by Clara Cody
"I think I'll wait outside," Stephanie said quietly. Maggie didn't acknowledge that she'd said anything. Stephanie stepped out without repeating her words. She really didn't want to voice herself in such an oppressively quiet place.
The sun was trying to blink from behind the clouds and she rather wished it just would already. The cold, damp air blew hard between the buildings in the village. The boy passed again, carrying stacks of boxes.
"Ms. Kitling," came a voice from the bottom of the stairs. Theodore Bixley was already striding up the stairs when she recognized who he was.
Stephanie faltered a moment, mouth agape and then peered inside the store. Thankfully, Maggie had the boy stopped in the middle, picking through a box of what looked like onions.
Stephanie stepped away from the door. "Mr. Bixley," she said, with a nod and turned the opposite way, hoping he would leave.
He took off his hat as he stepped before her. "Ms. Kitling, I was wondering if I might have a word."
Stephanie looked down either side of the street. Any way out would do. She listened for a moment. Any excuse at all. "I...I don't think—"
"It will only take a moment of your time and what I have to say is very important." He clutched his hat in his hands. His thin, light brows were pulled together tightly and he wore a genuine expression of concern.
"Haven't you said enough already?" she whispered.
"This isn't about Mrs. Burbank's locket. I want to speak about your position at Ripewood Manor. Please."
Stephanie sighed. "All right. I...I don't think we should talk right here."
"I agree, come this way," he said, taking her gently by the arm and leading her down the stairs again.
She shot a look back and was relieved to see Maggie still had her back turned. She followed Mr. Bixley into a narrow alley to the side of the store. Spare boxes were stacked and strewn along the sides on the packed dirt ground.
"It's important to me that you know that I'm not speaking to you now as an investigator. My concern is not regarding my personal...interest in your case."
"My case?"
"I mean, your involvement with the missing locket."
Stephanie clenched her fists. "I told you, I have no involvement. Mrs. Burbank never even owned a—"
Mr. Bixley sighed, exasperated. "I'm sorry. I came at it the wrong way. I just wanted you to know that my intentions are not murky."
She eyed him skeptically but nodded.
"After I was...sent away, the other day, I did a little research into the history and family living in that house."
Stephanie's heart raced. Isn't this exactly what she'd been warned about, bringing undue attention to the house? Charles's warning face cropped up in her mind. Surely, if they ever found out about this conversation, she'd be fired.
"I don't see how the manor is any of your concern."
"Yes, that's what Mrs. Burbank told me as well."
Stephanie raised her eyebrow. If Mrs. Burbank had her sights set on Stephanie, she'd want to know every detail she could. She couldn't believe that Mrs. Burbank would give up any possible information.
Mr. Bixley held up his hands, asking her to save her judgments. "But I truly believe you are in real danger in that house."
"Danger? What sort of danger?"
"I did some asking around and, apparently, they've had their share of pretty young maids disappear. These women start working for them and, within a year, are gone."
"Ripewood Manor isn't an easy place to work, I'll admit that. Not everyone is up to the task."
"No, no. They didn't leave or get fired. They disappeared."
Stephanie took a step back, shaking her head. "I don't know who you've been talking to, or what you want, but I don't think it's a good idea for us to continue this conversation."
He stepped towards her, grabbing her wrist. "Please just listen to me," he begged.
She tried to twist away from him but it was no use. He had a firm grip on her thin wrists.
"Hey, you!" Maggie yelled from the street. Mr. Bixley dropped her wrist as Maggie's sizable form stomped towards them.
"Tell me," he said, lowering his voice and staring intently. "Tell me there's nothing wrong with that house. If you really think it's perfectly safe, I'll leave you alone. About the locket and everything."
"There..." She glanced over her shoulder. Maggie was hurrying. "I..."
"Tell me," he urged. "Is it perfectly safe? Are you perfectly happy there?"
She tried, she wanted to out of loyalty to Mrs. Callowell, to Maggie who'd been so kind to her. But she just stood there, mouth agape and useless.
He looked relieved, encouraged. He nodded. "All right, then."
"What are you doing here?" Maggie asked, stopping behind her and looking between Stephanie and Mr. Bixley. Stephanie didn't know which of them she was talking to.
"Just having a friendly chat," Mr. Bixley said, smiling as though admiring the fine weather.
Maggie looked him over and furrowed her brow. She huffed and took Stephanie by the shoulders, turning her away from Mr. Bixley.
As she let Maggie lead her away, she felt Mr. Bixley's hand cup her forearm. His hand trailed down to hers and slipped a piece of paper inside. She looked back at him as her hand folded around the thick wad of paper. Wearing a satisfied grin, he nodded confidently as she hurried away.
Stephanie didn't dare look at the note until she was safely back in her room. With shaking hands, she unfolded the small piece of paper.
Dear Ms. Kitling,
If you ever have the desire to contact me, simply leave your message in the hollow of the largest tree to the right of the end of the lane. I will check it regularly. Tell no one of what I told you.
Sincerely yours,
Theodore Bixley
Her head fell into her hand, crumpling the note. She'd done it now. With that note, she was conspiring against her mistress. Against everyone who called this house home.
Chapter 11
Stephanie
STEPHANIE WAS LOST in thought as she went through the motions. Scrubbing pots, plunging the heavy cloth into the water, rinsing soap. Maggie had retired to her room long before and Stephanie was practically finished.
Tonight was the first night she didn't have to fight off drowsiness. Her mind was full, pondering what Mr. Bixley had told her. But what of it? Many places could have a similar history. Employers didn't tend to keep track of past employees, especially when they'd barely noticed said employees in the first place. From what she'd seen of the house in a few short weeks, it would be no wonder if people left quicker than they'd arrived.
Moreover, Mr. Bixley could be using it all as a ruse to gain her trust and possibly her locket. He did have a job to do, after all. And Mrs. Burbank was someone who expected results for her coin.
Then again, she thought, what if Theodore Bixley was right? It didn't take an inspector to know that there was something odd about the manor. She peered over her shoulder, at the dumb waiter.
Drying her hands on her apron, she snuck over to the small window. After looking around, she wedged her fingers underneath the window and slowly lifted it. The wooden door ground within the frame. She flinched and stopped at the groaning creak. The window was open a few centimeters; enough to let a trickle of sound through. Holding the window up with one hand, she leaned across, balancing on one foot, to reach a dirty spoon on the table. After propping the spoon under the window, she leaned her head close to the crack to make out the murmurings seeping through.
Charles's deep, rusty voice traveled down the narrow shoot. She thought at first he must be talking to someone, but no, he was reading again. Reading poetry.
She positioned an arm under her cheek as she listened. He spoke of wandering blossoms and streams fading in the sunlight. He spoke as though giving a performance, wrapping his voice around the words as they fell from his tongue. She closed her eyes, imagining his lips forming the words, meeting and moving apart.
She stood t
here, listening to his voice, taking in his poems, until the darkness crept in around her. When she opened her eyes, they met with darkness. A cold, dense panic came over her. The lantern must have burnt out, she told herself.
She straightened, feeling like a complete fool. She'd forgotten herself, forgotten where she was.
Now, instead of feeling like company, Charles's low, far-away voice just added to the sense of isolation. Of loneliness. Here, in the dark, quiet kitchen, she was alone. The copper pots above the table swung, helpless and harmless above the table. A cold chill ran up Stephanie's spine. She'd left lantern by the washbasin. On the other side of the room.
She couldn't very well stand there all night, she knew that perfectly well. But leaving that spot also required her to move, something she wasn't quite ready to do.
Suddenly, the swinging door creaked gently, its shadow moving slightly. Stephanie's heart clamored. There was no one but her in the room to move the door.
She steeled herself and launched into motion, hurrying across the room to feel around for the lantern. She couldn't find it anywhere. She forced herself to search slowly, terrified of knocking it over, but the longer she looked, the faster her heart beat, urging her hands to move more frantically.
The door swung harder, making loud whooshing noises as it passed through the door frame. She thought her heart would explode. Where could it be? She sucked in her lip, chewing it aggressively to ease her nerves. Without the lantern, she felt helpless, alone.
The door came to a sudden stop as it reached back. She froze, her breath still in her chest, and turned. It stood wide, held open by some unseen, unfelt force.
Stephanie was shocked into paralysis. A choked sob escaped her lips and she stepped back, her hands finding their way to her chest. She found some comfort in clutching her mother's locket. It warmed in her grasp, something she was only vaguely aware of as she backed away from the open door.
She passed the end of the table and rounded it, making her way towards the door. Mrs. Callowell was just down the hall, she reminded herself. She was almost there when she realized she'd forgotten the spoon holding the window ajar. She couldn't leave it there; what if Mrs. Callowell followed her back?
She readied herself and spun towards the window and pulled the spoon free in a fluid motion. The heavy wooden window slammed shut, making her jump. As she turned, something caught her eye in the back door's window.
The shape and shadow of a man stood behind the door. She screamed as it finally registered in her mind. The shadow stood stark still, an imposing silhouette black even against the darkness behind it.
She backed away, smothering her cries with her free hand. The door handle turned, grinding within. The shadow hadn't moved, yet the door creaked open.
Stephanie spun around, meeting a hard body behind her. She screamed wildly in the darkness. Strong, huge arms took hold of her, shook her, held her in place.
"Stephanie!" a man shouted. "It's me! Charles."
She fought, trying to wrestle herself free. "A man," she cried, pointing back. She tried again to get away, distance herself as much as possible from the man in the doorway.
"There's no one there, Stephanie." His arms encapsulated her, pulling her close and she gave in, sobbing. "You're safe. There's no one there."
She looked back over her shoulder. The door remained slightly ajar, letting in an extra crack of moonlight. The crescent moon shone brightly and uninhibited in the window, grinning ruefully down at her.
Eloise
"GODDAMMIT, ELLIE, YOU heard what she said."
Eloise regarded him coolly. "You really needn't always hit the desk for emphasis."
"Very funny," Charles said, clenching his fists.
She was playing off his hot-headedness and he knew it. She was losing him. To her.
"I wonder if you would be so humorous if it'd been you downstairs."
She sat down behind the desk Charles was standing in front of. "She's fine, Charles. And, I dare say, she's learned a valuable lesson about finishing well before midnight and keeping the doors locked."
"A valuable lesson?" he said, his face turning redder. "Are you suggesting this was her fault?"
"Of course not," she said, fighting to maintain her cool tone. De-escalation was key. He would never see things her way when he was heated. "She can hardly be blamed for every deranged vagabond roaming the countryside, but she should know better than to be working alone in a dark room with the doors unlocked."
He stared at Eloise, dumbstruck. "You can't actually believe it was some drifter."
"Of course I do. We have no reason to doubt it."
"You know as well as I do. It was him."
"We don't know that."
"Yes, we do. You just can't admit it."
"How could it be?" she challenged him. "Tell me, how could he manage to get free, climb out the window and return all in a matter of ten minutes? Please, explain that to me."
"I don't know how, but I know it was him. And now he's seen her, too."
She took a deep breath, raising herself from the chair. "Please, think carefully and push all your...personal feelings aside."
"What are you talking about...personal feelings?" he said, folding his arms.
"Think, Charles." She laid a hand on his arm. He flinched but didn't pull away. "Is it so unlikely that it was a wandering vagabond?" Her eyes pleaded with him.
"I'll admit it's not impossible if you'll admit that it is possible that it was him."
She sighed. "Fine," she shrugged inconsequentially. "It doesn't change anything."
He clenched his jaw. "When will it be enough? How many people have to die for you to give up this—"
Her hand flew out, striking him before she even had a chance to register the slap. He was utterly silenced. She could see the sting of it in his eyes.
She'd failed. Any neutrality was gone, replaced by rage. It poured through her like an avalanche. And she let it. "I will never give up," she spat. "The devil can take every single girl and woman in this god-forsaken country before I yield my husband. I will never abandon him."
That wounded him even more than the slap, she could see it on his face. She only dug her heels in deeper. "I doubt Victor would be so easily distracted by a pretty face if it were you tied to a bed upstairs."
His face twisted, looking pained. "Don't—"
"To think of all he's done for you. And you're content with letting him rot. All for a woman you've known a few weeks. I'm glad he doesn't know what a coward you are."
"Stop," he muttered weakly. But it was too late. He'd barely uttered it before he'd fallen to his knees in front of her. He latched on to her waist like a life raft, burying his face in her gown. "I didn't mean it," he cried. "I'd never...I swear, I won't."
She gently stroked the back of his head. "Shush," she cooed, softly, feeling vindicated. Triumphant. "There, there."
Chapter 12
Stephanie
STEPHANIE...
It was like some far away whisper.
Stephanie...
A prayer.
"Stephanie!"
She opened her eyes.
Stephanie groaned, her mind in a thick cloud. The room was bright...brighter than it should be. Her mouth was dry and her tongue felt thick and heavy. She had to get up. She was already late. But even just sitting up in bed was a struggle. Her head throbbed with the movement.
She'd slept like the dead, somehow, although all the details seemed foggy. She vaguely remembered Mrs. Callowell and Charles taking her to her room and giving her a small tablet; something to help calm her nerves and help her sleep. It had worked but only in the most superficial sense. Her nerves were slowly returning as the mist around her brain cleared. As heavy as she'd slept, she didn't feel the slightest bit rested.
When the throbbing pain in her head subsided slightly, she pushed herself from the bed. She wiped her face and looked into the mirror, uttering a gasp. She barely recognized herself. Her skin had a
sallow look and thin feel. Dark circles settled under her eyes. Her hair was brittle and lifeless. She'd never considered herself a great beauty but her looks had also never been cause for alarm.
Even working in the Burbank household hadn't wreaked so much havoc on her appearance. Cowering before Mrs. Burbank and dodging Mr. Burbank's clawing hands had never caused such a drastic decline in her health.
With shaking hands, she fixed her hair back into a tight bun. White scalp peeked out from beneath her once thick hair. She looked into the mirror, eyes fixed on her own.
"There's something wrong with this house," she said aloud, grasping the basin. "It's consuming me bit by bit." If she didn't do something about it, there wasn't going to be anything left.
"...and don't forget about cleaning under the basin today," Maggie called as she trotted out the back door. Her work in the kitchen was done until Stephanie finished cleaning after lunch.
But first, she had to serve Charles his lunch. She collected all the dishes and silverware from the cupboard room and neatly organized them on the tray with the food. Stephanie hadn't seen him at all today. Surprising, after the previous night. She'd half expected, half hoped that he'd be worried about her. She shook the thought from her mind. You're just the maid, they don't care about you. You're on your own.
She covered the tray and picked it up. It was heavier than usual. Had she'd put more food on than normal, or was it because she knew she'd be carrying it farther than just the dumbwaiter? She turned towards the servant's door, the door she was supposed to use. However, using that door would take her a few more minutes than if she just went straight through the other door. But going straight down the center of the house meant passing by the study and possibly getting caught by Mrs. Callowell. That wouldn't do.
She bit her lip softly and started towards the door, meekly at first. Carefully balancing the tray, she elbowed the door open and peered into the hallway. The coast was clear.
Pushing it completely open, she winced at the groaning hinges. She slipped past and hooked her foot around the edge to draw it closed again. She stood in the hallway, listening for any hint that Mrs. Callowell might have heard her. There was nothing.
