Read The Seventh Miss Hatfield for Free Online

what must have happened but, needing further proof, she asked Richard, “What year is it, please?”
    ‘ “Why, it’s the year of our Lord 1713, of course,” was his reply. At this, Rebecca was visibly shaken. It’s said she asked him where the nearest river was, and then walked there, all the way muttering, “1713,” to herself.’
    ‘And what happened to her after that?’ I asked.
    ‘She found a rope somewhere on her way to the river. Once she got there, she tied one end of the rope around her waist and the other end around a heavy rock, and then waded into the river with it cradled in her arms. A child from the town saw her do it and ran to get help.’
    ‘And then?’ I couldn’t help myself. I had to know what happened to Rebecca, and why Miss Hatfield was named after her.
    ‘She was never seen again,’ she said. ‘Her body was never found. It probably sank with the rock and never surfaced.’
    ‘And why were you named after her?’
    ‘Named after?’ She smiled. ‘I’ve never thought of it that way.’ She was almost mumbling now. ‘I wasn’t always Rebecca Hatfield. I had a different name, once. I … just don’t remember it.’
    ‘You don’t remember your given name?’ I was astonished that someone could so easily forget something as important as that.
    ‘I used to remember it,’ she said, more to herself than me. ‘I used to whisper it to myself at night, so I wouldn’t forget it. But it appears I finally have.’ Her voice was remorseful and tinged with sadness. I had the strangest urge to comfort her, but I instinctively knew this was one thing I couldn’t help her with.
    ‘I was born almost one and a half centuries ago, in 1832.’ She’d obviously started her own story now. It was a ridiculous statement, but I had no choice other than to go along with her fantasy for the moment, and besides, it was no stranger than the fact that my appearance had changed completely overnight. ‘My childhood wasn’t perfect, but it was happy enough. My parents were of the upper class, so I didn’t have to worry about my future. It was all laid out for me; I just had to continue living according to their plans.’ She glanced at me and saw that I was now thoroughly drawn into her tale. ‘This isn’t a story. Those were days strung together with a beginning, but no middle or end.’
    ‘How are you still alive now?’ I couldn’t help but ask her.
    ‘It all happened in a few hours,’ she said. ‘A lady was pushing a pram around the same park where I took my morning stroll. I wasn’t alone, of course – it was improper back in those days for a young woman to be in public unaccompanied. My older brother was chaperoning me, but he was talking to an old friend from his university days, and his back was turned.
    ‘I don’t quite know what possessed me, but I said to the woman with the pram, “Excuse me, madam. Your baby looks so adorable. May I hold him?” I’d only glimpsed the dear baby’s face and a lock of his golden hair, but his dimples made me smile and think of my little sister’s dimples when she was that age.
    ‘ “Why, of course.” The woman smiled warmly and reached into the pram. She placed him gently into my arms which suddenly registered the unexpected shock of weightlessness. When I looked down, glassy eyes stared back, and I almost dropped the baby.
    ‘Upon a closer look, I found that it wasn’t a baby at all, merely a doll that resembled one. Its hair was stiff and coarse, and I wondered how I could have mistaken it for my sister’s soft, golden tresses. I remembered her lying perfectly still in her last earthly bed. Her eyes were closed, but I recall how the wind had tousled her locks. I was the last one to touch her; I smoothed her hair as gently as I could with trembling fingers. I watched as two men shovelled dirt upon her coffin, scoop after scoop, until she was buried deep below our feet. And yet I couldn’t erase her face from my memory. How could I, when