“The long drive from London to Brockenhurst had passed quickly. And now the picturesque gatehouse at the end of Mill lane stood as stately and grandeur as the last time she’d seen it, twenty-two years ago… as if frozen in time.
The delicate arches with angelic carvings still framed the hauntingly solemn entrance to the distant chateaux. Ideally reminiscent of the Victorian dollhouse belonging to her mother that she played with as a child.
Memories shattered through the shackled corners of her mind as her eyes took in the familiar surroundings that was once her playground. She wondered, “How could it be that so much had changed, yet so much was still the same?”
Her life now was completely different in comparison to what she had left behind; this memory that was so very present.
Maislee stepped from her car, absorbing the smell of sweet, musky foliage blending with the ambiance of time and renaissance drifting through the breezeway. As if opening a portal, she unlocked the gatehouse door and stepped inside. Instantly drawn to his portrait in the tiny parlor. He was as captivating on canvas as in the small locket around her neck.
Slowly exploring each small room, the past replayed scenes of long ago, like moving film on a reel. She had to find the truth. The secret she knew existed needed answers. And those answers lingered here.
Climbing the skinny stairway to her father’s old study, Maislee stood breathless in the doorway…praying the journal she once remembered seeing her father hiding was still under the floorboard. Carefully tapping the rectangle slats for a loose piece, she found a tiny pry hole along the wooden seam.
She ran her nail file under the board, lifting the slat from it’s sleep. It felt as though she was opening a coffin that had been sealed for ages and awakening it’s sacred rest. There it was! The rusty tin box that entombed her father’s private thoughts and hopefully her own true identity.
While in London, she had attended the finest schools and now held her own prestigious position in the world of business etiquette. Though her life was ideal both personally and professionally, there was always something missing. A sense of belonging. An innate sense that there was something else. Someone else.
Holding the box close to her chest, she heard the door downstairs open. “Maislee… Baby, are you in here?” That comforting voice that eased every anxiety and calmed her fluttering heart, echoed up through the quiet void like the fullness of dust on sunbeams. “Yes, I’m up here, my love!”
They sat huddled on the floor, reading through page after page of poems that her father never had published in his impressive collection. There, pressed between the last two pages was a letter. The elegant stationery neatly folded inside a delicate hand-embroidered handkerchief with the name “Maislee” sewn in fine stitching surrounded by wild purple orchids. Her own favorite flower. The lump in her throat swelled like the tears in her eyes. He read the letter to her aloud.
Baron, Mason Lee Holister,
Author and Magnate
London, England
Spring 1982
Dear daughter,
If you are reading this now, then you have followed my instructions in the Will.
I regret never telling you in person but was sworn to secrecy until my own death.
I know you’ve always wondered why your appearance is different than your mother’s. Your features she always claimed were only mine.
Though I grew to love your mother very much, there was another who held my heart and soul. Her older sister. She was your true birth mother, and died two years after you were born. Paisley was my wife of 4 years before her death.
Combining my name with hers, she named you, Maislee June and asked me to raise you together with her sister. The Mother you’ve always known as your own. And to never confuse you by telling you of our bonded past. But her love for you is eternal, as is mine.
She left a large inheritance for you, accompanied by my own. Though fortune will never replace the loss or void, you will be well cared for.
This handkerchief, Paisley made while carrying you. And your birth was here, in this very gatehouse. Always know, my darling girl, that you were conceived in love.
With deep affection,
Dad.”
~ Joann J Clark
If you’re interested in visiting Brockenhurst in Europe, be sure to book a week stay at the gatehouse or one of the cottages in the park: