Lilly Jane of willowbrook

Chapter Four: faces on the wall

The autumn sunlight filtered softly through the tall windows of Willowbrook, casting golden patterns across the sitting room. The house was quiet, the kind of quiet that invited thoughts and observations. I wandered among the family portraits that lined the walls, my curiosity buzzing like a small, eager bird.

“Grandmother,” I began, trailing after her as she arranged a vase of flowers on the sideboard, “who was my grandfather William like when he was young? And my great-grandfather? Did Father ever get into mischief? What did he do before he met Mother?”

Aunt Elizabeth smiled gently, brushing a strand of hair from my face. “Lilly, your grandfather was a strong, kind man. And your father… your father was clever, full of energy and curiosity, just like you.”

Before I could ask another question, Grandmother’s voice cut in, calm but firm.

“Lilly Jane, enough with the questions. Focus on helping where you are needed.”

I paused, unsure. It was not harsh — Grandmother did not raise her voice, but her words carried authority. Aunt Elizabeth’s smile faltered, and I could see the sympathy in her eyes. She opened her mouth, perhaps to explain, but Grandmother gave her a sharp glance that said without words: Do not encourage her.

I wandered closer to the portraits. The faces stared back at me — men with high collars, women in long dresses, children who looked so much like me I almost expected them to move. I wanted to know everything: their lives, their stories, their laughter and sorrow.

“Elizabeth,” I whispered, careful not to draw Grandmother’s attention again, “what was Father like when he was a boy? Did he like horses? Did he ever sneak into the garden when he wasn’t supposed to?”

Aunt Elizabeth hesitated, then knelt beside me. “He enjoyed simple things. He loved animals and books, and he cared deeply for those he loved. That is what made him so special.”

Grandmother continued her work silently, her face composed, almost stern. But I thought I could see a flicker of something — a brief shadow of sorrow — when she glanced at my father’s portrait. She did not speak of him, yet in her movements and in the careful way she arranged the room, there was love and memory beneath her firmness.

I helped dust the shelves and tidy the sitting room, keeping my questions in mind for another time. I wanted to know my family, to hear the stories that had shaped them, even if Grandmother insisted I not ask too many questions.

And though she was strict, I understood that it was not cruelty I felt in her gaze — it was care, a steady hand guiding me into the ways of our family. I would learn, in time, that her firmness was a way of showing love, even if it did not look like it.