Was he not on his way to town?
It was foolish to think on such things, and she was too particular a girl to worry about monsters and eerie woods or strange gypsy men, best to put the whole nonsense from her mind.
Later that night, as Edward and she were preparing for bed—he was sleeping in her room that night—she tried to bring up the subject of Henrietta in as non-threatening a manner as possible. She did not want to upset her husband, after all.
She sat before her vanity, brushing out her long hair. “Edward?”
“Yes, darling?”
“I do not know many people in the neighborhood, and Mrs. Moira asked me to prepare a guest list for the ball. Is there anyone who you would like to attend?” She had been practicing her speech all afternoon.
“Oh, the McCraes, the Nortons and their daughters, Emma and her husband, my aunt—she lives up the way—the colonel, and I suppose the Joneses.”
Her breath caught. She wanted to ignore Emma’s gibing, but she could not help it. “The Joneses?”
“Oh, you haven’t met them yet, have you? Lovely people, Mr. and Mrs. Jones and their son and daughter live a mile or so down the road. I’ve known them my whole life.” Edward shed his shirt and slid it over his head. Catherine looked away and down at her brush, now held loosely in her grasp.
“They have a daughter; should I go and call? I do want everyone in the neighborhood to like me,” she said, half-hoping he would disagree.
He paused as he buttoned his nightshirt. “I don’t see why not.”
Catherine tried to keep a cool complexion as she attempted to frame her next question, but Edward beat her to the punch line.
“Mrs. Moira said you ended up not going into town.”
She turned around on the vanity seat to face him. The truth would be the best. “I started to, but a hearse went by and it upset me, so I came home.” Well, sort of the truth.
“I see.” He hummed. He threw back the covers and climbed into bed. “Come to bed, dear.”
Catherine set down her brush and walked over to the bed, eyes downcast. Outside, a creature howled, and she startled and fumbled.
“Careful, darling,” Edward called. He leaned up in bed, propped up on his elbow.
Catherine slipped into bed beside him and hid her embarrassment at startling over an animal noise by pretending to straighten the blankets. “Those woods behind the house, everyone says there’s something strange about them.”
Edward laughed. “Pay them no mind; it’s just old superstition, nothing to worry your pretty head over.”
It did ease her mind to have Edward laugh the whole matter off. Of course monsters and disappearing maids were her imagination. Perhaps she had heard the girl’s name wrong; it was possible. Edward tugged her close and brushed his lips to the nape of her neck. Catherine shivered but this time, not in fear. She twisted around to face him. He captured her lips with his, and she decided, whatever Henrietta had been to him before, he was hers now.
The clock on the mantle chimed the hour. Twelve successive bongs filled the silence. A wingback chair faced the fireplace. The fire popped and crackled. The servant shifted into the room, standing in the shadow of the chair as to not attract his mistress’ ire.
“You’ve returned. Is there news of the girl?” the woman in the chair asked.
The servant halted his footsteps and cast his eyes down to the ground.
“Yes, my lady, but none fair, I fear.”
She leaned over the arm of her chair. The shadows of the fireplace made her beautiful face seem gaunt and possessed, perhaps the flames revealed her true face; nonetheless, her servant recoiled in fear and perhaps a bit of revulsion.
“Come here,” she beckoned with a pale white hand.
The servant hesitated before he approached her. She eased back in the chair, and he stood before her, head bowed.
“Kneel,” she said.
He followed her command and kneeled before her chair, hands folded on his knees. Without preamble, she seized the servant’s hands in her own, and he lurched forward from the force. She stroked the lines of his palms as if reading them. Then she followed them up to the blue veins along his wrist.
She laughed a throaty husky laugh and pushed the servant back. He tumbled, nearly slamming his head against the hearth.
“She denies everything, but I see a thread of hope. Good, I can use that.”
“My lady, there is also a ball, a week hence.” The servant’s voice trembled as he spoke.
“Is there, now? Perhaps we shall make an appearance at this ball. It has been such a long time since I have seen little Catherine. I would love to see how she’s grown.”
“Yes, my lady, I will prepare everything.” He stepped back a few paces before hurrying towards the door.
“One more thing.” She held up a pale hand, one finger pointed at the ceiling.
“I want to test the girl. Make contact; see how she fares.”
“How, madame?”
“Use your imagination.”
“Very well, madame.” The servant bowed and scurried out of the room, thankful to be leaving with his life.
Chapter Six
Edward surprised Catherine by joining her for breakfast the next morning. She liked to think he felt guilty about his sister’s revelation in regards to Miss Jones, but that was selfish thinking that she quickly squashed.
After Mrs. Moira personally served him a platter of eggs, toast and a bit of ham, with something akin to a smile on her usually stern face, Edward turned to Catherine. “Darling, I have heard the most terrible news!”
Her pulse jumped. Had he heard she had walked along the lane with Mr. Thorn? She would hate for him to get the wrong impression.
“Our neighbors, the Smiths, have lost their daughter to pneumonia!”
She relaxed only a measure. Miss Smith’s existence or non-existence, whatever the case may be, in her life still vexed her, and she wanted to forget the whole thing.
“That’s terrible,” Catherine squeaked.
Edward nodded solemnly as he tucked into his eggs with gusto. “Such a shame, for a girl so young to die. Mrs. Moira had recently interviewed her for a position at the manor, too. What a waste, she would have made an excellent lady’s maid for you.”
Catherine tried to swallow her tea, but found a lump lodged in her throat. It was a coincidence, nothing more. She chanced a glance towards Mrs. Moira. She did not change her blank expression, though she did grasp her ring of keys at her belt. She lied to me. She knew Miss Smith worked here. She shook her head. That was preposterous. She should not doubt her husband’s staff.
“I’d like for you to take a basket of goods down to the Smiths on our behalf. It would be good for you to get to know the neighbors, especially those that are less fortunate than us.”
Catherine felt sick. A refusal dangled from the tip of her tongue, but Edward smiled and nodded as he spread jam on his toast. She did not have the heart to refuse him. “I would be happy to.” She forced a smile, which she knew looked more like a grimace.
Edward did not notice, however, and replied, “You are such a dutiful wife, Catherine.”
She mumbled something and looked at her plate. She could not look him in the eye, not while the servants glared at her over her husband’s shoulder.
The walk down the road to the Smiths’ was a pleasant one, without Mr. Thorn to trouble her thoughts. She had made sure to avoid him at all costs. Once more she refused a ride in the carriage, preferring the exercise and fresh air.
She passed down the lane without coming across anyone for some time. Indeed, it seemed as if there was no one else in the world but her. A sudden chill crept up her spine, and Catherine pulled her shawl closer across her shoulders and hitched up her basket a little higher.
A shadow crept over her, sending the lane and Catherine into darkness. She craned her neck to see dark clouds rolling in overhead. Is it going to rain? Perhaps I should head back. The thought was accompanied
by another, But Edward might be cross with me if I don’t complete another errand.
Catherine steeled herself and marched forward. The sharp caw of a bird startled her, and she stumbled as the creature swooped past her head, rustling her hair. The animal, a black bird, landed on a nearby tree branch.
It tilted its head back and forth as if examining her.
Just a bird, she thought and carried on.
She passed under the branch on which it sat, and the bird screeched again. Catherine hurried her pace and would have jogged if she dared lift her skirt to do so, which she did not. The bird flew ahead of her, and the path before her was obscured in fog as it rolled in.
She thought of that dreadful night on the road to Thornwood Manor. Her heart raced as she anticipated the howl of the monster, but it did not come. Instead, she swore the cawing of the bird had a human edge to it as if it was saying her name.
“Catherine! Catherine! Catherine!”
She ignored the infernal beast and hurried along. It was all in her imagination, surely. Then a figure slid from the shadows and blocked her path. Catherine halted in place and held the basket before her as if using it as a shield.
“Hello?” she said in a voice that shook. Just a neighbor caught in this terrible weather, she told herself.
“The hour grows near, Catherine. You cannot hide from yourself much longer,” the figure said in a vaguely familiar feminine voice.
“I do not know what you mean.” She took a step backward, and the black bird cawed again. She startled and dropped her basket. “Who are you? What do you want from me?” What would her mother think to hear her speak so brazenly to a stranger! “Please, can you step out of the shadows? This bird and the clouds have me quite frightened,” she added, hoping the stranger would not fault her for her previous lack of manners.
The woman ignored her pleas and said, “Oh, Catherine, you are not afraid, except of what others might think of you.”
Catherine shook her head. The woman had cut close to home. “Can I help you, perhaps?” she asked and hoped this creeping dread she was feeling was not correct.
“Yes. I want you to remember the day your pet rabbit came back to life because you wished it.”
Catherine thought of Archibald, the white rabbit Papa had gotten for her, and how he had escaped his hutch and run out into the garden and how one of her father’s dogs had found him. She imagined herself as a child crying over his still and bloodied form. Then he had wiggled a nose and stretched a haunch before jumping up and scurrying off into the forest never to be seen again. Her parents had always believed she had left his cage open and he’d escaped. She, too, had believed that, forcing herself to forget the animal’s resurrection until now.
“That was a coincidence. He wasn’t injured just stunned,” Catherine replied though her hands shook to think back on it.
“What about your irises? Back in your neighborhood no one grew irises quite as beautiful as yours. They begged you for your secret, and when you told them of how you spoke to the flowers daily, they laughed and called you a liar.”
“You’re mistaken. I just have a knack for gardening.” Who was this woman? Why did she taunt her with these painful memories?
“And your friends, the ones no one else could see?”
“I was a child, nothing more. Many children have invisible friends.” A vision of her old governess came to mind, as she slapped a switch onto her palm as she made Catherine write lines to the effect of ‘no one lives in the woods’. She had suppressed these memories long ago. What brought them to the surface now?
“Not ones that are real, Catherine. Normal children do not see the fae.”
“Those were childhood fantasies, the result of an overactive imagination, nothing more,” she recited the words of the specialist her parents had sent her to in town.
The woman laughed, and Catherine felt dread creep up her spine. The woman said, “Is that what they told you? What about Miss Smith? Was she a product of your overactive imagination?”
She wanted to run, to escape these unwanted memories and lock them up where they belonged once more, but she was glued to the spot, unable to move. “Who are you? How do you know about me?”
“All will be revealed in good time. I will leave you with some advice. Do not go out at night; there are things lurking about that a young woman should fear. For now, take care, my pet. We will meet again.”
The fog congealed around the figure and blotted out her shape. When it cleared, Catherine was left panting in the middle of a sunny road, feeling a tad bit disoriented.
“Perhaps I am going mad,” she said.
“Mrs. Thornton!”
She twirled in place and came to face the rounded figure of the colonel striding towards her.
“Colonel Hart, good afternoon.” She blinked away the lingering effects of her hallucination, because what else could it have been?
“Are you all right, my girl? You were standing in the road in a daze!” His bushy brows pulled together in a frown.
“Oh, I am quite well. I just needed a rest,” she said with a smile. A black bird crowed in the distance, and she darted her eyes in its direction.
The colonel huffed and gripped his cane. “And why are you about without an escort? Where is your husband?”
“He had some matters to attend to, and he sent me to visit our neighbors, the Smiths,” Catherine explained, though she did not know for sure if Edward did have other things to which he needed to attend.
The colonel looked down at the basket at her feet. “I see. Very unfortunate, Miss Smith’s passing. I am also headed in that direction. I shall walk with you, if you do not mind.”
“Not at all.” In fact, she quite welcomed the company; she feared another hallucination.
They journeyed in silence while Catherine worked feverishly to forget the incident along the road, convincing herself it was a result of fatigue and anxiety.
Colonel Hart interrupted her thoughts to say, “Mrs. Thornton, I am going to be frank, and I hope you will forgive me.”
“You may speak freely, Colonel Hart.” She wondered why he felt the need to present himself in such a way. He was one of her husband’s dear friends, and from what she had seen, he was a blunt man.
“Your husband may very well disregard this as silly nonsense, but I have seen things in this village, and I think you, as an outsider, should be aware.”
“Oh.” The tingling sensation raced up her spine once more.
“The woods behind your home, they are home to monstrous creatures, Thorn Dwellers.”
She wanted to laugh, but the sound dried up in her throat. It was not the first time she had suspected something was different about the woods, but to have it put so bluntly after her hallucination, she was not sure she could process the news. “Surely you jest, Colonel.”
“No, madame, I do not.” His expression was severe, and Catherine closed her mouth tightly, fearing a reprimand. Her father had worn a similar expression when he disciplined her. “Those That Dwell in the Thorns are not to be trifled with. If you hear an unearthly song late at night, do not go out. Close your windows, shut your ears, whatever you do, just ignore it.”
“What happens if you do hear it, the song?” Despite her resistance, she could not help her curiosity.
“No one knows. Anyone who ventures near the Thorn Dwellers’ Woods at night doesn’t come back to tell the tale.”
Catherine thought of all the bizarre occurrences since she had arrived at Thornwood Manor, and her next question came unbidden. “There have been a few mysterious deaths since I have arrived. Deaths that everyone ignores or do not match up with what I have seen…” She thought of Miss Smith and shivered. She hoped she was incorrect.
The colonel stopped walking, and Catherine continued a few paces before realizing it. She turned to face him, and the shadow that crossed his face made her wish she had not asked.
“It’s best if you just ignore that like the rest of us, if you k
now what’s best for you.”
Catherine’s stomach dropped. She had hoped the colonel would have a more logical explanation. The increasing evidence was hard to deny, and though she would like to, she could not deny it any longer. Strange things were happening in Thornwood.
Chapter Seven
There was no place for her at Thornwood Manor, it seemed. She fit as well in the household as a wrong puzzle piece. Mrs. Moira handled all household affairs, as she had told Catherine on several occasions now, since Edward’s mother’s passing. Five days she had been in Thornwood, and she was miserable. Catherine longed for home, her proper home back with her mother and father.
She had never liked to be indoors for too long and found solace in walking the grounds. She knew full well there was a strong possibility she would run into Mr. Thorn, but to waste her days indoors with nothing to do with her idle hands would be the death of her. She decided the mysterious gardener was worth the risk.
As she strolled, thinking of home, a wind blew through the shrubbery, and it sounded like a lament.
“Come to us,” the wind cried. “Come back to us.”
Catherine stopped walking and felt a chill raise her gooseflesh. She clutched her coat a little tighter. She had a strong urge to look upon the forest, the one Mrs. Moira and Colonel Hart had urged her to stay away from. Edward thought the colonel’s fears silly superstition, and she wanted to agree with him. She needed to prove that her fears and imagination were folly, nothing to be of concern to her.
She strode towards the graveled path, lined with trees that skirted the outermost edge of the cultivated parts of the garden. Once more, she stood at the precipice of the path, a deep longing within her to take one step farther.
Catherine glanced over her shoulder. What harm could it bring if she stepped beyond the path? No one was about her, and no one need ever know. Her pulsed raced to think about her disobedience. I just want to prove there is nothing to those woods. That is all. I will walk into them, and when I find nothing, I will be satisfied. She took a deep breath and took a step towards the forest.
Those Who Dwell in the Thorns Page 4
