Excerpt

This excerpt is from Rain Dodging. ¹
It is my account of my visit to the estate of Anne Finch,
the poet who inspired my book:

Writing was a means of objectifying her inner world of imagination. Writing freed her from the helplessness and passivity that were her lot as a woman. There was liberation in the act of writing.

Yes.

I was heading toward Eastwell, the Winchilsea estate. The farther I traveled on the narrow Kent road to Boughton Lees—Westwell, Goat Lees, Boughton Aluph, Kemps Corner—toward Wye, the more peace and contentment flowed within me. I imagined Anne being driven home by carriage to Eastwell, after visiting her dear friends, Lord and Lady Thanet, in nearby Hothfield, where I had practiced my driving.

One curve unfolded into another. Approaching an English cottage at the curve of a road bordered by Hawthorne hedgerows—another perfect stand-in-time moment, an indescribable feeling of belonging there. But I didn’t, and the ache of it made my throat hurt. I had to have lived here in a previous life. The pull was too strong. It held on to me too magically.

Under a stunning, ominous sky, I pulled up to Eastwell. There were several vehicles in the car park, beyond arched gates but a distance from the gray stone and turreted manor. The charming ivy-covered country house was magnificent. I walked from my car up to the estate in refreshing wind. I passed through the outer cobbled courtyard, walking by neatly stacked rows of firewood. Inside, I found oak-paneled walls with leaded windows and a fire burning full in the large stone fireplace that scented the inviting space. Only one of the deep leather armchairs and love seats was occupied. I sat. No one bothered me, even though, clearly, I was not dressed for the wedding reception taking place.

The vast manor house was gorgeous, and the gardens were spectacular. Though not the initial seventeenth-century home, the garden walls were original. Up until that time I had failed to sense Mary’s presence, but here in the gardens Anne’s gentle presence was everywhere. No wonder she was content to leave the court after James and Mary were deposed. What a fruitful place. I walked around to the back of the estate. The wedding party was being photographed on the terrace steps. I snuck a few photos.

I sat under a flowering tree in the east garden, avoiding intermittent drizzle, soaking in the walled garden and breathing in the colors, wondering how it would feel when I painted from home, using photos I took. When I cried at the end of Lord Attenborough’s PBS series on trea- sure houses of Britain, when the camera panned the staircase on the last episode, had it been Eastwell? Was this where I had lived a previous life?6 What fitting happenstance that would be. Kismet.

I could have stayed there for days, but the storm was imminent. Regretfully, I said my imaginary goodbyes to dear Anne and continued on. I wish I had thought to look for her burial site when I was there to pay my deep respect.

It was time to head east to the Straight of Dover. 

¹ p 232-234.