Aunt Clara's Choice

By Cristina Danguillecourt

Eleanor's Aunt has suddenly fallen ill, with no known cause to actually explain it. While trying to figure out why her aunt is in this state of stupor, Eleanor starts to realize that Aunt Clara, known as Clara Jenkins, may not be the woman she has known her to be all these years.

As Eleanor dives into a past full of secrets, wi

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Dreaming Pen
• Release date: Nov 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9798987585139

Book preview

Chapter

One

AUNT CLARA

O h, Miss! shouted Dotty the housemaid from the top of the stairs as she saw Eleanor walk in through the entrance of the house.

Oh Miss, oh Miss, oh Miss! Dotty repeated again and again in her Irish accent, charging down the narrow mahogany staircase with a flowered tea set in her hands.

For Heaven’s sake, Dotty, you need to calm down! said the low, rough voice of Cook, swinging her ample hips as she walked out of the kitchen entrance hidden behind the right side of the stairway, while drying her hands on a small kitchen towel attached to her waist. As she watched the young girl running down the steps, she hoped both Dotty and the tray would make it safely to the first floor.

Dotty arrived at the bottom of the steps, letting go of the tray with a bang on the entrance hall table. Teacups, plates, silverware, and kettle all rattled but somehow remained on the tray.

Child, you must control those nerves! said Cook, sighing and turning to help Eleanor out of her drenched blue raincoat, umbrella, and hat. She passed them on to Dotty, who ran to hang the coat and hat and placed the umbrella in the appropriate stand.

What’s happened? asked Eleanor, looking down at both Cook and Dotty, as she towered well over them.

That’s the thing, Miss, we don’t really know, said Dotty. She was dressed in a slim gray dress with a high white collar, and her dark brown hair was tied in a bun. She had a tendency to wring her hands together when nervous, and she was doing that now.

She hasn’t fallen, or had a fever, nor felt sick in any way, Miss! continued Dotty.

Dr. Harreds is with her now, Miss, said Cook. I’m sure things will get better. She swayed her chubby figure toward the tray.

Both Dotty and Cook worked for Eleanor’s aunt, Clara Jenkins. Mrs. Poe, or Cook, as they called her, had been working for Mrs. Jenkins since Eleanor was a little girl of six or seven. Dotty had been with her for three years now.

Eleanor looked up at the red-carpeted stairs that blended with the first floor and slowly made her way up, followed by Dotty who seemed to be skipping up the steps.

The evening lights were on and, as always, it seemed to Eleanor that the house never rid itself of a certain dark gloom. In her opinion, more light fixtures were needed and definitely more modern ones; the yellowish light made everything appear extremely dim and dusky.

They had barely reached the landing when Eleanor heard the familiar chuckling voice of Dr. Harreds.

Eleanor! Glad we coincided!

Dr. Harreds had been the family doctor since Eleanor was an adolescent. He knew the family very well, and although of some age now, as he refused to retire, he still made house calls to those he considered his finest clients.

Doctor, is she ill? asked Eleanor.

Oh no, no. It’s … slightly more complicated than that, and at the same time, well, simpler. He paused, as if arranging his thoughts while he scratched his head, ruffling the small amount of white hair he had left. Your aunt seems to be—how can I explain this?—in shock.

In shock?

Yes, I do think that would explain it. You see, dementia does not appear from one day to the next. He continued down the steps. Oh! He stopped his descent, and looking up he said. And she would like to see this friend whose name she keeps repeating, Marguerite. It may do her some good, I think … yes, to see a good friend would be beneficial to her.

Marguerite?

Yes, do you know who she is? asked the doctor, hopeful.

No, I can’t say that I do, said Eleanor.

Well, there you have it. It’s a shame. It might have been helpful, concluded the doctor.

So what can be done?

Well, I’m going to run some tests … yes, I think some tests are in order, but other than that perhaps a change of scenery would be good for her. Maybe some days in the country? Because physically, she’s much healthier than you and I! he said in a jolly chuckle.

He continued to go down the steps. I’ll call in the morning. Let’s see how she passes the night.

Eleanor watched Dotty follow the doctor down the steps, hand him his coat and hat, and open the entrance door for him.

Eleanor turned to the right, went down the dimly lit hall, knocked on the door on the right, and went in without waiting for an answer.

The room was hardly lit. The only real sources of light were the last rays of the sun that came through the window, close to where Aunt Clara was sitting.

Aunt Clara? Eleanor asked in a soft, low voice.

There was no answer.

The old woman who sat in a green armchair next to the far window did not even turn her head. She sat dressed in a black cotton dress, with her small black shoes resting on a footstool. Her hands clutched a handkerchief. She was looking out the window. Her hair, shaped into a bun, shone silver as the evening light fell upon her head.

Eleanor knew that this was her aunt’s favorite place in the afternoons, and just looking at the shelves full of books all around the room one immediately knew what activity usually took place there. Opposite her aunt was a small round table and another arm chair; it was where Dotty usually sat. Next to that armchair was a huge straw basket with all types of sewing material. Dotty would knit or sew while Aunt Clara read, sometimes out loud, sometimes silently during the afternoons.

The room was part of Aunt Clara’s bedroom, but she called this area her library. The entrance to where she actually slept was hidden by a wooden door that simulated part of the library shelves. Yes, there was a library downstairs, but that was where Eleanor’s uncle, a retired naval officer, had spent the afternoons with Aunt Clara before his death. Memories of the time they had spent there had been too much, so after his passing Aunt Clara kept the library just as he had left it, with books on the floor, on chairs, and on the desk, opened to the pages he had last looked at or marked. She had never used that room again.

Eleanor sat in the armchair in front of her aunt and took her hands. Her aunt’s clear blue eyes continued to look out the window.

Aunt Clara? Aunt Clara, it’s me, Eleanor. I’m back from my trip! It was beautiful, just as you described. She waited. Aunt Clara, look at me. Please look at me, Aunt Clara. It’s me, Eleanor.

She had left the door slightly open, and Dotty peered in. She looked at Aunt Clara and then at Eleanor but did not step inside the room. Instead, she indicated to Eleanor that she would be outside and softly closed the door.

Marguerite would know what to do! Eleanor’s aunt said suddenly. Marguerite always knew what to do. Why isn’t she here? Why do they not call her? Will you call her?

She made this last request looking directly at Eleanor. However, there seemed to be no inkling of recognition from Aunt Clara toward her niece. It was as if she were looking at a stranger on the street, as if Eleanor were a simple passerby.

Yes, said Eleanor. If you tell me where I can find her, I will tell her to come.

Aunt Clara still kept her gaze upon her niece but said nothing. Then she slowly turned her head back to the window and remained silent.

Eleanor waited as silence enfolded the room; only the regular breathing of Aunt Clara could be heard. Finally, after the light coming in from the window completely disappeared, Eleanor got up, turned on the standing lamp next to the same window, and left the room.

Dotty was waiting outside, pacing the hallway, tiptoeing to make sure she made no noise. She had a letter in her hand.

Dotty, can you tell me exactly what happened the day you noticed the change? asked Eleanor.

Well, Miss, we went to church, it was this past Sunday, and she was fine until then, giving me the list of things she wanted to do during the week, whom she wanted to visit. Well, you know, Miss, all energy she is when she’s fine.

Dotty sighed. Then, Miss, when we left the church, she seemed very deep in her own mind. Didn’t talk much or anything. I thought perhaps she wasn’t feeling very well, but she said she just wanted to lie down a bit. She paused. "She spent that whole afternoon sleeping, and when Mrs. Gates came to tea, I had to tell her that Mrs. Jenkins wasn’t feeling well. I didn’t know what else to say, you see, because Mrs. Jenkins, when I went up to get her ready, didn’t want to get up.

Oh! she said, suddenly remembering. But the worst of it was that she didn’t even seem to know me, Miss. Now tears were trickling down her face. And that’s when I called the doctor and Mrs. Stella, because I knew you, Miss, were traveling and would not be back until today."

So it’s been three days, well, four, if we count today, that she’s been like that?

Yes, Miss.

Dotty then looked down at her hands and handed the letter to Eleanor.

I don’t know who this Marguerite is, but since Tuesday, Mrs. Jenkins has been asking for her, inquiring if she’s coming. But she didn’t write to her, she wrote to her … it’s a muddle, Miss! said Dotty, looking confused at the envelope.

Eleanor looked down at the envelope in her hand.

Do you want me to post it, Miss? Dotty asked.

Eleanor read the name and address. It’s addressed to Catherine DeBois, Paris, she said. Not Marguerite.

Yes, Miss.

When did she write it?

I don’t know, Miss. I saw it just this morning on the table near the window. Her writing table was open. It must have been last night. Maybe?

Eleanor stared at the name on the envelope, puzzled. She had absolutely no recollection of anyone named Catherine DeBois. Let me hold on to this, Dotty, and I’ll let you know.

Very well, Miss. Dotty was wringing her hands as if undecided.

Dotty? Is there anything else?

Dotty looked down the hall. There was no one. Then she whispered, She speaks German, Miss.

Who speaks German?

Dotty nodded toward Aunt Clara’s room.

Aunt Clara? asked Eleanor, half chuckling.

Dotty nodded very seriously.

Eleanor was baffled.

They walked toward the stairs and stopped at the top.

Will you be coming tomorrow, Miss? asked Dotty, slightly anxious.

Yes, I will. She took Dotty’s hands in hers, still clutching the envelope. Call me if anything comes up, will you? No matter what time.

Yes, Miss.

Thank you, Dotty. No, don’t go down, I’d rather you get her ready for bed. She smiled at the young housemaid.

And with that, Eleanor turned and went down the stairs toward the entrance.

Chapter

Two

ELEANOR

As the morning light filled Eleanor’s small flat, she rose, made her way to the little kitchenette not far from her small bedroom, and placed her bright red kettle on the burner.

How she loved her small apartment! It gave her solace and permitted her to shut out the rest of the world.

She turned from the burner and, looking from the kitchen mantle over the half wall, focused on the sofa in the living room. The fabric had lost its original sky-blue color years ago, but she adored the sofa and wouldn’t change it for the world! The glass coffee table in front of the blue sofa had its identifying scratches, and a small table with a lamp and a telephone completed the pieces of the room that served as the entrance and living room.

Her small bedroom, with a linking bathroom, was to the right of the living room. She smiled as she remembered describing the small flat to her mother the day she rented it. You go in, to the right you sleep, to the left you eat, and in the center you receive your friends. Totally complete!

The bedroom was large enough for a bed, one bedside table with a lamp, an armoire, a small chest of drawers, and a huge window that overlooked the garden of her small apartment building. The garden was shared by all the neighbors; there were only three renters, and one was a family with two small children.

The kettle sang its piercing tune, so taking it off the burner she poured the tea in a huge red teapot she had already placed on a wooden tray with her favorite teacup. Then she grabbed some old scones from a small bread box and placed them on a red plate. She lifted the tray and turned toward the spiral staircase, situated on the left side of the living room, which would deliver her to what she considered her treasure trove.

The house where she lived had been a colossal mansion that was turned into small apartments. The only conflicting flat had been the one Eleanor now lived in. No one had wanted it due to its small size and the fact that it was connected to what once was, without a doubt, the attic.

The attic was extremely tall, with an enormous window on the left side of the room as one arrived on the landing that permitted the same view of the garden as downstairs as well as bestowing an incredible fountain of light.

As Eleanor arrived, leaving the last step of the staircase, she inhaled and sighed pleasantly. This was her favorite spot in the whole world. This was where all the magic happened. This was where anything and everything was possible!

Against the longest wall was her large writing table flooded with papers containing color details and designs, typewritten sheets, colored pencils, pens, cards, and a big black typewriter. Above the mess was her corkboard—well, if one really looked hard for a gap between everything stuck to it, one could see it was a corkboard. This was where she worked at what her sisters believed was her way of making a living: creating greeting cards. She devised the designs and the wording. She loved the craft and enjoyed creating happy thoughts or jokes for all the different seasons and corresponding holidays, not to mention birthdays.

However, this was also the place where every day she became B. Hubbard, the famous children’s book writer. She had contrived a way to make learning to read easier and more fun than in the old readers she had been subjected to when she was growing up. She had also gone on to write short stories for those more advanced.

At the same time, it was here in her cozy nook that she had reinvented herself to become Zela Tusheva, the famous romance author who published short novels of innocent passion for young ladies, sold at the kiosk every month. No one in her family knew she was Zela Tusheva and, as far as she was concerned, no one ever would.

She placed the tray on the table and sat down on the chair. She had a framed photograph of Aunt Clara, taken some ten years before, flanking the typewriter. She now picked it up, and, focusing on Aunt Clara’s face, she sighed and said, And all this thanks to you.

She still remembered that day when Aunt Clara had appeared on her mother’s doorstep requesting to talk to Eleanor, to give her a piece of her mind, as she had said. It was that speech, still lingering in Eleanor’s mind, that made her react, pick up the pieces that had broken, and start over with a new perspective, untried ambition, and different personal goals for her life.

The telephone rang.

Eleanor? It was her sister Stella.

Hello, Stella.

Oh, thank Heaven! she said. Were you able to see Aunt Clara?

Yes, of course. I went last night as soon as I left my bags at home.

Was the doctor there? she asked anxiously.

Yes, although I don’t know if he knows what to do. I think we may need to call a specialist.

Of course we need another doctor! said Stella impatiently. This one could die on Aunt Clara just by bending over to look down her throat! After all, he was born last century, wasn’t he?

There was a pause. Eleanor, she said, now in another tone, I’m not going to be much help. I feel really tied down with the baby and all.

Yes, of course, I fully understand.

Then there is Fred too….

There was a slight choking sound.

Stella?

Yes, yes, I’m here, she said with a trembling voice.

He’s going to lose his job after all, answered Eleanor for her sister. They had been expecting it for some time.

Well, it certainly does seem that way, and—and he is looking for something, anything really, but it’s so complicated right now, and with three mouths to feed and our savings put in the house, I don’t know…. Her voice had started to crack.

Don’t you worry! I’m in charge, and I’ll keep you informed of everything. I am sure Dotty, Cook, and I can manage, and there is James, ‘My James,’ as Dotty calls him. She tried to humor her.

Stella laughed a little. Thank you, Eleanor, she said, relieved.

A baby started to cry in the background. Sorry, I have to run, said Stella.

All right, send my kisses to all.

I will—and oh! Don’t worry about Martha. I’ll let her know and keep her informed. You don’t need to call her.

Thank you, Stella, said Eleanor, playing with the phone cord while she winced.

Goodbye.

Goodbye.

And with that they hung up.

Eleanor stared at the letter Dotty had given her the night before. She had been so tired that she had just run upstairs and left it on the typewriter.

Her publisher had asked her to go to France to meet the owner of a subsidiary publishing company who wanted to translate and publish her children’s book in French. Maybe, if Dotty could hold down the fort, she could go and personally ask this Mrs. DeBois to come back with her to London for a few days. Maybe that was all that was needed.

Chapter

Three

THE LETTER

Eleanor stood on the corner of rue LeGrandes, staring at her map. She didn’t know if she should go to the left, to the right, or across the street. On top of that, the wind that morning prevented her from being able to completely unfold her tattered map, so she spent some time turning it from one side to the other without being able to see the whole display of where she was.

The street didn’t have too much traffic, and hardly anyone was walking on the sidewalk. It was an old residential area with no commerce in sight. Adjoining white houses ran down both sides of the street, and all the houses were just that, white, and not blackened by the passing of time. They must have been repainted some years back. All had four red brick steps leading up to an onyx front door, with a dark iron banister running along each side. The doors had a huge bronze knocker that made Eleanor think that if she knocked on one of them, the sound would surely cascade all the way down the street, prompting the other residents to open their doors. To the right of each door, overlooking the street, was a window with white sheer curtains.

Very well, Eleanor thought. Let’s see, odd numbers are on this side and even numbers are on the other side.

Looking in both directions before crossing, making sure she was looking toward where the traffic was actually coming from, because in England traffic was reversed, she made her way to the other side, passing houses until she reached number thirty-six.

Looking up at the onyx door, she took a long, deep breath. She rechecked her map, looked up again, and sighed. Well, if she was going to do it, there was no point in stalling. She went up the steps and grabbed hold of the knocker. That’s when she saw the doorbell and rang that instead.

At first, there was no sound from inside. Just my luck, no one is home, she thought. Then she heard a young voice say, Je l’aurai, je l’aurai, which in French means, I’ll get it, I’ll get it, and the door was opened with an impulsive swing. There, standing before her, was a young brunette teenager with a light-green turtleneck sweater, blue jeans, and the biggest brown eyes Eleanor had ever seen.

Bonjour! said the young girl enthusiastically, pushing her long hair from her eyes.

Bonjour! replied Eleanor in a slight English accent. My name is Eleanor Timboult, and I am looking for Mrs. Catherine DeBois. She is a good friend of my aunt, who has recently written to Mrs. DeBois. I thought I would bring the letter personally instead of sending it through the post.

She opened her large navy-blue bag and pulled it out, surprised she found it on her first try. The young girl looked at the letter and then, smiling, said in English with a French accent, There must be some mistake, because there is no Mrs. DeBois here.

Eleanor went blank for a few seconds. She had thought of every possible scenario except for the possibility that the lady didn’t live there. She had thought about what she would say to convince the lady to come back to London with her, convince her family, or even think of a way to bring Aunt Clara to her, but not once did she ever think there would be no Mrs. Catherine DeBois at the address on the letter.

Maybe she moved and left a forwarding address? she asked the girl, while she also wondered if perhaps someone of the household older than the teenager would have the information.

No, I don’t think so, she answered matter-of-factly.

Eleanor stared down at the envelope again. This is rue LeGrandes number thirty-six? she inquired.

Yes, yes, said the teenager, also looking at the address on the envelope. But there is no Mrs. DeBois.

Are you sure? asked Eleanor insistently.

The girl began to look slightly annoyed. Yes, yes, I am sure. This house has belonged to my family for years. My grandmother lived here during the war, so I am sure. I am so sorry.

Maybe I have the wrong number? Have you ever heard of a Mrs. Catherine DeBois?

No, I am sorry. I must go now, said the teenager.

Yes, yes of course. I’m sorry, thank you, said Eleanor, staring down at the envelope.

Okay! said the young girl.

Eleanor turned and heard the door shut. She went down the steps, then stood there wondering whether to go to the left or to the right. But what did it matter? Now what was she to do? Aunt Clara was not getting any better, and everyone thought this would be the solution. She went to the right after hugging her navy-blue coat closer to her chest to protect herself from the wind, while all the time she clutched the letter in her left hand.

At the end of the street, she turned to the right, then went on a few steps further, only to turn around again. She saw a bus stop on the corner, so she sat on the bench at the stop and tried to figure out what to do next.

This was all so strange. Aunt Clara would never make a mistake like that. Or would she? Was she actually losing her mind? What was happening to her? One didn’t lose one’s mind between one day and the next! Strong-willed, assertive Aunt Clara, how could that be? Maybe⁠—

Madame? Madame? Eleanor heard a soft voice say. She looked up and saw a man of about her own age peering down at her from a slight distance.

Yes? she said.

"Excuse me, Madame, are you the lady who is looking for Mrs. Catherine DeBois?" He knew the answer already because his daughter had described her perfectly: red hair, green eyes, tall, thin, somewhat on the gawky side, big feet, large dark navy-blue coat and bag.

Yes, I am. Eleanor rose. She and the man were the same height.

She doesn’t have big feet at all; they are appropriate for her size, he thought, as he looked into her lovely green eyes.

"I think I may be able to help you. Please excuse my daughter, Madame, she has probably never heard the name and, I must confess, I have not heard it myself in a long,