by Cross, Amy
Stopping at the door to the study, I look through and see Father's old desk. When I was a girl, I used to love watching him work, and sometimes I even felt as if I would like to marry a man who possessed Father's exact qualities. Even now, when I see a man sitting down to write at a desk, I feel uncommonly interested in his work, and I feel I would be blissfully happy if I married such a man. Then again, happiness is not what matters. Charles might not be a man who spends much time at a desk, but at least he has money and is esteemed throughout the county. All things considered, he should be more than sufficient.
Perhaps I shall even one day pour him a glass of whiskey one day, the way I used to pour glasses for Father while he worked at his desk.
No.
Such thoughts are weak and unhelpful.
Charles is to be my husband, and I should not long for any other type of man. Stepping away from the door, I head through to the kitchen, and for a moment I try to imagine what it will be like when Charles and I are able to hire a maid and a cook. Charles has intimated on several occasions that he thinks we shall need help once we take control of Ashbyrn House, and I cannot wait for the day when we have some little woman scuttling about in the kitchen, preparing our food. Frankly, I think Mother was awfully wrong to get rid of our previous staff. No matter how difficult it might have been to find the money, she should have found a way to make ends meet.
People talk, and I'm sure there has been gossip about the decrepit state of Ashbyrn House. Still, the house shall rise again.
I turn to head back up the stairs, hoping to finally sleep, but suddenly I hear a faint bump somewhere in the darkness, followed by a giggling laugh. I look back across the kitchen, and sure enough there is another bump just a moment later. Whatever is going on down here, it would seem that somebody is in the pantry.
I open my mouth to call out, but then I hear more laughter, and I am quite sure that it is Pippa's voice that fills the otherwise quiet room.
After hesitating for a moment, I start making my way across the darkened kitchen, curious as to what might be amusing my dear sister at such a late hour. There's nothing in the pantry other than food and cooking supplies, and I honestly don't think I've ever even seen Pippa step through the door in the corner. As I get closer, however, I realize that the bumping sound – although muffled – is continuing with a rhythm of its own, and I can hear Pippa's gasped half-laughs, as if she's a little out of breath.
The door has been left open just a crack, and I can see the flickering light of a candle burning on the other side. I lean closer, setting my eye to the gap, and that is when I see something rather unsettling.
Or disappointing.
Yes, perhaps disappointing is the more appropriate word.
Pippa is on the floor, flat on her back, and Charles is on top of her. It is quite clear what they are doing, and Pippa is giggling like a fool as my fiance buries his face in her ample bare chest. The rhythmic thumping and slapping sound continues as his hips thrust into her over and over again, and a moment later I hear Charles letting out a frantic groan. Pippa laughs again and whispers something that I don't quite manage to hear, and then Charles slows, as if he has passed some peak.
Fearing that I might be spotted, I step back, but my heart is pounding and I can barely contain my irritation. I never truly expected loyalty from either of them. Just decorum and taste.
“We didn't make too much noise, did we?” Charles asks breathlessly.
“Don't be worrying about that,” Pippa replies. “Mother sleeps soundly enough, and Katinka isn't exactly the most inquisitive of souls. Besides, she needs her beauty sleep before the wedding.”
At this, they both start laughing.
A moment later, I hear more bumps coming from the pantry. Unable to stifle my curiosity, I peer through the gap in the door again, just in time to see Charles disengaging himself from my sister. The sight is utterly horrific, and I am struck by the broad grin on Pippa's face.
“We must stop this once I am married,” Charlies mutters.
“And why's that?” Pippa asks.
“We cannot risk being found out.”
“And what would come of it?” she continues. “A man of your wealth is expected to have a mistress. And besides, if you expect any warmth or affection from my dear sister Katinka, you're going to be sorely disappointed. She's the kind of woman who'll most likely make you wear a blindfold before she so much as lets you into her bedroom. She's as cold and icy as the driven snow.”
“Still, it's not right. I don't want any scandals. We should at least stop for six months, until I've had time to impregnate Katinka.”
“Then perhaps you're marrying the wrong sister,” she suggests with a laugh. “I know Katinka is older, but she's rather staid and boring. Frankly, I've often found her to be an insufferable prig. At least if you were to marry me , you know there'd be no drought in the bedroom. And aren't I prettier, Charles? I must be. I'm younger, after all. Katinka is already showing her age, especially around the eyes. Why, her crow's feet are getting more noticeable by the day!”
“It's not that simple.”
Pippa laughs. “Because Katinka is the one who inherits the house?”
“You don't understand the business world.”
“I understand that your shipping company is effectively bankrupt,” Pippa tells him. “I understand that you claim to have far more money than is actually the case. Everybody thinks you're offering this family a lifeline by taking us on, but perhaps the reverse is true. Perhaps you're the one who's in need, dear Charles.”
“You shouldn't listen to gossip,” he tells her.
“Why not? Gossip is seldom untrue. Not wholly, anyway.”
Suddenly I hear footsteps coming toward the door. Startled, I step back, just as the door swings open. Fortunately I am hidden from view as Charles and Pippa step out into the kitchen, and it is equally fortunate that neither of them thinks to swing the pantry door shut again. Instead, I remain hidden as they wander back toward the hallway, although I can hear them still laughing and giggling. Finally they make their way up the stairs, no doubt congratulating one another on their subterfuge and deceit, but I do not immediately step out from my place behind the door.
Instead, I remain completely still as a sense of pure, cold-bloodied fury starts creeping through my chest. This is not, however, the type of fury that demands immediate action. Instead, it is the type that hardens one's heart. My wedding is in less than a week now. I shall not be denied, and I shall marry Charles. Still, I think perhaps I must remind certain people of my authority in this house.
Chapter Fifteen
Owen - Today
The diver climbs back out of the pond and immediately starts talking to the police officer. Even as they compare notes, I can already tell that nothing has been found, and a moment later the officer starts making his way over to me with a distinct lack of urgency.
“You have to keep looking,” I tell him. “Somebody fell in!”
Looking over toward the pond, I watch for a moment as early morning sunlight catches on the water. A few seconds later, hearing a car door opening, I turn just in time to see that the diver is slipping out of his wet-suit, as if he's done for the day.
“I'm not lying!” I say firmly, turning back to the officer. “Why would I make something like this up?”
He stares at me for a moment, before glancing toward the house.
“I saw someone!” I continue. “I heard a splash, and I saw someone under the water!”
He sighs again.
“Sir -”
“It was a woman!” I add. “I only saw her face for a second, but she was looking straight up at me! It was as clear as you are now!”
“A woman? In the pond?” He eyes me with suspicion for a moment, and it's very clear that he's not taking me at all seriously. “And would this woman happen to be the famous Katinka Ashbyrn, by any chance?”
“What are you talking about?”
Taking out his pho
ne, he taps at the screen a couple of times.
“Some of us were actually glad when we heard the house had a new owner. We thought maybe things could move on.” He glances at me again, and this time I think there's actually a hint of disgust in his eyes. “Let me be candid with you,” he continues. “If you think you can move in here, raise a ruckus about ghosts and try to turn the place into a tourist attraction, you're on a hiding to nothing. People around here don't want a -”
“A tourist attraction?” I ask, interrupting him. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“I'm sure there are people who'd pay to spend the night in a so-called haunted house. But digging up all that nonsense from the past isn't going to be good for the area. We'd all much prefer to see Ashbyrn House turned into a nice, respectable family home. Is it just you who's living here, or do you have a family?”
“It's just me,” I mutter through gritted teeth. “But if you think I'm trying to claim there's a ghost, then -”
“Gavin's the head of the local diving club,” he continues, as the diver climbs into his car and starts the engine. “The pond isn't exactly deep here, Mr. Stone, so it didn't take him long to check that there was nobody down there. In fact, the only reason I bothered to call him out was that I wanted to make it clear that I investigated what you told me. But let me be quite clear about one thing. If you call me again, making these fanciful claims, I'll have to seriously consider whether or not you're willfully wasting police time. And if I decide that's the case, there are certain charges that I could bring against you. Am I making myself understood?”
“I saw a woman in the pond,” I tell him, shocked by his complete lack of interest.
“I'm sure you did,” he replies, turning and heading to his car as the diver drives away. “And let me guess. You heard bells too, did you? And strange noises in the room with that bloody painting?”
I open my mouth to reply, but he's already made it abundantly clear that he has no intention of doing his job. In fact, as he taps at his phone a couple more times, I feel as if this particular officer is treating the whole thing as a joke.
“Fine,” I say finally, getting to my feet and heading back toward the front door. “I won't bother you again. Even if hordes of maniacs descend upon the place, I won't dare ask you to do your job.” Stopping in the doorway, I turn back to him. “Just let it be known that I'm installing security measures. Whoever was up here last night harassing me, tell them not to try it again. I won't be an easy touch the next time.”
“I can assure you, nobody from the town is coming up to bother you.”
“I beg to differ,” I reply. “Whatever. Just spread the word. I want to be left alone!”
With that, I head inside and slam the door shut, before stopping for a moment and listening to the silence of the house. Having not slept a wink last night, I feel exhausted and buzzed at the same time. The only possible explanation for the night's events is that some prankster tossed a full-sized dummy into the pond. Quite how I missed the damn thing while I was searching, I don't understand, but perhaps I was panicking a little. And then, when I ran to call the police, evidently the jokers pulled the dummy out and made their escape.
I'm sure they got the whole thing on video.
Finally, I head through to the kitchen, where Bob is sitting by the door with a mournful look on his face, but I don't have time to console him right now. After putting some food in his bowl, I make myself some breakfast and wander through to the study, figuring I should at least try to get some work done. Of course, first I'll have to -
Stopping in the doorway, I'm surprised to see that not only has my desk been moved over to the far wall and set in place, but the lamp has been removed from the box and set in place. In fact, the whole room appears to have been tidied and readied for me. I don't remember doing this last night, but I suppose it's possible that I did a little prep work before falling asleep at the kitchen table. It's odd that I didn't put my laptop in place, but I suppose I should just be grateful that drunk-Owen saw fit to arrange the house a little.
Slumping in the chair, I eat my bread and jam before realizing that I'm far too tired to actually get any work done. If I go and sleep for a few hours, maybe I can come up fighting after lunch and actually manage a few words. Frankly, so far my new life of rural isolation hasn't gone so well, and it might be better to bow to the need to sleep.
“Hey Bob,” I say finally, leaving my crumby plate on the desk as I head out to the hallway. “I'm going to make the bed up. Do you want to take a nap?”
By the time I'm halfway up the stairs, Bob is already right with me.
“Don't worry,” I tell him as I reach the bedroom door. “I just have to -”
Stopping suddenly, I'm surprised to see that not only has the bed been made up, but all my clothes have been taken from the suitcases and hung in the wardrobe. I guess I must have been pretty busy last night after those two glasses of wine.
***
Of course, I dream about Vanessa again. Sometimes I think that the more I force her from my mind while I'm awake, the more she comes back to me when I sleep.
This time, the dream is set at the old beach hotel where we went for one of our first trips together. We're walking along the shoreline, laughing and joking, and I'm struck by the realization that this is the woman I want to marry and be with for the rest of my life. There are no doubts, no uncertainties and no questions. I just know, with all I have in my soul, that Vanessa is the one. Of course, by that point we'd only been together for about six weeks, so I figured it was too early to ask her to marry me. I knew I'd have to wait six months, maybe a year, but deep down I couldn't help making plans.
Life seemed to easy back then. And simple. But then Charlie went and ruined everything for us all.
Suddenly opening my eyes, I find myself back in the bedroom at Ashbyrn House. I'm immediately struck by a sense of disappointment that the dream is over, so I close my eyes and try to get back to the beach. I know it's a long shot, but after a moment I begin to feel myself drifting again, as if maybe I have a shot. Half awake and half asleep, I stay perfectly still, trying to empty my mind. I can hear waves in the distance, and now I remember the sweater she was wearing that day. A moment later, I feel her hand on my shoulder, and I feel the bed shifting slightly beneath my body, almost as if she's climbing on to rest with me.
And then Bob starts barking.
Startled, I open my eyes. I can still feel a hand on my shoulder, but I quickly sit up and see that Bob is snarling at the empty side of the bed. Turning, I look over at the spot where Vanessa should be, but of course there's no sign of her. The sense of a hand on my shoulder has faded, and I turn back to Bob, and for a few more seconds I feel as if I'm torn between two vastly different worlds. One with Vanessa, and one without her. Of course, it's the world without Vanessa that quickly wins out.
“Thanks,” I tell Bob sourly. “You couldn't have let me have a few more minutes?”
He backs to the very edge of the bed, snarling as he looks up at something next to the bed. His hackles are raised yet again, and I watch with a mixture of concern and amusement as he turns. I swear, it's almost as if he's watching someone walk slowly around the bed, and I can't deny that the effect is a little creepy.
“You can stop now,” I tell him. “I'm awake.”
He barks again, watching the open door now.
“Bob?” I continue. “Come on, little guy. Enough's enough. You're a good guard dog, I get it. You've proved your point.”
He lets out another snarl, still watching the door, and then finally he turns and comes over to me, settling next to my legs as if he wants to guard me.
“Okay,” I mutter, stroking his back, “that's -”
Suddenly I hear a creaking sound from out in the corridor, as if one of the other doors is swinging open. I wait, and Bob lets out another low growl.
“Fine,” I say with a sigh. “You know what, Bob? I'll admit it, that was slightly creepy.”
/>
Glancing at the wall, I see that there are several squashed spiders next to the bed. I'm sure they weren't there earlier, but I guess I must have missed them.
I pause, considering my chances of getting any more sleep, before realizing that the dream of Vanessa is probably well and truly gone now. Besides, it's probably not healthy for me to dwell on the past like that, and when I check my phone I see that I managed to rest for a couple of hours and it's now just a few minutes before midday. If I'm going to have any hope of getting into a normal sleep pattern, I should probably just haul my ass up and push through the rest of the day, and then try to sleep properly tonight.
Heading out to the corridor, I stop for a moment and look along at the spot where the painting of the bride used to hang. Although my initial reaction was to get rid of the damn thing, I'm starting to wonder whether I actually allowed myself to be ruled by superstition. After all, it's just a painting, and perhaps by putting it out in the shed I let a seed of doubt take root in my mind. Maybe I should bring it back into the house and hang it up, just to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that I'm not worried about any of this superstitious nonsense.
So that's what I do.
Of course, Bob barks at me as I manhandle the painting back through the front door, but he's just going to have to learn to live with it. The task of getting the heavy frame all the way up the stairs is not the work of a moment, and it takes several minutes before I give up and decide that maybe I should just let the painting hang in one of the downstairs rooms instead. Despite the slightly creepy image, there's something slightly kitsch and appealing about the style, so I lumber through to the study and get to work.
Finally the painting of the bride is in place, dominating the study, and I take a step back to admire my work.
“There you go,” I mutter. “Pride of place. I hope you're happy now, Katinka Ashbyrn. Whoever you were.”
