The Prisoner of Rosings Park

De: Carrie Mollenkopf

Narrado por: Virtual Voice

Duración: 5 h y 9 m

Resumen del Editor

Rosings Park, Kent 1799....
Catherine de Bourgh stared down at her daughter with distaste. She had never wanted children, much less the disappointment of a girl. What good was a female to anyone? The lives of women were dictated by men, and even in death, those same creatures had the final word. To make matters worse, the child was rather small, and had bouts of colic and every other infant ailment that one could imagine. The doctors had tried all manner of remedies, eventually giving up hope that Anne de Bourgh would live past infancy. But she had survived, and now returned her mother’s stare with equal disdain, if not outright contempt. Where most children eagerly desired the attentions a parent lavished upon them, Anne de Bourgh all but ignored her mother, showing complete favoritism to her father. It was to the welcome arms of Lewis de Bourgh that she reached, and upon his shoulder that she slept. And if offered to the one who carried her and bore the pains of labor, Anne screamed in refusal.
“Papa? Where is my Papa?” five-year-old Anne demanded when brought before her mother.
It was in the parlor, a place that was forbidden unless Papa permitted her to accompany him. Here, she must manage a clumsy curtsey and be quiet, for fear of upsetting Mama. Looking about for her favorite parent, Anne’s eyes grew fearful with the alteration of the once bright and cheery chamber. Now, all was draped in the darkest of black. The clock had been stopped and a cloth lay atop the mirror in which she and Papa had made faces. Mama too, was dressed in black, a color that did not favor Catherine’s sallow complexion and perpetual frown.
“Your Papa is dead,” Catherine announced flatly, as if the statement were nothing more than a comment upon the weather.
“Dead? What is dead?” the little girl demanded, still peering about for her father. Known for a great game of hide-and -seek, she believed he was simply behind a chair, or perhaps the curtains. Rushing about, Anne searched frantically as her mother exhaled sharply in exasperation. The day had been trying enough with visits from the vicar and solicitor. Of them, one had been of no comfort, and the other, had incited a rage that was only controlled by a measure of strong spirits. Even now, Catherine still held the glass, its contents nearly gone, but her hand shook as she attempted to rein in the last living memory of Lewis de Bourgh.
“Anne, stop this instant! Your Papa is not hiding, he is dead, and not coming back. Do you understand me?” Catherine shouted, causing the child to halt her efforts.
“Gone? Forever? What did you do to him?” Anne screamed, and threw herself upon her mother’s skirts. But it was not to hide a face filled with the expected tears. No, Anne tore at the delicate silk, ripping jet beads and lace until the gown was ruined. Only when spent, did she allow her mother to lift her onto her lap.
“It is just you and me now. We must be strong together, for we are alone,” Catherine soothed, daring to stroke Anne’s dark curls.
“Alone?” Anne repeated, not understanding the sudden shift in her mother’s tone.
“Yes, but it is not all bad. For when one is alone, there is no one to deny you anything.”