by L C Kincaide
She rose from the chair and moved closer to the fire. The log crackled, and the flames lapped at it eagerly. Ivy needed to talk with Jen. Her presence in her life was a reassuring one. She recalled a conversation they had shortly before she left. It seemed so long ago now.
“I can’t wait. It sounds like an amazing adventure.” Ivy had told her, bubbling with excitement.
In fact, it was the first time in months she felt excited about anything.
Jen laughed. “I would hope so! The countless hours spent watching The Forsyte Saga, Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights, all those movies and serials, never mind the books you read. You can probably show them a thing or two about period living!”
“We’ll see about that.” Ivy grinned. “It sounds strange, but the more I think about it, I just get the feeling it’s something I need to be part of. I haven’t known Emma that long, but I sort of feel like I know her. I can’t explain it.”
Yes, she had actually said that, and despite the fiasco tonight had turned into, it was true. Unlike Jen in almost every way, Emma, the free-spirited party girl, was a friend right from when they met, she, so different from her own often reserved nature. When they were together, Ivy felt lighter, sometimes even fun. Lately, she had been a stick in the mud and she hoped to change that.
Jen had been supportive. “You don’t have to explain anything. Just go, and forget everything else, and have a wonderful time.”
Friends since high school, they had an understanding between them. Jen, more than anyone in her life, was her family.
“Call me.” She had said.
Ivy pulled out her phone, and her heart warmed at the sight of the lace design on the protective case. Jen gave it to her thinking she would like it, and she was right. She wished she could chat with her, even if for only a few minutes, but there was no signal. She stowed it away. If there was a phone in the house, she hadn’t noticed it. She would just have to get through tomorrow and whatever was in store. If she remembered correctly, a croquet game was planned, as she had seen in the old photos, then the party afterward. How festive the weekend had seemed. Of course, that was before their bold escape attempt.
Her eyes found the orchid as beautiful in its perfection as when she first noticed its white petals in the hothouse. Whatever happened in there earlier, at least this exotic plant was real. She could see it, touch it, and smell it. Her senses confirmed its existence. Right now, she would have liked to confirm Mason’s existence. She sighed again, and her thoughts returned to Emma and decided she wouldn’t be able to sleep until making sure she was okay.
Wrapped in the prettier robe, she slipped out into the corridor. The central hall too was shrouded in darkness and only muted lights glowed in golden halos on the console tables. The moon, hidden in the clouds, cast no patch of silvery light onto the floor. She continued along the open gallery and turned left at its end. Peering down its length at the dozen closed doors, Ivy realized she had no idea which one was Emma’s, but went onward, just in case luck was on her side. Hushed and urgent voices stopped her.
“… you must stop this foolishness!” Elinor warned from beyond the door. Dear God, but the woman was relentless!
Emma’s voice was only an incoherent mutter, then Elinor’s emphatic response.
“Look at me — is this what you want? I am exhausted. I have sacrificed enough.” She finished, her voice tremulous, and indeed weary with resignation.
“… but what about Ivy?” Emma wailed.
“Did you force her to come here?”
“No.”
“Then she came of her own free will?”
“I guess so.”
“Then there’s nothing to worry about.”
“But…”
Elinor cut her off, growing impatient. “It is not for you to decide what is right in this situation. That was decided for us a very long time ago. All you need to do is follow along for another day. One more day. Can you do that? When we are so very close?”
Ivy didn’t linger to hear Emma’s response. Their conversation made no sense to her, and it wouldn’t have mattered except she was somehow implicated in what was “happening”. It seemed a lot of fuss over a party and everyone’s opinion of her. Emma was ready to crack from the strain, and Ivy wouldn’t blame her if she did. This situation appeared to be of Elinor’s making, her own obsession with carrying out whatever the “right thing” was.
Ivy decided to do what was best for her and ignore the family drama. She considered returning to her room; she was tired, but also a restlessness had possessed her which would make sleep elusive. Instead of continuing there, she stopped at the top of the stairs and gazed down the wide staircase with its deep red runner faded in places from a century’s worth of foot traffic. She had not until now appreciated its massive, yet graceful proportions, the curved oak balusters and newel posts with wrought iron finials.
The main floor was dim and hushed. No flickering glow from a fire emanated from any room below. She wondered if Mason was in the parlor again, a snifter in his hand, relaxing by the fireplace behind closed doors, but decided even if he was, she was not going to chase after him, regardless of how much she wanted to see him.
Her fingers moved absently over the finial’s surface. Its shape was rounded — an acorn, smooth with a textured cap. She hadn’t noticed the whimsical accent before and made a mental note to have a closer look in the daytime when something brushed against her back. She spun around, her heart hammering, but saw no one. Nevertheless, she stepped away from the stairs and took a deep breath. All that talk about curses had her not only seeing things, but feeling things too! She had no curses on her, no ghosts were hovering, and undeterred, she turned toward the corridor connecting the open hallway with the portrait gallery.
The hall ahead lay in darkness, and she wished she had brought a candle to light her way. If she had any sense, she would turn right back and go to bed, which she planned on doing soon after a brief visit. She stepped into the dim passage and felt along the wall, detecting a whisper of a draft beneath her hand from a seam in the wainscoting. Often these old houses had secret passages and discreet service stairwells. Using her fingers, she traced along the narrow gap. In the middle of the wall, Ivy was rewarded when a slight push opened a door to a stairwell. Glancing in both directions, she pushed it wider and saw nothing, only heard a deep toned hum that indicated a vast space. Her hand gliding along the surface, she found a light switch and flipped it. The glow of a bare bulb revealed wooden stairs coming up from below and rising to the next floor, and perhaps even higher to the roof. Strategically spaced rectangular windows provided light during the day. She doubted any of the family had ever used this stairwell and switched off the light, closed the door carefully and waited a moment for her eyes to adjust to the darkness before going further.
A warm glow of flickering gaslights awaited her at the end of the passage, and Ivy turned left with a thrill of anticipation. She passed the portraits of more recent ancestors of the 1900s, the painting of Lady Everdon Emma insisted looked like her, and then her gaze found the one she came to see.
The dark, brooding eyes beneath the strong brows met hers. His hair was the same texture as of his descendant, black with a bit of wave, an errant lock on the brow. His gaze was direct and unwavering, as if he didn’t merely look, but actually saw the subject of his attention. Can you see me? She wondered. He didn’t scowl and his mouth wasn’t turned down at the corners, rather; it was well-shaped and sensual — he even had the same lips! Ivy shook her head. Is this why she had come here, to muse on the man’s lips? Oh, good lord, it’s just as well he couldn’t see her! Maybe this was a good time to go. What if Mason was wandering around, and he found her gawking at his ancestral twin? Wouldn’t she look like a dork? This was silly enough, pathetic even, standing here mooning in front of an old painting in her robe and slippers.
Before heading back, she allowed herself one last act of foolishness. She reached out and touched her fingers to the lips. Good night, she whispered mentally, and with a sheepish grin turned and just barely stifled a scream upon finding herself face-to-face with Victoria Seabrooke.
Victoria cocked her head to the side. “How sweet.” She drawled.
Ivy’s face burned with humiliation, and she felt the skin on the back of her neck prickle.
“It is Ivy, is it not?” Victoria continued smoothly. “Tell me Ivy, are you like your namesake, the clinging vine?”
The two had not met, yet she knew her name, probably from Lucy, and despite this being their first meeting, their mutual dislike of one another was very much in evidence. Recovering quickly, Ivy was in no mood to spar with the woman and made to go around her, but Victoria stepped in her path.
“Let me pass, Victoria.”
“And if I do not?” An eyebrow arched.
Ivy’s hands clenched, and she braced herself for the confrontation the woman was determined to have. She straightened herself. “Then I’ll just have to shove you out of the way.”
Victoria sized her up, the violet eyes moving languidly over her opponent.
“Such strong words for a little girl.” She mocked and moved an inch aside making her intentions clear. “But you have not answered my question. Are you clinging?”
Well, wasn’t that ironic? Ivy took a deep breath. “It’s late and I’m tired. I’m not in the mood for this.”
Victoria raised her chin a fraction, and her eyes narrowed. “You should have kept going and not turned back. You need to go away. You do not belong here.”
Ivy was incredulous. “You don’t tell me what to do!” She didn’t need to stand here and be insulted and looked down on by this jealous snob. She had some nerve!
“But I am so, you had better listen.”
“Or what?” Ivy retorted, trying to hold on to her rapidly slipping composure.
Victoria laughed softly. “You need to keep to your own kind. Leave Mason alone. You see, you can never be with him. He is out of your reach. Find someone else to cling to.”
Ivy was suddenly overcome with the urge to smash in her teeth.
“Get out of my way.” She was done arguing with her, but Victoria showed no inclination of moving, as if she meant to keep her trapped in the corridor all night.
“Perhaps you ought to stay where you are and make love to the painting, because that is as close as you will ever be to having him.” Victoria took a step toward her. “And you should know,” she whispered, looking Ivy straight in the eye, “he spent the evening with me.”
There was nothing more for Ivy to do, but shove her aside and leave, before she left the woman picking up her teeth from the carpet, something she was dangerously close to doing when a creaking from behind distracted her. She spun around to a now familiar, white-haired old woman propelling herself in the ancient wheelchair straight at her.
Ivy screamed and stepped back, bumping into Victoria, who stumbled aside then stood statue-still. The old woman pushed forward down the middle of the hall, her elbows jutting out at right angles, the billowing sleeves of her flannel nightshirt flapping with every arduous thrust. The ancient gears groaned and squeaked toward her. Ivy thought fast; it only took her a second to calculate she would never make it to the connecting corridor in time. Panicked, she shoved Victoria out of her way and ran down the hall to the opposite end, the old crone steadily plowing behind her. She chanced a look over her shoulder. In the disfiguring shadows, her pursuer appeared grotesque and emaciated, her mouth a ragged gap, the dried apple face set in a grimace of exertion. In the gaslight, something glimmered on her cheeks — sweat? No. Tears. For an instant, one of the gnarled hands let go of the wheel and reached for her, the glassy eyes pleading, and a low moan escaped her dry lips. Victoria hadn’t moved at all.
Terrified, Ivy hiked up her robe, turned right and sprinted down the length of the hallway into thicker darkness where only the odd sconce flickered. The corridor was identical to the one she had been in the other night, terminating at a stained glass window. The relentless squeaking was still some distance away; the chair hadn’t rounded the corner yet. The last thing she wanted was to be trapped in there with her, whatever her intent.
She tried the first door — locked! Quickly, she moved to the second then third. She prayed one of them would open. She was not a religious person, but there was no harm in asking. The next one was unyielding as well, and close to tears, Ivy threw herself at the last door, and with a cry tumbled into the room. Scrambling on all fours, the bunched folds of her robe slowing her down, she crawled along the floor, shut the door and pressed her weight against it. Her mouth was dry and bitter with the taste of adrenaline.
To her enormous relief, the bedroom was unoccupied, musty and smelling faintly of smoke, and only furniture hunkered under gray dust sheets.
The wheelchair had entered the corridor, and she felt behind her for some kind of locking mechanism, but found none, so she listened intently and watched the door handle for any movement. She couldn’t imagine who the old woman was; no one had mentioned a guest fitting her description staying in the house. She didn’t strike her as a kindly old lady, a grandmotherly type, and if she didn’t know better, she would be convinced it couldn’t really be anyone other than Margaret Everdon, the madwoman of Everdon Manor. Except, it could not possibly be her. She would have to be around two hundred years old! No, it had to be someone else, a person maybe nobody wanted to talk about. Regardless of who she was, the old woman terrified her, but at least, she was safe in this room.
Eventually, her heartbeat returned to a normal rhythm, and her breathing calmed. She clutched the robe close to her. This wing was closed and cold. Her mind wandered to Victoria, who had stood in the hall, trance-like, all the arrogance and contempt having left her, for the moment, anyway. Did the old just sail by the woman? Why was she after her? Ivy tried to make sense of the situation if there was any logic where an insane person is concerned. It must be because she was a stranger in the house, and this was an attempt to drive her out. That seemed logical, under the circumstances. Emma could have warned her, or Lucy. But then, how were they to know she would take into her head to go wandering around in the night? Now all she had to do was to wait and see who was the more tenacious of the two, and so, she waited.
At some point, she twitched as she started to doze off and jolted herself alert. Her bottom was sore and her legs felt like overcooked noodles. It was time to get up and have a look. She counted to three, took a deep breath and opened the door a crack. No wizened face met her inquisitive peek. She surveyed the length of the dim corridor and didn’t see anything suspicious. All was quiet. She closed it softly behind her and crept close to the wall to the junction. From around the corner, only the ancestors kept vigil over the portrait gallery. Victoria was gone too. Fifty feet to the connecting corridor seemed a manageable distance, she told herself as she rushed along the carpet. Executing a zigzag turn, Ivy ran toward her room. Once there, she locked the door and sagged with relief. How on earth was she going to make it through the next day?
SUNDAY
~*~
Styles hadn’t come into her room to draw the bath, open the curtains and offer her cheerful greeting, and of course, she could not. Ivy remembered this time having locked the door last night. She shuddered under the blankets in the twilight murkiness of the morning, drawing them close.
The image of the invalid chasing her down the hall arose. The incident with Victoria Seabrooke was insignificant in comparison, and she reminded herself she had only today to get through. Her feelings were mixed; so many things she didn’t understand, not Emma’s behavior, nor Elinor’s, not the weird goings on, and not Mason, who had chosen to remain aloof. Maybe she would stay in this room where she was safe and cower under th
e blankets until it was time to go home. No, that wouldn’t draw attention at all. Did she really want Elinor in here feeling her forehead and ladling chicken soup into her mouth?
With a heavy sigh, she threw back the covers and plodded to a window. A startlingly sun-filled day greeted her when she drew the curtains aside, and she smiled with relief, despite her misgivings. After the previous night, she was expecting nothing less than gloom. The scene was cheerful and bright; the hills swathed with vibrant reds and muted siennas in the distance. Just beyond the house, the leaves clinging to the maples glowed against a brilliant clear blue sky with none of the reminders of last night’s rain.
She thought about the day ahead spent outdoors playing croquet, which sounded like fun, and later tonight, the party, the highlight of the festivities. If she kept near people, not wander off to corridors dark and unfamiliar, then she should be all right.
What had transpired so far, was not how she imagined the weekend at all, and thinking back upon her experiences since her arrival, she still had no way of knowing what was actual and what she had fabricated. She touched the delicate bloom of the Miltonia orchid, the petals silky soft against her fingers. This is real. Her senses confirmed as much. The return of the seizures was unwelcome, and she fervently hoped they would keep at bay for the remainder of her stay. Tuning out during the proceedings would be unfortunate, to say the least, and she had no intention of becoming the center of attention! She’d had enough of that!
A flash of black among the golden leaves drew her eye. A squirrel scampered from one branch to another, its only concern storing food for the winter. How can anything possibly go wrong on such a glorious day?
Ivy checked her cell phone, already past ten and the power was draining fast. She rummaged in her bag, then frustrated, dumped everything out. Oh, no! She had forgotten to pack the charge cord. Oh well, it’s not like she could make calls anyway. She powered it off and dropped it in the bag then made to get ready.
