by Emma Beaven
The white curtains, fringed with tiny delicate rosebuds, lay torn and tattered near the foot of the bed. The rod had somehow fallen hard enough to leave a deep gouge in the wardrobe door, bits of splintered wood decorating the edges like a gaping wound. Rose’s breath grew heavy as she walked parallel to the wardrobe, warily observing it for anything out of the ordinary.
It was useless to remove anything from the side in which the servant had lain, so Rose plucked open the other door, barely looking as she grabbed a handful of cloth, her eyes never leaving the first door. Her arms overflowing, she backed out of the room, stepping carefully over the curtain rod. Anxiety hit her as she neared the door, her body flinching already for fear it would shut suddenly and lock her in that horrid place.
She hit the hallway nearly running, almost breathless as she raced down the passage to Henry’s room. It was still empty and silent, but at least it was safe. She inspected the clothing she had pulled out, checking for any sign that anything untoward had touched it.
Finally, Rose dared to undress and change, slowly slipping into a white silk dress and red stockings. Her husband, she soon realized after checking the front rooms, was still locked in the parlor with the other men. Not a single servant was in sight, and she’d seen no sign of Mrs. Hill either.
Eventually, unable to stand the loneliness any longer, she retreated to the kitchen. The new girl was working, her back turned. Rose coughed lightly, but the girl continued to work, her hands briskly kneading a pile of dough on the countertop.
“Hello?” Rose called, her voice emerging as barely more than a whisper.
The girl stopped instantly and turned.
“Do you know how Marge is?” Rose asked.
The girl paled visibly and shook her head. Her hands immediately found the dough, which she began to knead aggressively.
Rose sighed in frustration, briefly stopping to watch the girl work before stalking out of the kitchen. She stood in the darkened hallway, pondering a trip outside into the freezing wind, when the girl popped out through the dining room door.
Her head was cocked slightly to the side in a strange, unnatural way, and as she moved closer, Rose noticed her body was jerking slightly. “Ma’am?”
“Yes?” Rose asked softly, the uncomfortable itch in her head returning once more.
“Is the other girl dead?”
“Yes.”
The girl clutched the front of her dress tightly, her hands starting to drain of color. “Dead, dead, dead,” she muttered as she turned, still clasping her apron, and retreated to the kitchen.
Rose swallowed hard. The odd behavior of everyone in the house was becoming more than she could bear. If it continued, there was no reason to stay. She would pay for a carriage, whatever it cost, and return to her father and sister and the safety of her childhood home.
Suddenly the parlor door opened while Rose stood stunned in the middle of the hallway. The men’s eyes locked on her as they burst from the room, lugging their horrible burden. Rose suppressed a scream as she fled, wondering how she would ever wake from this nightmare.
Late that evening, she found Henry in the front parlor, sitting stiffly in an embroidered chair.
“Marge has a fever. It’s best if you stay away.”
Rose frowned. “Well, shouldn’t someone check on her? She shouldn’t be alone.”
“I’ve sent Mary in.”
“Is Mary the woman from the kitchen?” she asked, her eyes darting toward the window where the cold gray sky crowded close to the glass.
“Yes.” Henry followed her gaze briefly before turning back to her. “You should get changed for dinner.”
“But don’t we need a doctor?”
“It will have to wait until tomorrow,” he informed her, impatience fluttering across his features as he pulled out his imported pocket watch. “You need to get ready for dinner.”
Rose turned, about to retreat down the hallway, before summoning the reserves of her willpower and turning back. “I’m not staying in that room again.”
“No one asked you to do so.” Henry glanced toward the dining room and sighed. “Do you need someone to get your clothes?”
She shook her head. “I’ve retrieved all that I’m willing to use.”
“Fine.” He smiled ever so slightly. “Maybe I can take you to the dressmaker soon enough.”
Rose’s heart fluttered. “All right,” she said shyly, swaying slightly as she batted her eyes demurely. “I’ll go and change right away.”
She hurried past the window, the dark gray chill reaching its long fingers after her as she flounced down the hallway and around the bend. She barely noticed her former room, its door tightly shut, as she contemplated a trip to buy fabrics and hats and jewelry.
Henry’s bedroom—her new one, at least for now—already had a lamp burning on an end table. Rose looked behind her, expecting to see one of the members of the skeletal staff who inhabited the house scuttling around the corner, but whoever had lit the lamp appeared to be long gone. The little black cat, however, struggled out from beneath the dresser just as Rose turned back to the room.
“Hi, kitty!” she called exuberantly as she bent down and tapped the floor, hoping to entice the cat closer.
The cat stopped and looked at her suspiciously, its golden eyes blinking languidly in the flickering lamplight.
“Come here,” Rose said, softening her voice slightly.
As she approached, the cat turned and wormed its way back under the heavy dresser.
“Dammit!” Rose was about to crouch down to try to look under the dresser when cold from the empty hallway filtered into the room like a fine mist. She winced, rubbing her arms as she watched the shadows grow and stretch across the floor.
She popped up from her kneeling position and rushed to the door, moving so quickly that she slammed into the door after shutting it. “It’s all right, cat. It’s closed now. It’s all right.”
Rose let out a small breath of relief before sorting through her remaining clothing. She was used to having a wide selection of imported fabrics, but now she was down to just a few dresses that she had deemed untouched. She fingered the soft spring muslins and sighed. There was nothing to wear for this weather.
Finally, after hemming and hawing over the pile, Rose selected a plain black muslin specked with beads about the hem and bosom. Her summer shawl, the only one that had not been in that side of the wardrobe, would have to do. She traced a finger across the lace along the fringe, thinking of how the last time she’d worn it, she’d been at home with Maggie in the warm, comforting heat of the smothering summer.
“Cat, I’ll be back soon. Don’t go away.” Rose glanced back into the room longingly before treading out into the darkened hallway. Even through her shoes, she could feel the cold emanating from the floorboards and traveling up her bare legs.
She could see the firelight licking at the walls as she got close to the dining room, its glow forming a barrier between the room and the barren hallway. Surprisingly, the table was empty, but the wine had been poured, and the first course sat steaming in the center of the table. She smiled to herself before taking her seat and drawing the wineglass close.
Rose took a sip and gazed out into the hallway, waiting for her husband and his guests. For a time, she watched, expecting that at any moment they would enter, but eventually she grew tired and pushed her chair close to the fire. Yet again, she felt the darkness at her back, slipping its icy tentacles into the safety of the fire-lit room.
After nearly a half hour had passed, Rose had finished her wine and now stared longingly at the food. It was almost certainly cold by that point, but she was hungry enough that she didn’t care. A dull thud had already started in her head, the first headache she’d had since she’d been injured.
Eventually, a short scraping, shuffling sound emanated from the hallway, and Rose looked up to see Mrs. Hill pausing in the doorway, her head bowed shyly.
Rose smiled and set down her gla
ss. “Hello.”
“Hello,” Mrs. Hill responded softly. “Shall I come in?”
Rose nodded and gestured broadly. “Are Mr. McCann and Mr. Hill coming shortly?”
Mrs. Hill slowly shook her head. “They’ve gone to Mr. McCann’s study, and they won’t be coming down until much later.”
Rose stared at her, dumbfounded. “Well, what are they doing?”
“I don’t know.” A shy smile returned to her face. “May I sit down?”
“Of course.” Rose stumbled up and gestured at the chair across from her. “I’ll… I’ll summon a servant. If she’s there, that is.”
She walked over to the sideboard, searching for the bell. Her hand finally grazed its brass edge, but she found herself staring at Mrs. Hill as if waiting for her approval. Mrs. Hill said nothing, and so she raised the bell and released the tiny gasping clang. Rose winced at the sound, shutting her eyes for a moment to still the pounding in her head. She held the bell up to ring it again when the door from the kitchen opened.
The new girl, her lips pinched together in a pout, bustled in, a large silver tray in her arms. She paused when she caught sight of the other dishes still sitting in the center of the table, finally turning toward Rose to give her a questioning look.
“I was waiting for the others,” Rose said, feeling foolish as she watched the servant look down at her feet and shake her head ever so slightly.
“Mr. McCann and Mr. Hill will not be joining you, Mrs. McCann.”
“I know.” The girl stared at her quizzically as Rose scrambled for words to better express herself. “I mean, I just found out.”
“Shall I clear it away?”
“No,” Rose said, looking back to Mrs. Hill for help. “We’ll eat it. All of it.” She rubbed her head, feeling more and more ridiculous as each word escaped her mouth.
Mrs. Hill remained completely silent, instead focused on the bouncing orange flames crackling in the fireplace. Rose rubbed her hands together. “I’ll move them.”
She shoved the dishes out of the way, sliding them toward the chair in which Henry normally sat. The girl placed the new tray in the center of the table on top of a linen cloth and exited into the kitchen, leaving the two women to stare at the dishes in silence.
Rose got up and pulled open the trays from the first course. “There’s bread and corn chowder, but I suspect it’s cold. Do you want it anyway?”
Mrs. Hill smiled politely. “If you’re going to take some, I suppose it will be all right.”
Rose picked up the large ladle from the tray and scooped up the chowder, all the while wishing she’d never come back downstairs, despite the emptiness in her stomach. “I’m sorry we’re so short on servants right now.”
“I know what happened, Mrs. McCann.”
“I know we don’t know one another well, Mrs. Hill, and forgive me if it’s impolite, but my name is Rose.”
Mrs. Hill flashed her a brief grin. “Ann.”
Rose giggled. “I hope I’m not being terribly rude.”
Ann shook her head, and Rose winced as the dull thump in her own picked up its pace.
“Are you ill?” Ann asked quietly.
“My head is hurting again.” Rose contemplated telling Ann but decided it would be best not to get into her various afflictions. “It’s nothing.”
“Shall we eat?”
Rose nodded. The second course would go cold soon enough if they didn’t begin.
The two sat eating in silence, occasionally glancing at one another before lowering their eyes like young girls being courted. As they finished their second course, the rain pounded against the shutters, followed by reverberations of thunder. Rose glanced behind her to search the dark region of the back window. Ann did not look up, instead focusing her attention on scooping up the last of the gravy that pooled on her plate.
“Are you sure you’re feeling well?” Ann finally asked.
Rose whipped her head around and immediately regretted it as the pain began to spasm. “Of course. I was only listening to the storm.”
Ann nodded. “It’ll be a dreary morning, I expect.”
“It’s often bright and sunny the day after a storm,” Rose said, about to lift her fork to her mouth.
“Not here,” Ann replied.
“You’ve been here before?”
“Yes.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, how long have you been married?”
Ann raised her head finally, giving Rose a long look, her eyes piercing yet dull at the same time. “It seems like forever.”
Rose studied her companion, noting that her hair was untouched by gray, and her face carried few of the lines that dug deep furrows in the faces of so many women by the time they’d reached middle age. “It can’t be that long,” she said, flicking her fingers through her own hair in which she had found a strand of white months ago.
“It can be. For very, very long.”
“I suppose being married can feel like that. I haven’t been married long, so it’s all very new to me.”
Ann said nothing and went back to her plate.
“It’s cold in here, huh?” Rose asked, trying to disperse the strange silence that had suddenly fallen on the room.
“It will get colder still,” Ann said.
Rose, seeing a flicker of movement, glanced under the table, just catching sight of the little black cat squeezing itself under the sideboard. “I wonder how she got in here. She was in my room earlier.”
“What is it?”
“A cat,” Rose said, shaking her head. “She was here when I arrived.”
“Oh,” Ann said, her voice lowering to a hushed whisper. “Shall we take up our sewing for a bit?”
“I suppose,” Rose said, wishing they could stay by the comfort of the fire for a while longer.
“You don’t like sewing much, do you?”
“It passes the time.”
The two retreated to the parlor, Rose trailing behind as she remembered what had transpired there earlier. The room was still dim and gloomy, but no trace of what had been in the wardrobe remained. Still, she could barely bring herself to sit on the couch.
“I wonder what the ladies are wearing in England,” Ann finally said wistfully.
“Haven’t you ever been shopping in the city?” Rose asked. “You can purchase imported fabrics from Europe. I used to get them in Baltimore. There’s a wonderful dressmaker there who imports all his cloth. He’s made many dresses for me and my sister.”
“I haven’t been to the city in a long while,” Ann said.
“Do you have your sewing basket? I’d better go get mine.” Rose had partially risen from the sofa when she suddenly thought better of it. She reached for the bell sitting on a piece of cloth on the desk beside the couch and rang it.
“I don’t know if anyone can hear you from here.”
Rose leaned back slightly. “If no one comes, I think I’ll retire for the evening.”
“So early?” Ann asked, raising her eyebrows.
“I didn’t get much sleep last night, as you may have heard,” Rose replied, her gaze moving toward the door expectantly.
“Well, perhaps we can have some wine, then, and go to bed.”
Rose nodded, still fixated on the door. After quite a few minutes, the girl from the kitchen reappeared, her eyes unusually dim and tired. Rose hesitated, almost afraid to ask anything more of the girl.
“Wine, please,” Ann snapped. Rose turned to her, surprised at the vigor in her voice. Ann shrugged and leaned back slightly on the couch, her hands resting on her stomach.
“I wonder if maybe we could go to town while you’re here,” Rose said finally, attempting to fill the looming silence.
“Yes, let’s,” Ann said dully, her gaze moving to the door.
The girl returned with the wine. Rose and Ann sipped it silently, staring into space. Rose was dreading going to bed, unsure of where Henry expected her to sleep. If he wasn’t in his room, she reasoned, he woul
dn’t be able to prevent her from sleeping in there. Certainly he wouldn’t choose to wake her.
The two finished their wine and retreated to the hallway. Ann stopped at the stairwell, waiting for Rose, who smiled politely. “Are you not staying in the south wing?”
Ann shook her head. “I’ll bid you good night here.”
“Good night,” Rose called softly, her voice still managing to echo in the emptiness.
Seventy-One
The drapes in Henry’s room had been pulled, the dark material drowning much of the light from the lamp. Rose lay on the bed uncomfortably, the soft blankets pulled up to her chin. Eventually she lifted her hand from out of the safety of her covers to turn the lamp down. She wondered if the cat was still in here, and if Henry would be upset to find her in his bed.
If I’m to stay here, I’ll buy new material for the drapes when Ann and I go to town.
The silence lay heavily for a while, and Rose could hear the soft whistling of her own breath passing through her nose. There was no sign of Henry, but soon a soft scrabbling at the door alerted her to the presence of the cat. She turned up the lamp once more and hurried to the door as the little creature cried quietly in the hallway.
As soon as the door opened, the cat came barreling in, its wide yellow eyes fixed on Rose. She sat on the edge of the bed and watched as the cat jumped up, its little body already vibrating as it purred.
“Hello, little friend,” Rose said, giggling.
The cat moved closer and rubbed its head against her.
“Well, at least I won’t be totally alone tonight.”
Rose lay back down, the cat making itself comfortable beside her. That time she felt a bit better dimming the lamp and letting the darkness curl its gentle fingers about her. Still, the pervasive nagging thoughts of what had happened to one of the girls here, as well as Marge’s strange behavior and sickness, kept her from falling asleep. Her ears strained for sounds, and any little creak or thump drove her eyes wide again and again.
Despite the awkwardness of her being here, she hoped against hope that Henry would soon reappear, as just his presence would be of some small comfort and might allow her mind to relax enough to sleep. She wondered what kept him up so late into the night. Could it really have been so important as to cause him to miss supper?
