Doris took one last glance. She opened her eyes with the realization of leaving Humsterville and water seeped out of her tear glands, causing her to insert her index fingers at her caruncle to stop them from embarrassing her.
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She had sat up all night, brushing her father's thin, gray hair with her palms as he snored softly. His forehead had been dry and sticky with sweat as it had been every single night and he heaved his lungs up forcefully to inhale air, producing a low humming sound like a suppressed snore.
She had hated it at first, sitting by her father to brush his hair back while her mind wandered to places she loved but wasn't allowed to be like the cinema. Then she had to go sit there, night after night, sometimes singing the songs her nanny had sung to her as a baby, inserting his labored breathing into the melody.
Soon, she began to sit facing the clock at the dinner table so that once it struck 8, she could run all the way up the flighty stairs to the master's suite, throw the windows open, pick up a wet towel, and speak soft words of encouragement to her fidgeting father as she wiped beads of perspiration off his forehead. In fact, she now loved to sit in his bed more than she had loved singing under the moon.
But now, all of that was nothing but memories.
"Doris? You would come with me now" she understood the firmness in the voice even when Lady Shirley had a side of her cheek turned upward with her hands tucked away in her skirt in the 'perfect lady's poise.
As she turned her back on everything, she allowed her thoughts wander as her body swayed to the rhythm of the galloping road, pretending that she wasn't riding in a carriage that would take her straight into slavery even though she had been told it was to repay her father's debt.
The Gardener's Court was as large as it had been rumored to be. It was not much of a sight to behold with its boring outlook and blurry window panes. It seemed like whoever built the place had removed a cardboard drawing and placed it on a large expanse of land because there was barely any artistic prowess in sight.
Doris walked behind Lady Shirley so she could swing her head to the left to see girls barely older than herself hand-picking grasses in the field and then to the right so she could watch the young men whose age she couldn't guess, milk the cows. When they got to the large iron door, Lady Shirley struck the large handle on the front and the door swung open before the third strike.
This was where the artistry came in.
The walls were coated in marble stones, polished so well it almost threw her reflection flawlessly at her. Luxury armchairs surrounding a glass table that stood proudly on a small rug furnished the parlor. They passed to a large hallway before she could take in anything else. Towards the end of the hallway, Lady Shirley opened a trap door and nudged her head.
Doris gathered her skirt and lowered herself in, praying silently that the rungs of the ladder would bear her weight. She was grateful to see it was quite sturdy even when it looked beaten with age.
The room she had been lowered into was filled with spinning wheels. She went over and ran her fingers lightly over a few of them before turning to catch Lady Shirley's unwavering gaze. She dipped her head.
"We were told that you're a spinner so it pleased Madame to make you repay your father's debt in a most convenient way. Everything you need is here. The cooks will be sure to bring you a meal when the other girls are being served. You are to get to work immediately."
Doris watched the swirl of Lady Shirley's skirts disappear completely up the ladder before allowing the tears to roll down her eyes. She had stopped spinning three years ago because she had suffered severe spinner cramps and this eventually led her father into getting a loan for her treatment.
She wiped her eyes and got to the wheel, testing to see if it was as sturdy as it looked. The fear of being locked up underground, battling with pains in her back and fingers when no one could see returned to her but she took a deep breath to calm her trembling hands and replayed what Mona had said while teaching her to spin.
"The wheel is what you make it to be. A source of money which with time, could bring severe pain because the money is never enough and the cramps seem to never stop, or, a source of therapy; You taking control of the wheel, allowing the repetitive movement of the wheels to form a rhythm that would relax and strengthen you for the work ahead."
Doris closed her eyes, taking in the faint whiff of dust from the yarn, running her fingers lightly over the wheels, she decided she was going to take the wheels and be in control.