BooksBarbecue
Back The Moss House Save as PDF
Chapters (22)
  1. The Moss House
  2. Imprint
  3. Chapter One
  4. Chapter Two
  5. Chapter Three
  6. Chapter Four
  7. Chapter Five
  8. Chapter Six
  9. Chapter Seven
  10. Chapter Eight
  11. Chapter Nine
  12. Chapter Ten
  13. Chapter Eleven
  14. Chapter Twelve
  15. Chapter Thirteen
  16. Chapter Fourteen
  17. Chapter Fifteen
  18. Chapter Sixteen
  19. Chapter Seventeen
  20. Chapter Eighteen
  21. Chapter Nineteen
  22. Epilogue

We watch poor Marian’s face as she realises the full extent of our relationship and does not know where to look.

She packs her bags and returns to Market Weighton once and for all, leaving us both.

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Eighteen

1837 – 1838: Two orphans in black

Miss Lister

As I survey the home that will pass through our family and see the world change when we are all dead and buried, I realise that the lion carved on the staircase is Father holding our shield that bears the Lister crest. We have our initials engraved in the ceiling by the stairs, A. L. to represent all the Annes of Shibden, and there he is at the entrance to the stairs, keeping watch, proudly standing under our Lister motto.

I commission a large stone version of the same lion to stand next to the Hall, six feet tall, to greet guests or warn them off. It is a vicious lion, anthropomorphic in its form but a lion nonetheless, like the one I saw all those years ago in York at the mercy of the tamer, but this one is free, he chooses to stand there. The Lister lion is Father – or is it perhaps me, as I pick up the Lister shield and try to defend us?

Now so withdrawn from local life, I try to focus on our immediate surroundings, the landscaping completed with the waterfall and ponds, the apple trees planted and new kitchen gardens in use. The gatehouse nears completion and the lake is almost full.

Is it all just folly, I wonder? Do I spend our money just to amuse myself, give myself some control, some achievements? Or is it a reward for my work, for my loss? Is it a vent for my frustration at all I could have been if allowed: a scholar at the forefront of science, a collector, a Justice of the Peace or a Member of Parliament? I practise speeches I could give in my head, but when I speak out loud my voice reminds me of what I am.

I continue to study and make notes and lists of questions that will never be answered; there is so much more to discover and the world moves on without any influence from little me. Hidden away here in my half-formed castle, what impact can I make? No one calls upon us now. We are forgotten.

My diary pages still fill. I cannot give it up; even on my darkest days I still must write. It is my addiction, but what will come of it? What will become of the volumes all neatly lined up on my shelves behind the panelling? What will become of us?