Emily Smith
It was a long time before George found the words to tell his brother what happened. Would Sebastian blame him? He blamed himself: for being so absent, for not paying attention. He blamed the townsfolk: how many other people were there who could have seen her? Should have stopped her? At his worst on that long, slow trek to Leeds, he blamed his mother.
Sebastian did not blame his brother. He blamed himself: for being so absent, for not being there at the end. He blamed the townsfolk: did no one see this coming? Could none of them have given just one more week of warning? At his worst, in the dark days that followed, he blamed his father for leaving his mother all alone.
Now the brothers sit down together to unpack the last of their mother’s belongings.
“What’s this?” George holds up a piece of wood. It is roughly cylindrical, like a tool handle, but with only a hole for a screw at one end.
Sebastian squints at it. “I’m not sure. Does it have an echo?”
“No…no, I don’t think so.” He hands the object to his brother. “Here – you always had a better sense than me.”
“Hmm. You’re right, though. Nothing.”
“Why would mum keep it, though? It must have been important. Unless…oh, Bastian, I didn’t think. If there were any echoes on any of this stuff, they might have faded by now. I…I should have checked on the journey.”
Sebastian lays a gentle hand on George’s shoulder. “You weren’t to know, George. It was only a few days. I didn’t think either. Oh – I know what this is, though. It’s the handle for the printing press. Echo or not, I suppose it must have been the only part of it she could take. And look – dad’s old typography book.”
George rummages through the rest of the suitcase. “The rest is just clothes. Some decent quality. Do you think Mary might like some of them? Or for her mother, maybe?”
“Maybe. I’ll ask her.”
“Did she ever meet mum?”
“Oh, I – I’m not sure she did.”
…
In a warehouse by the canal in Leeds, there is a box containing paints, canvas, and easel. Only Emily knew it was there; her sons never even knew to look for it.
…
There is a headstone in a cemetery. There is no grave; no coffin; no body.
Emily Smith
1760-1810
Loving Wife
Loving Mother