Doomed to Repeat It

When history runs in your family, you tend to know all sorts of stories about old buildings, which was how Elaenore found herself sneaking through the third floor of the Evangeline Westwood building at midnight, armed with only a flashlight. She wiped her hand on her trousers and continued to feel along the right wall of the wing. She cursed her sister for telling her this stupid story, then cursed herself for going along with it in the first place. Westwood University was impressive, but a hidden art gallery owned and inhabited by a ghost was a bit ridiculous. This was a massive waste of time that she should be using to write the art history paper she’d spent a semester procrastinating on, the one worth 20% of her final grade. Research an obscure painting that speaks to you and tell its story. It sounded easier than it was. The problem was, looking at paintings too long made her fingers itch to pick up a paintbrush, and reading about famous artists and their lives and techniques made her jealous. Majoring in art history was supposed to be a compromise.

Elaenore’s fingers hit a button on the stone wall. A door slid open, and she sighed with relief. Maybe this wouldn’t be a waste of time after all. A short walk later, she made it to the gallery and clicked off her flashlight. It was small, and lit with a few lanterns that cast a warm orange glow over the paintings. Elaenore’s breath caught in her throat. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. She began to walk the gallery, taking in each piece. They were all wonderful, clearly curated with a loving, knowledgeable hand, but her eyes couldn’t leave one particular portrait. It depicted a young, dark-haired woman sitting in a candlelit study. Her features were dark and intense, but touched with a soft melancholy. She stared at the viewer with wistfulness, longing, and… something else. Some other gentle emotion. Elaenore pulled out her notebook and began jotting down her observations. She glanced around the room. It didn’t look like the curator would be joining her tonight. If she was real. Oh, well. She had enough inspiration to get this paper written. She checked the nameplate on the painting. My Dearest Evie by Margaret Williams. That made sense. The painting was full of Williams’ characteristic softness in the lighting. She wrote everything down carefully and turned to leave.

“What are you doing here?” Elaenore jumped out of her skin. The words ran through her like a winter wind, icy and bitter. She was standing in front of a flickering, middle-aged woman staring daggers at her. She looked like an older version of the girl in the painting.

“H-hello,” Elaenore stammered. “I was hoping to talk to you about My Dearest Evie. I’m writing a research paper for a class here.” Evie’s eyes flicked over the portrait, and her scowl deepened.

“Leave,” she ordered. Her form flickered dangerously. Elaenore’s heart started pounding. How badly did she need this grade? This was only the final for Intro to Art History, the foundation of her major. The closest she’d get to art school. And she was running out of time.

“This is such a lovely gallery,” she blurted out. “How did you collect all these pieces? And why keep it secret?” Evie settled down slightly, though the ire didn’t leave her eyes.

“Many were gifts,” she said simply. “They were meant for me, not for the public’s prying eyes.” The accusation hung in the air, but Elaenore plastered a smile on her face and pushed forward.

“I’m Elaenore Thatcher. I’m an art history major.” She awkwardly stuck out her hand. Evie looked her up and down and pursed her lips. Elaenore wondered if she should’ve dressed differently. A sharp blazer, turtleneck, and trousers were great for class, but Evie’s portrait was done in the 1800s, about a decade after the school was founded. Maybe she should’ve gone with a skirt. Elaenore dropped her hand. “I’m sorry to bother you,” she said, heart sinking. Evie sighed softly.

“My name is Evangeline Westwood,” she said. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Ms. Thatcher.” Elaenore grinned.

“The pleasure is mine, Ms. Westwood,” she said, fighting to keep the giddiness out of her voice. “You’re one of my mother’s personal heroes.” Ms. Westwood snorted.

“Am I?” Elaenore nodded.

“Your accounts of the university and your family’s history are so detailed. And you did so much to promote women’s rights and education during your time. You’re inspiring.” Elaenore’s cheeks burned, though she thought she could see a blush grace Ms. Westwood’s ghostly cheeks too. 

“It’s nothing special,” Ms. Westwood said, though her expression had softened. “It was a gift to my father.” Elaenore leaned forward, pulling out her notepad. “He had such big dreams for me. It’s why he founded the school. He wanted to give me a future, a career independent of anyone else. We were alone for quite a long time after my mother died. He had no family left, nor did I have any on my mother’s side or any siblings to speak of. He wanted to ensure I was cared for after he was gone. I met my dear… friend, Maggie, here after his passing. She was studying the arts and wanted to paint my portrait. She said it was for history, but I think she just wanted to look at me.” A tiny smile tugged at the corners of her lips. Elaenore’s breath caught in her throat. Ms. Westwood’s face flushed. “You had asked about the painting,” she said defensively. Eleaenore smiled.

“Thank you,” she said. “I appreciate it.” Inside, she pumped her fist. She’d get an A on her paper, Mom would be proud, and she’d finally be able to prove to herself that she’d made the right choice. 

“Well, when Maggie asked to do my portrait, I agreed quickly. After I had given up so many dreams, I couldn’t deny hers.” Elaenore looked over at the portrait, the wistfulness and yearning written on her face, the gentle blush on her cheeks, how soft and utterly beautiful she seemed despite her intensity. There was love there, clearly, for Margaret Williams, but something else, too.

“What did you have to give up?” Elaenore asked, a pit opening in her stomach. Evangeline Westwood smiled, the same wistful look in her eyes as in her portrait. 

“I wanted to be an artist.” Elaenore’s heart sank. “My father would’ve never allowed it, of course,” Evangeline continued. “There wasn’t any money to be made in it. Maggie came from wealth, so she could pursue her passions as she saw fit, but Father and I never had that luxury. I studied at his university, then worked as a governess until his passing. He had no male heirs to inherit over me, so I was able to take full control of the school. I built this little gallery so I could be connected with the thing that brought me joy.” Evangeline’s eyes met Elaenore’s. “You understand.” Elaenore swallowed thickly.

“There’s still no stable future in it,” she said quietly. “Even now. It takes so much work and talent, and even then, it’s difficult to earn enough to live. My family is connected here. We’re historians. We archive, we teach, we record, and collect so the next generation will know their past. At least this way, I can still have a small part in what I love doing.” Tears welled up in Evangeline’s eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I never wanted it to be this way.” Elaenore shrugged and gave her a sad smile in return.

“What could you have done?”

“I tried,” Evangeline said. “My advocacy work. I wanted women to have education and opportunities that would normally be kept from them. And Maggie… She left me young, like my mother did. I was helping her raise her son before she fell ill, so naturally she left him in my care. I encouraged him to pursue his interests. He loved music, art, history, and a number of other subjects. I think he mostly loved to study. He excelled at everything, but especially when he settled down and chose archaeology. I thought I’d done something good, but…” Evangeline sighed softly. “We left everything to him. Our Robert. And look how it turned out.” Elaenore looked at her feet.

“It’s getting late,” she said. “Thank you. I think I have enough for my paper.”

“Of course,” Evangeline said. “It was lovely to meet you, and to speak about my life.” Elaenore nodded and turned to leave. Evangeline called her name. She paused. “Please don’t end up like me,” Evangeline said. 

“I’ll do my best,” Elaenore answered. She slipped out of the gallery and snuck back outside. The cool December air was still and quiet as she walked back to her dorm. Elaenore crept up to her room and slipped in, careful not to wake her roommate. She changed quietly and sat at her desk, staring at her notes. How could she make sense of all this? This mess of regrets and history and love? She tried to make an outline with what she had, but her head was swimming, and her eyes drooped. She began to sketch lightly, trying to sort her thoughts into something useful. Her roommate stirred, and Elaenore paused as the other girl drifted back to sleep. She looked back at her notepad and found Evangeline’s face staring back at her.

Elaenore made an appointment with her academic advisor and returned to her work. She had to write this paper because art history was still required for a fine arts degree, but she could figure the rest out in the morning. Starting over would be hard work, but that was the price to pay for a life without regret.