by the arms and led her out of the bedroom, down the stairs and outside, where she was shoved into the back of
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