by Emma Beaven
Sixty-Five
When Rose woke the next morning after a restless sleep, she could smell the scent of cooking meat wafting through the hallway. She dressed quickly and hurried to the kitchen. A woman she’d never seen before, clad in a stained apron, was busily working. She didn’t turn as Rose entered, instead continuing to furiously roll the dough spread out in a circle on the table.
“Oh my, Mrs. McCann! Let me take you to the parlor.”
Rose spun to see Marge directly behind her, yet she hadn’t heard her approach. She allowed herself to be led out of the kitchen, still wondering about the other woman. She waited until she was settled in a chair in the dimly lit parlor before questioning Marge.
“Who is the woman in the kitchen?”
“That’s the new cook, ma’am.”
“I thought you said the old one just went off yesterday.”
“She did. Mr. Moffatt went to get a replacement right away.”
“How did he know the old one wouldn’t come back?”
Marge shrugged. “I don’t think they usually do.”
Rose shifted uncomfortably. “May I have some tea?”
Marge’s mouth dropped open in dismay as she stared at her empty hands. “Oh my goodness, I forgot! I’ll be right back. I’m so sorry.”
Rose leaned back slightly as she watched Marge disappear. She didn’t want to be here anymore. Not in this cold house with its assortment of strange servants. And certainly not without her husband. Surely he must return today. Even if he was ill, what better place to recuperate than home?
The house was terribly silent, much more so than her old home. And already she missed Maggie. Her sister had been with her so long. They’d had nothing but one another when their mother had passed on, and now the separation felt like an open bleeding wound.
Rose got up and slipped over to the window, staring longingly out into the trees. She wanted to go out, wanted badly to slip out into the cool fresh air outside, but she’d realized that morning that she’d neglected to keep out enough warmer clothing in her rush to get away. She had her coat she’d worn for the trip, but her accessible trunk was full of summer muslins while her warmer clothes remained packed with all her belongings.
Rose pulled her shawl over her shoulders and tried hard to snuggle into it, to pull some warmth out of the light fibers. Realizing it was useless and that the tea didn’t seem to be forthcoming, she slipped back out into the barren entrance hall. The dining room doors lay open, and Rose noticed someone had pulled the chairs away from the table.
“Marge?” she called softly.
To her surprise, Marge’s head popped out from around the dining room door. “Yes, Mrs. McCann?”
“The tea?”
“Oh, yes.” Marge ducked back behind the door, presumably fetching the tea. A few seconds later, she moved back into the doorway, a huge smile on her face as she held out the teapot. “Where would you like it?”
Surprised, Rose looked behind her. “I… I guess I’ll go back to the parlor.”
Marge bobbed her head twice. “Don’t worry, Mrs. McCann. The new cook is making salmon corn cakes for dinner.”
“I wasn’t worried,” Rose said, reluctantly retracing her steps back to the parlor.
“I’ll be sure to unpack your trunks straight away.”
Marge went to retreat to the kitchen, but Rose put her hand out. “Where do you sleep?”
“In the servants’ quarters.”
“Oh. Is it far from my room?”
Marge gestured to the other side of the house. “If you need me to be closer, please tell Mr. Moffatt.” She paused. “I had better do the washing or I’ll get in trouble.”
Rose nodded and watched the girl disappear yet again. She sipped the steaming tea and stared out the window. Finally, deciding she would fare well enough despite the cold, she made her way to the front door. As she pulled the door open, a shock of cold air flew at her, making her cheeks burn. Gripping her shawl hard, Rose stepped onto the porch and then into the yard. The trees on three sides of the house completely blocked any signs of neighbors; only the drive gave her any indication that she wasn’t lost in the midst of the forest.
Rose only made it a few steps up the drive when she heard the distinct sound of hooves and carriage wheels on the part of the road that was partially obscured by the trees. Her heart leapt, and she scurried a few steps forward, her arms clasped tightly over her chest. About twenty feet from the house, she paused, waiting anxiously. The clattering and thumping grew louder, and finally Rose saw two horses prance into view on the road.
The carriage hitched forward off the main road and entered the driveway, the horses snorting and tossing their heads. Rose watched as the vehicle passed her and continued down the drive to the front porch. The wind kicked up as the carriage stopped, whipping the branches of the nearby trees and causing the horses to twist their heads more violently as they shuffled nervously, their tails twitching in anticipation.
Rose scurried back down the drive, the hem of her dress dragging in the dirt as she quickened her pace. She had almost reached the porch when the driver stepped out. He stood staring at Rose for a moment before turning and giving the skittish horses a few pats. Finally, he moved to the side of the carriage to open the passenger door.
The horses snorted more noisily as a set of legs, clad in beige breeches and heavy black riding boots, pushed their way out of the opening. A hand came out next, the index finger curling to motion the driver forward. Rose stood still, taking in the odd scene, suddenly unsure if the figure slowly oozing from the depths of the carriage was, in fact, her husband.
She squinted, pressing her hand against her forehead as she watched the driver tarry near the door for only a moment more before hurriedly backing away. One of the horses whinnied, and the driver jumped, his head quickly turning to scan the trees behind him. Rose’s head itched as the passenger finally came into view, his coat swaying around him in the breeze. The man turned immediately to face her, his hand rising in a friendly wave, and to her surprise, Rose saw it was, in fact, Henry.
Sixty-Six
Rose sat across the table from Henry, picking at the potato and mushroom casserole that accompanied the salmon she’d been promised. She had changed her clothes for dinner, her husband having brought her a present of a new white dress that was at least a bit warmer than her muslin. Unfortunately, it was making her hold her arms up at an uncomfortable angle to keep from dipping the eyelet lace cuffs into her food.
Henry scarcely glanced at Rose, finally rising only to ring the bell sharply to summon a servant. Marge hurried in, a smile on her face. Henry stared at her coldly and gestured to his empty glass. Rose watched uncomfortably as Marge quickly deflated, slowing her pace considerably as she went to take the empty glass.
“Marge, could you bring me some more wine, as well?”
Marge nodded quickly, her gaze never lifting from the table. Henry looked sternly at Rose, squinting slightly as his eyes met hers.
Rose shifted and turned toward the fire. “It’s a bit cold,” she said, unsure if she said it only to break the silence or to release herself from Henry’s fierce stare. “I hope we’ll be able to attend church tomorrow.”
“I don’t suppose you’ve met my friend, Mr. Hill.”
Rose paused, stunned. “Mr. Hill?”
Henry nodded. “He and his wife arrived earlier than expected.”
Rose pursed her lips. Why would he not tell me such a thing?
Marge reentered the room, disturbing Rose’s train of thought as she clumsily set down the fresh glasses, drawing a look of annoyance from Henry. He coughed lightly and then turned back to face Rose. “Perhaps I can send one of the servants to escort you to church.”
Rose nodded, the chill of the room running up her spine and spreading like a pox. “I think I’ll go and write a letter to my sister.”
Henry nodded. She waited for him to move, to say something, do something, but he continued to sit and sip h
is drink, his gaze lying limply upon the fireplace.
Sighing inwardly, Rose retreated into the hallway. She glanced around, expecting to spy Marge creeping somewhere close by, but the hallway seemed just as empty as usual. Pulling her shawl close around her, she turned into the wing leading to her bedroom. As she approached, she noticed someone had pulled the door closed while she was gone.
As she was about to grasp the knob, Rose distinctly heard a scrape, like pieces of wood gently brushing together. She froze, her hand hovering inches from the knob. “Marge?” she called softly.
“Yes?”
Rose whirled around to see the servant had crept up on her yet again. Marge smiled, holding up a plate and teacup.
Fumbling for words, Rose stood awkwardly before the door, watching as Marge stared expectantly. “What… where did you come from?”
“The kitchen. I brought some shortbread and tea.”
“Is someone in there?” Rose whispered, pointing to the bedroom door.
“No, ma’am.”
Rose turned back to face the door, her hand trembling as she reached for the knob once more. Trepidation filled her to the point where she could hardly bring herself to turn it. Behind her, Marge’s eyes bored into her.
Finally summoning her resolve, Rose twisted the knob and threw the door open. “My God.”
“Mrs. McCann?”
“What did you do?” Rose hissed.
“Ma’am?”
“What is that?”
Marge moved closer to Rose. “That’s a wardrobe, Mrs. McCann. Mr. Moffatt had it brought in so I could put your clothing away.”
Rose blinked, her eyes riveted to the hulking shape pressed tightly into the back corner of the room. “It can’t be.”
“Would you like me to get Mr. Moffatt?”
Rose ignored Marge as she continued to examine the bulky piece of furniture. While the left door was closed, the right door lay open. But just a crack.
“And I’m to stay there?”
“Is the room too small?”
Rose shifted uncomfortably. Since her father and Mariotta had been at odds for a while, when they were first married, they had frequently shared one another’s quarters.
“Rose?”
She couldn’t bring herself to meet Henry’s eyes. Instead, she simply shook her head and stared into the depths of her glass. Darkness had fallen, and the overhanging trees blocked any moonlight that might filter in through the windows. “Why didn’t you tell me there were guests here? I must appear terribly rude.” She looked around, her gaze falling on the dark hallway. Surely she would have heard them, seen them, something.
Henry gave her a questioning look and turned back to his drink. The candles, which were secured in a large iron candelabrum in the center of the table, flickered as if caught in a draft. Rose watched Henry raise his eyebrows almost imperceptibly, his eyelids opening wide for just a second before his face collapsed back into its serene countenance.
“Well?” she pressed.
“It was unavoidable.” He rubbed his hands together, his gaze drifting over her and settling on the hallway as well.
Rose tried to smile, to remain sweet and caring and approving, but it was simply too much for her. “I need to post my letter.”
“Give it to Mr. Moffatt. He’ll see that it goes out.”
Rose nodded. “I think I’ll go to bed.”
She waited for a response but received none. Her heart sank deep into her chest as she pulled her shawl tight around her, hoping it would somehow compensate for the coldness she felt inside.
As she passed the end of the table on the way to the door, she snuck a glance at Henry, only to see him swirling his fingers in his glass, his eyes feverishly bright against his snow-white skin.
Sixty-Seven
As Rose entered the south wing, the familiar chill that used to settle over her at her father’s home descended on her, coating her like a fine film. She tried to distract herself, her eyes glued to the various pieces of art that dotted the walls, but they couldn’t keep her from the inevitable entrance into her new bedroom.
Quietly she cursed herself for not ordering one of the servants to remove the wardrobe. She certainly didn’t have to give them a reason why; her order should have sufficed.
Soon enough, the door loomed in front of her, beckoning her. Rose sucked in a breath and stuck her hand out. This was not her old house, not her old room, not her old wardrobe. There was no reason to be afraid here. All those things were left in the old house where memories clung like vines, strangling every flower in their path.
As Rose pushed open the door, a blast of wind hit her, nearly putting out her lamp. She almost screamed in the empty hallway as her blood froze once more, paralyzing her, before she saw the wind had come from the open window at the front of the room. Angrily she twisted around and glanced down the hallway, searching for signs of Marge.
This time Marge didn’t appear; however, she noticed the cat she’d seen the previous day slinking down the hallway, its lanky body pressed against the wall.
“Pssst, kitty,” Rose called. The cat glanced at her briefly before continuing its slow creep down the hall. “Dammit!”
She waited another minute, but the cat passed her by, finally disappearing into the entrance hallway. Reluctantly, she entered the room, passing the wardrobe without looking at it on the way to close the window. Setting the lamp down on the desk, Rose undressed and finally settled herself among the fresh, warm bedclothes. Despite the comfortable blankets, she couldn’t fall asleep. She missed Maggie horribly at that moment as she lay alone in the unfamiliar room with the ugly wardrobe peering at her from out of the shadows.
The night twisted around her endlessly, the moonlight mostly obscured by the trees. Every time Rose shut her eyes, some almost imperceptible sound jolted her up, and she couldn’t help peering into the darkness, inspecting the corners before settling back down uncomfortably, her ears straining for the next noise. It seemed the window did not close firmly, since throughout the night, she felt cool breezes blowing off and on.
When dawn finally painted its blush across the blooming clouds, Rose was exhausted. Every time her consciousness allowed her a brief journey into the realm of sleep, she’d had nightmares. They were only short snatches of dreams, but they bothered her just the same.
Each time, she found herself wandering deeper and deeper into the south wing. The hallway was long and dark and seemed to stretch endlessly into the blackness. Eventually, after waking and drifting back into the dream, she reached a door that looked exactly like the one from her old bedroom. From there, she found herself reaching out, her hand shuddering as it fastened itself on the freezing cold knob.
And then she woke up again only to fall restlessly back to sleep. This time she was in her father’s house. The hallway with four doors leading from it yawned darkly before her. She passed the bookcase and went directly to her room, her heart pounding as her bare feet propelled themselves down the hallway. Her hand, moving on its own, closed on the doorknob.
Rose paused, shutting her eyes as a shuffling from deep within the room broke the strange silence of the hallway. The steps grew louder, the feet scuttling across the room as if the soles were not leaving the ground.
She drew in her breath as the knob was ripped from her hand, the door flying open with a loud bang. Icy air enveloped her as she sensed someone lean in close.
“Look in the wardrobe!” it rasped as bony fingers closed on her shoulders.
Sixty-Eight
Rose got up and dressed quickly in the already bright and cheery morning, studiously avoiding the wardrobe. Marge had laid out her clothing sometime yesterday, and it had been a great relief to Rose that she wouldn’t have to open the door and slide her hand into its depths. She quickly fixed her hair into a messy knot and slipped out into the hallway.
Surprisingly, the sunlight was reaching precariously through the great windows at the front of the hall, and Rose smiled as she l
ooked out into the new day. Henry, it seemed, had not yet risen, as the dining room was completely empty, the breakfast dishes shining brilliantly in the morning sun. Marge wasn’t around either, but the cat trotted into the room, its tail flicking back and forth as it moved cautiously toward Rose.
She reached down, dangling her fingers in front of the furry animal. It flicked a paw out and smacked Rose lightly, making her giggle. She played with the cat until the adjoining kitchen door opened. She looked up, expecting to see Marge, but instead, the cook she’d seen the previous day bustled in, laden with serving trays.
Rose watched her set the dishes down and uncover them before she beckoned her over.
“Where is Marge?”
“She’s not feeling well, Mrs. McCann.”
“Not well?” Rose repeated.
The cook failed to respond this time, her gaze unreadable. She quickly removed herself after pouring tea, leaving Rose to wonder what could possibly have happened to Marge. It was odd, as the girl had seemed perfectly healthy yesterday. Still, the weather was changing, and everyone was always prone to chills during this season.
At half past ten, Henry made his way downstairs and disappeared into his study without a word. Rose watched him through the open parlor door, frowning as he vanished into the shadows. It reminded her so much of her father that she scratched at her head nervously. Perhaps she was just misinterpreting things. Obviously he wasn’t used to having anyone but servants in the house, and it must take some time to get used to a wife.
At noon Rose returned to the dining room, her entire morning having been spent alone in the parlor. She had briefly considered exploring outside, but the chill forced her to remain indoors. As she was finishing her potato cakes and tea, Henry finally emerged. She watched him enter the dining room in silence, quickly resuming her meal in order to affect an air of indifference.
