Wessingham Awaits (Book 1, Music) by Owen Maddox Read Free Book Online Page A

Claude, the smartest, of Warren, the most ambitious, and of Clarence, the most athletic. But few had met me, “Little Lizzie,” whom they would have undoubtedly called “the unfortunate one,” as the Duchess, my mother, had, or “retarded,” as Dr. Bowyer, my father, expressed in medical parlance. To him, I was a veritable mute, a child who, for a lack of sense, longingly stared through people’s souls, making them wholly uncomfortable. When the callers left, I might move from the mirror to my spot at the window overlooking the carriages and trolleys of Broad Street of downtown Richmond, Virginia. The Duchess, preoccupied with issuing edicts to the housekeeper, might fail to notice my brothers, who usually started by waving a hand in front of my face—stoic as the King’s Guard—then graduated to flicking my nose or ears, and finally to bouncing a rubber ball off my skull whilst singing.
     
    Mean Brothers :
    Little Lizzie’s lost in time.
    She doesn’t laugh. She doesn’t whine.
    The Doctor thinks she’s good as dead
    Since Mother dropped her on her head.
     
    My mother, of course, was not a bona fide Duchess. She earned the title more as a slanderous nickname, first by hiring a reputable crackbrained genealogist to unearth a slender, if not improbable, connection to Bess of Hardwick, whose greatest talent, you might remember, was her ability to befriend, marry, and bury a string of wealthy barons. Naturally, that was all the proof my mother required, having driven her two previous husbands to their graves. My father, her third husband, was more reluctant to draw such parallels. Secondly, my mother required of those servants who reported to her, namely the housekeeper and sometimes the butler, to address her as “My Lady” and to speak of her as “Lady Bowyer.”  This practice culminated one holiday afternoon in the kitchen when, just as my mother was making one of her rare appearances, the housekeeper dutifully informed the chef and kitchen staff that there would be no time off that evening. A scullery maid, unaware of the high brass now standing behind her, retorted, “Praise Jesus, I love our Grand Duchess. What a wonderful woman. Is she ever going to allow me some tickle time with the husband? It’s been five days.” 
    My mother cleared her throat and offered the following pronouncement: “ Our Grand Duchess sincerely regrets that her dinner plans might infringe on anyone’s personal duties.” She winked at the startled scullery maid. “Lest it be forgotten , the Grand Duchess appreciates such unremitting deference for her rank and station as the mistress of this house. That’s quite clever missy. You’re a smart one.” Not only did the scullery maid in question keep her job, but she received a promotion to housemaid the following day. Henceforth, the lower servants referred to my mother as the Duchess, with the children, then guests, eventually following suit—most everyone, I suppose, except me. I never said a word.  

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    2
    Call it a mother’s intuition, but the Duchess began to suspect I wasn’t retarded when she caught me studying the pages of Dr. Bowyer’s Scientific American . It was an article on cloud types, accompanied by respective drawings of cumulus, stratus, cirrus and so forth. Only the pages that captivated me had no drawings and were purely text.  The Duchess lovingly offered, “Lizzie, do you think you’re reading ?” Yet, when I paid her no attention, and my eyes, upon closer inspection, seemed to be moving from side to side, she stood from her throne and proclaimed, “Lizzie, you’re reading!” I could neither confirm nor deny.
    “Scientific American?” Dr. Bowyer repeated. “Mary, this has gone on long enough.” Incredulous of the account, predicating it on my mother’s denial of my retardation, he used the occasion to bolster his contention that she should assimilate me into polite society, not