by Clara Cody
The Haunting of Ripewood Manor
Clara Cody
Copyright
The Haunting of Ripewood Manor
Clara Cody
Copyright 2019- Clara Cody
All Rights Reserved
All rights reserved. No part of this story may be used, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the copyright holder, except in the case of brief quotations embodied within critical reviews and articles. This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental. This book contains sexually explicit content which is suitable only for mature readers.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Disclaimer
Clara Cody's Newsletter
Prologue | Eloise
Chapter One | Stephanie
Eloise
Chapter Two | Stephanie
Chapter Three | Eloise
Stephanie
Chapter Four | Stephanie
Chapter Five | Stephanie
Eloise
Chapter Seven | Stephanie
Eloise
Chapter Eight | Stephanie
Chapter Nine | Stephanie
Chapter 10 | Stephanie
Chapter 11 | Stephanie
Eloise
Chapter 12 | Stephanie
Chapter 14 | Stephanie
Chapter 16 | Stephanie
Chapter 17 | Stephanie
Chapter 19 | Stephanie
Chapter 21 | Stephanie
Chapter 22 | Stephanie
Chapter 23 | Stephanie
Chapter 24 | Eloise
Stephanie
Chapter 25 | Stephanie
Eloise
Chapter 26 | Stephanie
Chapter 27 | Stephanie
Eloise
Chapter 28 | Stephanie
Chapter 29 | Eloise
Stephanie
Chapter 30 | Stephanie
Chapter 31 | Stephanie
Chapter 32 | Stephanie
Chapter 33 | Stephanie
Chapter 34 | Stephanie
Chapter 35 | Stephanie
Chapter 36 | Stephanie
Chapter 37 | Stephanie
Chapter 38 | Stephanie
Chapter 39 | Stephanie
Chapter 40 | Eloise
Stephanie
Chapter 41 | Stephanie
Chapter 42 | Stephanie
Chapter 43 | Stephanie
Chapter 44 | Stephanie
Chapter? | Stephanie
Chapter 45 | Stephanie
Chapter 46 | Stephanie
The End
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Prologue
Eloise
1872
Eloise held up the syringe, eyeing the clear liquid. Her fingernail clinked against the hard glass tube as she flicked the bubbles out. Gently, she pressed the plunger into the barrel. When the serum squirted from the tip, she nodded. "Ready."
She stepped towards the bed where Victor straddled her father, kneeling on his arms and pressing down on his mouth. Eloise thought he might snap his neck from the pressure he put on the older man's face. "Be careful, Victor."
Her father's eyes were wide and red; whether with hate or fear, she didn't know. Probably both. He forced strong streams of breath out his nose, across Victor's hands. He began struggling and screaming through Victor's hands as she approached him, syringe in hand. Trying to free himself from Victor's hold, but it was impossible. He was weak from months of malnourishment and thirty years older than Victor.
She leaned over his squirming, withered form. "I've waited for this so long," she said, stroking back white wisps of hair. Taking a deep breath, she added her knee to the weight on his arm so he couldn't wrench free and leave a needle wound. Evidence was the last thing they needed. Stupid and easily bought as the local sheriff was, she didn't think he'd overlook this. Not this time.
With more gentleness than she would have thought herself capable, she nestled the needle tip into a throbbing blue vein. "Goodbye, Father," she said and pressed the plunger through the barrel.
A tear fell from the corner of his eye as his body went slack, leaving a trail along his papery skin.
"All right, Victor," she said, putting a hand on his shoulder. He looked up as though surprised to see her and looked back down at Fredrick's unconscious form. He nodded and climbed off him.
"Is everything prepared?"
He looked between her and Fredrick. "But...isn't there some other way?"
She sighed. This wasn't the first time he'd tried to sway her mind. "You know there's not. We need to hurry."
He didn't respond. Instead, he stood staring, rhythmically clenching and releasing his hands.
"Victor," she repeated, grabbing a hold of his jaw to get his attention. "Is the boat ready?"
He blinked and nodded.
"Good." She released him. "Grab his feet. The sun's almost up, and we don't need anyone catching sight of us."
Chapter One
Stephanie
1875
Stephanie Kitling sat in the salon, waiting for her prospective employer. Her drab, hand-made clothes stood in stark contrast to the rich surroundings of the room. After years in the silent service trade, she was used to fading into the background. If she were wearing the customary maid's uniform, she would have been invisible. And much more comfortable.
She scratched nervously at the rough fabric of her cloth bag. It contained all her belongings. Two books, the few articles of clothing she possessed, some paper and her mother's locket. She planned to purchase a pen and inkwell with her first wages. That dream had been waiting a long time.
The salon doors opened. A woman emerged from behind them, pushing either side open with grace and power. She was tall and slender, her dark hair pulled neatly away from her face. Her presence was commanding and severe. She didn't wear the bright colored dresses that Stephanie was used to seeing. Her dress was dark brown and without adornments other than a gold brooch at her neck.
"Miss Kitling, I presume?" the woman said, crossing the room. She walked like a statue, her hands clasped in front.
Stephanie swallowed and nodded, fumbling with her bag as she rose. Never having been to an interview, she didn't know whether she should curtsy or not. Doing nothing was certainly rude, and rich people were so fussy. She set her bag down and nodded her head demurely.
The woman looked neither pleased nor disappointed, merely gesturing for her to take a seat again. "I understand you spent five years working for the Burbanks, is that correct?"
She nodded. "Yes, ma'am."
The woman looked at her intensely. "I knew them well, once. And what, might I ask, did you do for them?"
Stephanie fiddled with her hands in her lap. "Well...I cleaned, I cooked, and I was a nanny to the children."
"It seems Mr. Burbank regarded you quite well."
Stephanie chewed her lip. S
trangely, she felt almost vulnerable without her bag. Without looking away, she reached down and snatched it up. Clutching the handle, she answered, "That's very kind."
"Might I ask why you left?"
Her pulse quickened. She prayed it didn't show on her face. Her mind went to the gold locket wrapped in the bottom of her bag. She wished she'd worn it. Not to be seen of course, that would raise questions. What is a poor maid doing with an expensive gold locket? Tucked under the neckline of her dress though, so that she could feel it against her skin. But knowing that it was there, and it was hers, was enough.
"The children are bigger now. They didn't require my services any longer," she said, hoping that the much rehearsed response rang true.
"Very well. This position will not require as much as in the Burbank Estate. I have no children, and I already employ a cook. I need only a maid. The position pays two dollars a week, room and board included. Is that satisfactory?"
Stephanie nodded, clutching the wooden handle of her bag. It was more than satisfactory. Two dollars a week was substantially more than she'd ever gotten working for the Burbanks. How come I'm the only one here in regards to the job? Surely many maids would thank their lucky stars for a chance at such conditions.
Perhaps it was the distance. The isolation of Ripewood Manor. She'd spent two days in a stage coach, traveling from the city to the small town of Stoneybridge, and another two hour ride from there to finally arrive at the manor. Stephanie looked forward to the peace and quiet.
A sudden crash from above made Stephanie jump. There was a flurry of movement from somewhere on the second floor. A booming, male voice rang out, loud and desperate. She couldn't make out what he said. Something hit the floor above with a heavy thud, then everything was silent again. Stephanie covered her mouth in shock, her fingertips quivering against her lips.
The woman simply closed her eyes, patiently waiting. "My husband," she said, opening her eyes again. "He is...unwell. I hope that will not be a problem."
She shook her head. "No, ma'am."
"Good. He has a private nurse, so you'll have no cause to disturb him. His nurse cleans his room and his linens. In fact, you'll not need to enter the East Wing of the manor at all. For any reason."
Stephanie nodded, understanding. Privacy was key to keeping one's dignity in sickness. She knew that well.
"Very well, I'm Mrs. Callowell. Follow me."
Stephanie followed her with short, meek steps. Mrs. Callowell drew the doors open. It was strange, Stephanie didn't recall Mrs. Callowell closing them when she entered.
Stephanie followed closely behind Mrs. Callowell, sneaking quick looks over her shoulder at the dark house. A long rectangle of light stretched across the floor of the foyer, but there was little else to light the space. The lady's footsteps echoed through the air, bouncing off the walls. A grand set of stairs carried them up to the second floor. Mrs. Callowell said nothing as she led the way and Stephanie knew better than to speak when she hadn't been spoken to directly. She liked it better that way, in any case. They turned down a hallway and up another set of narrow steps to the servant's quarters. They stopped at the end of a short, narrow hallway.
"This will be your room," Mrs. Callowell said, opening the door. She stood aside to let Stephanie pass.
The room was small and dark. A chill clung to the air. There was nothing more than an iron bed, linens folded at the bottom on top of a thin mattress. It was nothing she wasn't accustomed to, though. Stephanie walked to the window by the end of the bed. Pulling back the heavy curtains, she looked out into the gardens behind the house. The garden's previous glory hung behind a veil of neglect. Once clean hedges were now overgrown, with stray branches sticking out like skeletal limbs. Bright red and purple flowers lay on a bed, intermingled with weeds and tall thistles. She smiled at them. Thistles were Stephanie's favorite plant, but she remembered how Mrs. Burbank loathed them.
Weeds, Stephanie, she'd said. Not unpretty, but certainly out of place and unwanted. Much like you.
A path led to an unkempt maze roughly one hundred meters from the garden. Lacking refinement made the garden all the more beautiful.
Mrs. Callowell cleared her throat from the door. Stephanie spun around, embarrassed that she'd let her mind wander so quickly.
"I presume the room is acceptable?"
"Yes, ma'am," she said, looking down at her feet.
"There are uniforms in the wardrobe. The last maid was about your height although not quite as thin. You can take them in if you wish."
Stephanie nodded. Adjusting clothes was nothing new to Stephanie. Her short stature and slight frame were not typical.
"Very well." Mrs. Callowell reached into her front pocket for her watch. "It is thirty-seven minutes past four o´clock. If you wish, you can take some time to unpack and get settled. When you are ready, see Mrs. Downy in the kitchen. She will inform you of your responsibilities and give you a proper tour of the house. Dinner is served promptly at six o´clock."
The door closed quietly but firmly behind her. Stephanie breathed a heavy sigh and placed her cloth bag on the bed. Despite what the missus had said, she would leave her personal things until later.
She went back to the window, a renewed sense of hope blooming in her chest. A new start, she thought, biting her lip. She could be happy here. When was the last time she could think that?
Eloise
ELOISE CALLOWELL STEPPED into the kitchen. Mrs. Downy had her back to her, kneading dough on the table before turning and wiping her hands on her apron.
When Mrs. Downy had first started working for her, she was a considerably sized woman with vibrant, red hair. Eloise was struck by how her uniform hung limply over her stomach and arms. Her formerly vibrant hair was dull and peppered with streaks of gray. Eloise reminded herself that a new cook's uniform may be in order.
"She's a tad mousy, if you ask me," Mrs. Downy said.
Eloise raised an eyebrow.
"Not that you did."
"She will do. She has experience, so she should need little training. You are in charge of her. Make sure she understands the rules of the house. And our...way of doing things."
Mrs. Downy nodded, her face stern and comprehending.
"I don't think she will have so many questions as the last—" She paused, looking for another word. But the moment quickly passed, and she left it alone.
Mrs. Downy nodded again. She didn't need her to finish the sentence.
Eloise cleared her throat. "Very well. I will be in the study."
Originally, only a room for entertainment purposes, the study was where Eloise spent most of her time now. Stacks of books and stray papers sat on the various surfaces of the room. Her reading table was cluttered with several new stains of black ink.
Eloise entered and locked the door. Her key ring seemed to grow heavier by the day. She sat down behind the desk, flicking through her keys to find the smallest one, the one that belonged to the lock on the desk. Her husband had never bothered with it, but she found it quite useful.
From inside the locked drawer, she pulled her brown leather book and breathed it in, smelling its rich blend of pulp, ink, and leather. She'd only filled half the pages, but already it was thick with use.
Eloise opened the book where a red ribbon marked the last page. "He is growing more lucid by the day," she wrote, under the day's date. "I've told Charles to increase his dose, but I'm not sure that's the best course of action. I've hired a new maid, so I suppose it's the only option, at least until she is more settled. She mustn't be frightened away by the realities of this house too soon."
Chapter Two
Stephanie
AS STEPHANIE ENTERED the kitchen, a short woman with graying red hair looked up at her, putting aside the loaf of bread she was shaping.
"Stephanie, isn't it?" she said, brushing her hands on her apron. "I'm Margaret Downy, you can call me Maggie." She didn't smile but her voice and face had a warmth that put Stephanie at ease.
"This house runs on routine," she began, "or that's the idea. Don't always go that way, but never you mind that." She pointed to the cabinet against the wall. "Here's the china and silverware for the table. Linens in the drawer." She opened the cabinet doors to show the stacks of plates and bowls and shut them again. Opening the opposite door, Maggie continued the tour, leading her through the dining room. "Breakfast is at seven, lunch at twelve, tea at three and dinner at six. You set, serve, clear and clean."
Stephanie stepped into the large, open dining room. A long dark table sat in the center with eight high-backed chairs surrounding it. A long, laced cloth ran the length of the table with an empty, glass vase in the center.
"Mrs. Callowell sits here," she said, gesturing to a chair in the middle of the opposite side. "Set the table for one and remember where she sits."
Stephanie nodded.
A grander door than the one they'd passed through lay in the far wall. It connected with the foyer. Maggie closed the door behind them once Stephanie was through.
"Is the missus particular about keeping the doors closed?" Stephanie asked, shyly.
"Closed and locked in some cases. But you don't have to worry about the locked ones. There aren't many, and you'll never have to use 'em."
Stephanie followed Maggie up the staircase. "The house is large so you have to work fast to get your work done. That bein' said," she turned on Stephanie, "she don't like lazy work either. Make sure a room's clean before you leave it. Hear?"
Stephanie nodded quickly.
"Good." She turned and continued up the stairs. "There used to be more maids but now...you'll have to do it yourself. Of course you're not expected to clean every room. Most of the bedrooms haven't been used in years."
