Page 17 of The Only One Left

I’m writing it because when I die, which could be any day now, I want there to be a record of the facts. This is the truth--good and bad.

And the truth is that it all started the day of the portrait. The beginning of the end, although I had no idea then that would be the case. It was eight months before the murders. A lifetime when you’re as young as I was then.

It was also my birthday. The last birthday ever celebrated in this house.

That year, my father decided to have everyone sit for a portrait on their birthday. It was his idea of a gift, which might have beenfine for him and my mother, but not so much for my sister and me. No girl our age wanted a portrait as a present, especially when it meant getting dolled up and sitting for hours on end, not being allowed to move. The best thing about it was the artist, who was quite handsome.

Peter was his name.

Peter Ward.

Since my father had commissioned him to paint portraits of every member of the family, it was his fourth time at Hope’s End. By then, I was quite enamored of him. I put on my best dress--a pink satin gown--and made sure I looked as pretty as possible. I very much wanted to catch his eye.

Unfortunately, so did my sister, who hovered over him the whole time, even though Miss Baker was already keeping a close watch on the artist. Because the portrait was being painted in my bedroom, she was worried something inappropriate might happen if Peter and I were left alone. Such behavior was typical for Miss Baker, who had been hired a year earlier to teach us etiquette and elocution. I knew what she really was, though. A governess for girls who didn’t need a governess.

I sat on the divan, trying not to move. Miss Baker stood rigidly in the corner, a disapproving look on her face. My sister, though, mooned about the room behind Peter, checking his canvas and saying things like, “Oh, that’s wonderful. It’s her very likeness.”

Every time she did it, I couldn’t help but laugh, which caused Peter to reprimand me several times.

“Keep still, please,” he’d say in a tone so deathly serious it made me laugh even more. I spent most of the sitting trying not to crack a smile, although it came through anyway in the finished portrait. My sister had been right about that. Peter captured me perfectly.

“But I’m so bored,” I said as the sitting dragged on well into the afternoon. “Can I at least read a book while you paint?”

“You could, but then I wouldn’t be able to see your eyes,” Peter said. “And you have such lovely eyes.”

Now that was a birthday gift any girl my age would want. No one had ever called any part of me lovely before, and hearing it from Peter made my whole body quiver.

Out of the blue, I began to wonder if Peter had ever painted someone nude. Someone more mature and developed than me, someone who was unashamed of her body. I wondered what it would feel like to slide out of my pink dress, lean back on the divan, and have Peter gaze at my naked form. Would he still think I was lovely? Would he feel compelled to leave his easel, join me on the divan, touch my skin, caress my hair?

I began to blush, shocked by the wildness of my thoughts. I looked to Miss Baker, who contemplated me with dark eyes, as if she knew exactly what I was thinking.

Apparently, my sister did as well. She approached Peter, coming up behind him until she was pressed against his back. She placed a hand on his shoulder, where it remained as she cooed, “Peter, you really are the most talented man I’ve ever met.”

The room suddenly felt hot, and in that moment, all I wanted was to be away from all of them. I longed to be outside, perched at the cliff’s edge with the cool wind in my hair.

“Are we almost finished?” I asked.

“Another hour or two,” Peter said.

“Be patient,” Miss Baker added.

But I no longer had any patience left. I hated her. I hated my sister. I hated my father for bringing Peter into this house. At that moment, the only member of my family I didn’t despise was my mother.

Her I pitied.

Unable to sit still a moment longer, I leapt off the divan and headed for the door.

“I’m not finished yet,” Peter called after me.

“I most certainly am,” I called back.

I hurried down the back steps and into the kitchen, which was a riot of activity as the cooks and maids readied my birthday dinner. My anger surprised me. I knew my sister had no real interest in Peter, and that Peter had no interest in me. Honestly, I had no interest in him, either. But I did so desperately want someone to notice me, to see me, to understand me.

Also, I was sick and tired of being at Hope’s End. The name fit, for it felt like we were at the end of the world, cut off from any hope of being anywhere but here.

My father built Hope’s End as a tribute to himself. He claimed otherwise, of course. A peculiar trait among most self-important men is the need to try to hide their self-importance. My father did this by claiming Hope’s End was constructed for his beloved wife and the baby girl she had just given birth to.

Not true.

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