by Clara Cody
When she reached the other side of the room, she released a sigh. The hardest part was over. But it was also no time to dawdle. Without sparing another moment, she continued down the hallway. The tray's heaviness was starting to wear on her muscles. Her arms pulled and ached with the strain, but she continued. She rounded the corner of the staircase and ascended quickly.
At the top, she turned toward the East Wing. She took a deep breath and forced one foot in front of the other. Physically, it was the same looking hallway as the West. The window at the end was the same size and let in the same amount of light in. The halls had the same width and height. So why did it feel so dark, so closed?
A certain oppressive heaviness seemed to permeate the walls, making Stephanie feel small and scared. She felt as though she were shrinking in the massive hallway. Pulling the tray closer to her chest, she turned away. She was about to carry the tray back down the stairs and simply deposit it in the dumbwaiter like she was supposed to, but she stopped herself. You must go on.
The necklace weighed around her neck, the chain digging into her skin. She didn't let any of the thoughts plaguing her, creeping through her mind, stop her. She couldn't.
That's when she noticed the voices in the air. Whispers, a laugh; all traveled down the hallway towards her. She could make out the timbre of Charles's baritone voice. He wasn't reading poetry again; she could tell by the way he spoke. It lacked melody.
She stopped outside the door from where his voice was sounding. There, she thought. That's where they keep Mr. Callowell. On the other side of the hallway stood a heavy-looking, dark wooden chair and a small table. She placed the tray on the table, relieving her aching arms. Smoothing her hair, she stepped forwards. A quiet knock echoed down the hall as she rapped on the door.
"What the hell..." Charles said from the other side of the door. Footsteps approached.
Oh, God. Stephanie began to regret coming. She dreaded the look on his face when he would see her. No, she told herself, don't skitter away like a rabbit. She steeled herself to face him as the door was thrown open.
Charles's jaw dropped when he saw her. An army of butterflies fought angrily in her stomach and any thought of excuses was dashed from her mind.
"I..." she tried.
His eyes grew wide and he pushed her to the side so he could look around her down the hall. As he checked for additional company, Stephanie's eyes fell inside the room for a split second.
The long, loose-skinned face of a man stared back at her. He was handsome despite his sallow, haggard appearance. She recognized him immediately. The man from the picture in the parlor, with Mrs. Callowell. Victor. A wide, thin-lipped grin cracked across his face.
"Ahh," he said. "There's my savior."
"Jesus," Charles cried, pushing her out of the man's line of sight and back into the hallway. He jumped out of the room with her, shutting and locking the door behind him. "What are you doing here?" he cried, grabbing her by the arms. "You're never to come here!" He shook her gently, but she could tell he was retraining himself.
"I...your lunch," was all she could squeak out.
"Lunch?" he said, his eyes wide.
His shock gave her a moment, long enough to recover. "Yes, lunch," she said, shaking herself from his grip. "I couldn't manage the dumbwaiter, and I didn't want you to starve."
"You've been here weeks and the dumbwaiter was never a problem," he said, his eyebrows deeply furrowed.
"It was stuck. I couldn't open it." She looked at the floor, she couldn't risk him catching the lie in her eyes.
A sound traveled through the door. It was a soft humming. Her jaw dropped, and she looked at Charles. "That song..." She felt her legs were about to give out. "How does he know that song?"
"Damn it," he said, taking hold of her arm. He started pulling her down the hall. "You can't be up here."
"No one is supposed to know that song!"
Laughter chased them down the hallway. Loud, maniacal and vicious laughter without a drop of mirth.
When they rounded the corner, he spun around on her again. "You can never, ever be up here. Do you understand?" Before she could speak, he turned again, practically dragging her down the next hallway and the stairs after.
He didn't let her go until they were in the kitchen. He rushed towards the dumbwaiter and threw it open. He looked back at her, nostrils flared, his mouth a tight line. "Stuck, was it?"
She abandoned her planned excuse of being too weak to open it. It was too late for that. He knew as well as she did that it had been no mistake.
"How does he know that song?" she asked, returning his stare.
His nostrils flared and he inhaled sharply. "How do you know that song?"
She crossed her arms in front of her chest.
He sighed. "Do not," he said, jabbing a finger in her direction, "enter the East Wing again."
She clenched her jaw. Delicately, she picked up the edges of her apron and gave him a deep, spiteful curtsy.
He slammed the dumbwaiter's window shut. The impact resonated through the silence. When she looked up again, he was already wrenching open the door to flee the room.
As soon as he was gone, she fell back, bracing herself on the table. It took all her strength to not fall to the floor.
Where had a mad man learned her mother's song?
That evening, Stephanie finished her cleaning duties long before midnight. The sun had fallen and most of the house had retired for the night when she snuck out of her room, her heavy coat wrapped tightly around her. She held the collar close to her neck, blocking out the wind, as the other hand curled around the rolled bit of paper in her pocket. In her other pocket was the note Mr. Bixley had given her. Since she didn't have any pen or ink yet, she couldn't write him, telling him what had happened. She didn't have the nerve to try to sneak away from the kitchen or parlor with one. What if she got caught? The best she could hope for was that he would find the blank papers and assume she was ready to listen. It might be a long shot but it was her only course of action at the moment.
Stephanie stood in front of the door and placed a hand on the cold brass doorknob. Her heart pounded in her ears. On the other side of the door was darkness and cold. Her mind went back to the previous night and the vision of the man in the window. Mrs. Callowell said it was a wandering beggar. It was certainly possible, but Stephanie didn't believe it. She didn't believe Mrs. Callowell did either. But it didn't change the fact that there was someone outside. Possibly waiting. He might still be there. She'd never been a brave girl. Never had to be.
Regardless of who it had been, she had to go out to the tree. She knew that. Mr. Bixley is the only one who wants to help me.
She took a deep breath eased the lock around, engaging the metal workings within. It snapped and was free. The doorknob turned and opened quietly.
Outside, the sky was dark and speckled with stars. The crescent moon grinned down at her, as though amused. Cold wind nipped at her nose and cheeks. Her breath came out in swirling puffs of smoke.
She forced her eyes on the steps in front of her. No good would come from looking around and taking in the ominous atmosphere. She scurried down the steps and along the pathway. Trees lining the path swayed and rustled with the howling wind. Stray leaves blew across the hard-packed earth and crunched under her feet. She used to love the sound they made. Now, it just reminded her of the silence left afterward.
The path before her was long and black. She could scarcely see two meters in front of her and had to rely on her memory for where the tree would be. Her heart beat faster than it had inside the house, but she resisted the urge to look over her shoulder. If she looked back, even once, she wouldn't stop and she'd never make it to the end of the road. Instead, she quickened her pace.
At long last, the tree came into view. She ran the rest of the way and almost collapsed when she reached it.
Once she'd caught her breath, she searched for the hollow Mr. Bixley had spoken of. She found it, as he'd s
aid, on the north side. It sat above her head. She stood on her toes, straining her shoulder to reach the black hollow. Fumbling with the papers, she dropped them into the hole.
There, she thought, dropping back to the soles of her feet, it is done.
It wasn't until she was back inside her own room that her heart began to slow its drumming. Inside her room was the only place where the silence felt natural, welcome. At the same time, she worried for any sound that might disturb it. The creak of floorboards perhaps, the whistle of the wind.
She changed out of her heavy dress and into her nightgown quickly. If she didn't go to bed soon, she'd be feeling like a corpse in the morning. She stopped, cringing. It was a stupid thing to let cross her mind.
A chill entered the room as she closed the wardrobe doors. She whirled, searching. The curtains were pulled back from the window, which was opened a crack. She knew for certain that she hadn't opened it.
She rushed to the window and slammed it closed, catching sight of something her eyes could not believe.
A woman stood beyond the garden, between the plots of dying flowers and barren bushes. Too far away to clearly make out her features. Was it Mrs. Callowell? No, this woman wasn't nearly as tall as her. Who was she? Her dark hair hung motionless around her face despite the wind. She stared directly at Stephanie, her eyes boring deep into her.
Stephanie gasped, stepping backward. The windowsill cut off the bottom of the woman's torso. Stephanie couldn't remove her gaze. The woman raised a hand upwards, holding it out. She grasped her locket tightly, finding strength in the small pendant.
A sad smile crossed the lone woman's face and she nodded, beckoning her closer. Stephanie backed up as far as the wall, as far as she could. She fell to the floor and pulled her legs close to her. Hiding her face against the wall, she tried to push the haunting, echoing tune from her mind.
Chapter 14
Stephanie
"I WANT YOU TO PREPARE your apple tartlette today," Mrs. Callowell said, as she entered the kitchen. Stephanie and Maggie were just finishing their breakfast.
"Ma'am," Maggie responded, inclining her head. "For lunch?"
"Teatime. It seems we'll be having company."
Maggie's eyes grew wide. "Father MacG—"
"No," Mrs. Callowell said, sharply. "Mr. MacGregor," she started, stressing the mister, "is not joining us today. It's another guest."
Maggie looked down at her feet and nodded.
"Very well." She turned to Stephanie. "Tea will be served at three as usual, but in the parlor. There will be three of us."
"Yes, ma'am," Stephanie responded, trying to hide her smile. She was excited at the thought of visitors; the house always seemed so empty and quiet. But she also knew that visitors weren't exactly welcome in the manor. She forced any happiness she felt down into the depths of her stomach, where she wouldn't have to think about it.
"Will they be staying for dinner, ma'am?" Maggie asked.
"I should think not. But then again...make enough for two more people, just in case."
"Yes, ma'am."
Mrs. Callowell sighed. "You're beginning to sound like Stephanie." She looked again from Maggie to Stephanie.
It was impossible for Stephanie to glean a trace of what emotion Mrs. Callowell might be feeling. Her face was like marble, cold and vacant.
"That will be all," Mrs. Callowell said before turning and leaving through the heavy oak door.
"And you're sounding more like your father," Maggie muttered to herself. She looked up at Stephanie, as though surprised to see her there. "Well," she said, recovering quickly. "Want to learn to make a tartlette?"
The morning passed rather quickly. Helping Maggie bake the tart forced Stephanie to break up her routine. She left the bedrooms for the following day and spent her energy in the kitchen and on the parlor. Not that it was particularly dirty, but Mrs. Callowell didn't want to give her friend any excuse to question her isolation. A dirty house might give rise to talk.
Stephanie was setting the parlor table for company, as Mrs. Callowell sat calmly in her chair. Stephanie thought she was more nervous than Mrs. Callowell. All the excitement of the day had been slowly coiling itself into a tight ball of anxiety in her stomach. She worried she might make a fool of herself. She flitted about the room, around Mrs. Callowell, trying to make everything perfect. If Mrs. Callowell noticed, she didn't say anything.
Finally, a heavy knock came to the front door. Stephanie jumped like a loosed spring and started forward. Greet them, show them to the parlor. Easy. But before she made it to the door, Charles came bounding down the stairs, cutting her off. He took no notice of her as he threw open the doors, smiling. Cheery voices wafted from the doorway.
Stephanie blinked, taken aback. Charles knew these visitors? And what was he wearing? He looked more like a man from the city with his fine trousers and waistcoat. Was he wearing perfume?
Mrs. Callowell appeared in front of her, suddenly. "The tea, Stephanie."
"Oh, yes. Of course," she said, shaking her head. "Right away ma'am. Will Charles be joining you?"
"Naturally," Mrs. Callowell said, walking away, as though it were nothing out of the ordinary and Stephanie was foolish for even asking such a thing.
Stephanie hurried to the kitchen. Maggie was already pouring boiling water into the teapot.
"Who is it?" Maggie asked, putting the water aside.
Stephanie shrugged. "You should ask Charles."
"Must be an old friend, then."
"An old friend of Charles?" Stephanie asked, trying to sound uninterested.
Maggie chuckled. "Both of them, I suspect. They used to socialize in the same circles, years ago." Maggie looked up, suddenly and covered her mouth.
Stephanie knew she'd said too much. "What do you mean?"
"I...nothing. I didn't say nothing." Maggie shook her head, trying to make herself busy with whatever was within arms reach. She grabbed for a cloth and started wiping down the table.
"Is Charles..." Stephanie lowered her voice, "He isn't a commoner, is he?"
Maggie pressed her lips together, shaking her head. "I didn't say nothing."
Stephanie let the empty silver tray drop to the table and dashed over to Maggie, grabbing her arms. She looked desperately at her, feeling her heart in her throat.
"Tell me, Maggie." If Charles was part of high society, that changed things. "Please."
Maggie's look softened but her brow remained deeply furrowed. "Listen," she whispered. "Whatever Charles used to be, he's as common as you or I now. You hear me?"
"But—"
"But nothing," Maggie said, pulling her forearm from Stephanie's grasp. "Better get out there, the tea's gettin' cold."
Stephanie felt the cold determination in Maggie's voice. If she tried pushing any further, she'd only push Maggie away. Stephanie sighed and turned back to the table. She stacked the teapot and cups on the silver tray and, spared a look back at Maggie, who was actively not looking at her. She left through the swinging doors.
So Charles was a "sir" after all, despite what he'd told her when they'd first met. And what did Maggie mean about him being common? People didn't simply change and they certainly didn't give up a life of comfort and ease for one of hard labor. Unless his departure from high society was forced. What could he have done to be banished from his high status? Nothing good, that was certain.
Charles's voice echoed through the foyer as she approached the sitting room doors. They were wide open. The visitor, a woman with dark brown hair, sat opposite to Mrs. Callowell with her back to Stephanie. Charles sat between them on the loveseat, gesturing broadly and laughing.
Charles even looked like a proper gentleman. His dark hair was brushed back from his face and he wore fine clothes.
Sighing quietly, she stepped over the threshold into the room and felt a twinge of regret pulsate in her stomach. So this was his real life. This was how he behaved in his natural habitat. He was so casual, so comfortable, so diff
erent from how she'd seen him. Regret turned to humiliation. How could she have thought...she was so stupid.
The attendees were listening to Charles recount a story about a horse. Mrs. Callowell smiled simply and nodded politely when appropriate. The woman laughed loudly, leaning towards Charles.
Stephanie stopped at the sound, unable to take another step. Oh god, that laugh. Her sharp, cackling laughing sounded through the room, seemingly surrounding Stephanie, freezing her feet to the ground.
Mrs. Callowell and Charles looked up to where Stephanie stood, frozen in the doorway. The woman turned slowly, purposefully in her chair to face Stephanie. The china on the tray trembled as a wide, cat-like grin crossed the woman's face.
"Don't just stand there Stephanie," Mrs. Callowell said. "Mrs. Burbank has ridden all day to come here from the city, she's parched."
Stephanie looked away from Mrs. Burbank's stare, to the ground. "Yes, ma'am."
Mrs. Burbank laughed. "It's no trouble, Eloise. I suppose she's just surprised to see me."
The china chimed and jingled noisily on the tray as she walked toward the table. She could feel the woman's eyes on her.
"Oh, dear," Mrs. Burbank cooed, "You must be working the poor girl to the bone! She looks just...exhausted."
Her hands shook as she poured the tea and handed it to Mrs. Callowell.
"That's fine," said Charles, sitting forward, sparing her the humiliation of holding out a shaking cup of tea.
Mrs. Burbank didn't move a muscle and took her time taking the cup from her hand. "Thank you, Stephanie, dear," she sighed.
She fumbled through serving the tart, doing her best to ignore Mrs. Burbank's sighs and barbed comments along with Charles' looks of pity. She didn't know which was worse.
Finally, she was finished and she could leave the room, sliding the doors closed behind her.
"Sweet girl." Stephanie could hear Mrs. Burbank through the door. "She was always a bit slow, though."
