by Amy Cross
I pause for a moment, before turning to Charles.
“There. Is that good enough?”
“That is fine,” he says, stepping closer. “Now the men will start work.”
“They'd better,” I mutter under my breath, already starting to feel that my generosity has been somewhat exploited. The tradesmen are being compensated adequately, so they should be hard at work by now.
As Charles starts to lead me away, one of the workers is already adjusting the stone that I laid. Apparently I set it down crooked, as if such a thing even matters. All I want is to get out of the cold and the wind, and return to my lodging house in the nearby village. I know damn well that I shall most likely not even live to see the house finished, that the malady in my lungs is likely to overwhelm me before the year is out, but this house shall be my parting legacy not only to the family but also to the entire county. For the rest of time, men will marvel at the fine construction.
“Why Blackwych Grange?” Charles asks suddenly.
“Eh?”
“Why did you choose that name? Why not Marringham House, or something like that?”
“Our family name was Blackwych,” I tell him, frustrated by his lack of understanding, “long before it was Marringham. Personally, I have always preferred Blackwych. It sounds more distinguished, more -”
Suddenly I hear common voices shouting, and I turn to see that the workers have congregated around one particular patch of mud near the newly-laid stone. My initial assumption is that they must be drunk, but after a moment I realize that they seem particularly agitated by some object in the ground.
“Whatever is causing that commotion?” I ask. “The racket is frightful.”
I watch as one of the men reaches into the mud and starts pulling something out. Something rather large and long, glinting a little in the sun as mud is wiped from its surface.
“Is that...” I squint. “Is that a bone?”
“We found another,” one of the men says breathlessly, bringing the bone over to us. “Some of the others are getting a bit nervous about it.”
“Just rebury them a suitable distance from the site,” Charles replies. “I have already given you instruction on this matter.”
“Are you sure it's respectful?” he asks. “I mean... It's just, there's been talk, and we must've pulled out a dozen bodies at least since we started work. This whole patch of land -”
“I have told you what to do,” Charles says firmly, betraying just a hint of irritation in his voice. “There is no need for further debate. And if any of the men do not want to work here, they are more than free to set down their tools and walks away. I can easily find others to take their places.”
“Aye, Sir,” the man replies, hesitating for a moment before turning and heading back across the field. Already, in the distance, one of his colleagues is removing what looks like a human skull from the ground.
“Whatever is going on here?” I stammer, shocked by the sight.
“Grandfather, there's no need to be concerned,” Charles says with a sigh. “It just seems that in preparing the land for the house's construction, the men have disturbed...” Another sigh. “Well, who knows what it is? They've just found some human remains, that's all. Whatever they are, they're clearly very old, at least a couple of centuries. There are no markers, there's nothing to indicate any kind of formal setting. It's just a bunch of bones, and honestly, I've given instructions that they're all to be reburied in a respectful manner, a short way from where the work is to be undertaken.”
“Blackthorn Grange is being built over some kind of cemetery?” I ask, turning to him.
“Absolutely not,” he replies. “Heaven forbid. There has never been a cemetery here, just... I don't know, just a site where some unfortunates were once laid to rest without any form of ceremony. There's absolutely no reason to worry. This won't delay the house's construction in any way whatsoever.”
“We could move it,” one of the workers suggests.
I turn to him.
“Begging your pardon,” he continues, lowering his gaze so as to avoid looking directly at me. “It's just, there's no reason why the house couldn't be built a half-mile to the east instead. The ground there seems less... disturbed. Not that I'm saying there's anything wrong, but it might be as well to avoid taking risks.”
I hesitate for a moment, before shaking my head.
“No,” I say firmly, “I have made my decision. The view from this spot will be much finer. This is where the house will be built, and I will hear no more debate over the matter.”
“You heard my grandfather,” Charles announces to the workers. “Cut out all this foolish talk and get on with things. You won't be paid any extra for sitting around like this.”
We wait for them to get moving, but still they stand around like bovine fools.
“Move!” Charles shouts, clapping his hands together, and this at least forces them to turn away and get back to work. “That's right! You're already behind schedule!”
I watch for a moment as one of the men pulls yet another gleaming bone from the mud. The whole thing gives me the shivers, but I suppose there's no reason to worry. After all, I am not a superstitious man, and Charles says that the land has never been hallowed or sanctified. I dare say there are few spots in all of England where some unfortunate fellow's remains cannot be found if one digs down deep enough. And once the house has been completed, nobody will care what rests beneath its stones.
Charles helps me into the carriage and goes around to instruct the driver, but I cannot help looking out and watching as the men pull more bones from the mud. It is clear that the site of Blackwych Grange's construction contains a rather unusual number of corpses, but in the long run such things do not matter. Once the house is finished, it shall matter not one jot what was here before.
And the new shall obliterate the old.
Part Three
Elizabeth Marringham - 1851
Chapter Ten
“Let me out!” I scream, slamming my shoulder against the door. “Matthew! Let me out of here!”
Filled with panic, I pull back and try again and again. I can already feel the air getting thinner in here, and I fear I shall suffocate if my foolish cousin doesn't open the wardrobe door immediately. After throwing myself against the door for a fourth time, however, I slump back for a moment and try to catch my breath. There has to be a way out of here, but so far the door seems absolutely wedged shut.
As I try to think of a solution, my uncle's dress jackets are hanging down in the darkness, bumping against my forehead.
“This isn't a joke!” I shout finally, with tears in my voice. “Matthew, please, I shall die if you don't open the door! I need air!”
I wait, convinced that I'll hear him giggling on the other side. Hearing only silence, however, I realize that the fool clearly believes that still just playing. Matthew has always been a little slow in certain matters, and although I know he'd never try to hurt me on purpose, he most likely has no idea that locking me in the wardrobe could prove fatal.
“I'm not playing anymore,” I gasp, leaning forward and resting my head against the wood. In the darkness, the sound of my own snatched breath sounds even more desperate. “Matthew, please, I know you think this is fun, but I'm running out of air. I've been in here for too long, Matthew. Please...”
With tears in my eyes, I place my hands against the door and push, but I can tell that the key still hasn't been turned. I take slow, deep mouthfuls of air, trying to convince myself that I'm simply overreacting, even though I can feel the air getting thinner and thinner. Finally, I lean against the door and listen, hoping against hope that I'll hear Matthew out there.
I close my eyes.
Suddenly there's a clicking sound, as if the key is being turned. Before I can react, the wardrobe door is pulled open, and I'm bathed in light as I tumble out and slam down against the hard, bare floorboards. I take a couple of large gulps, and then I turn and kick him as hard
as possible in the shins, hoping to teach him a lesson.
“You absolute fool!” I shout, looking up at him. “Why are you so -”
I freeze as soon as I see that it's my uncle, Sir John Marringham, who towers over me. Looking around, I spot no sign of Matthew, and then I slowly look back up and see my uncle's dark, disapproving stare.
“I was...”
My mouth suddenly feels dry, and I can't quite get any words out. It was his shin I kicked, even if he did not react at all.
“Uncle, I merely -”
“You will come with me,” he says firmly, and it's clear that he's not amused. “We can talk about your impudence later, young lady. Right now, there is someone you must meet.”
“I'm so sorry,” I stammer. “I thought... I thought I was going to suffocate in the wardrobe...”
“I rather doubt such a thing is possible,” he replies, before turning and heading to the door. “Come.”
“Uncle, please -”
“Come.”
With that, he leaves me alone in the room, and a moment later I hear him making his way down the spiral staircase. Still, I don't dare dawdle, so I quickly get to my feet and – after brushing my dress down – I hurry after him.
Chapter Eleven
“Mr. Harcourt,” Uncle John says a few minutes later, before stepping back and gesturing toward me, “please, allow me to introduce my niece, Miss Elizabeth Jane Marringham.”
Remaining seated, the stone-faced old man glares at me, as if I have in some way displeased him.
“Curtsy,” Uncle John whispers, nudging my arm. “Elizabeth, where are your manners?”
“Of course.”
Taking hold of the sides of my dress, I offer a curtsy, and this time the elderly Mr. Harcourt allows himself the faintest of smiles. It's clear that he's a stickler for pomp and ceremony, and not necessary the kind of man who finds much amusement in the world. After a moment, however, I notice that he's rather conspicuously looking me up and down, as if for some reason he's studying my appearance.
I have met men like him before. Other friends of my uncle.
“As I promised you,” Uncle John continues, taking another step back as he turns to Mr. Harcourt, “Elizabeth is a delightful young lady. Only eighteen years old, and already possessed of a fine mind. In fact, even if I say so myself, she must surely be one of the more intelligent girls in the entire county. She will make a fine wife for some lucky man, in just a few years' time.”
I force a faint smile, as I know my uncle would like, but deep down I fear that I am being assessed like a piece of meat at one of the cattle shows. After a moment, I realize that Mr. Harcourt's gaze has fallen upon my chest, and I am not entirely sure that he is admiring the lace trimming of my dress. Again, though, I have met this type of man before. My uncle invites them into the house often enough.
“Mr. Harcourt owns a mill,” Uncle John explains, smiling at me as if he hasn't noticed my discomfort. “You'll doubtless be impressed to learn, child, that his mill is one of the largest in the country.”
“Hmph!” the old man mutters, although I'm not entirely sure what that's supposed to mean.
“Mr. Harcourt is also planning to expand his business into this county,” Uncle John continues, “although for that to happen, he is of course seeking a partner. Someone who knows the area well. As you can imagine, there are many men who would jump at the opportunity to work with the great and highly esteemed Algernon Harcourt, but I have been attempting to persuade the honorable gentleman that he should consider the proposals I have set before him. In turn, he and I are hoping to gain the favor of Sir Bernard Lardsley, who is expected in these parts over the next day or two. The business prospects are quite staggering.”
“Hmph!” Mr. Harcourt grunts again, still staring at my chest.
“You like Mr. Harcourt, do you not?” Uncle John asks, reaching out and taking hold of my arm. I can feel him trying to gently nudge me toward the old man, and I have no doubt that he'll force me if necessary. He always forces me, and it's always necessary. “Don't be rude or shy, Elizabeth. We must be good hosts for our visitor.”
Taking a cautious step forward, I realize I can smell the foul stench of cigar smoke. Mr. Harcourt has a large, bushy white mustache, stained yellow around the nostrils, and light from the window is glinting against trails of saliva at the edge of his mouth. His eyes are dull and brown, yet they twitch constantly in the sockets, and his swollen hands grip the chair's arms as if the man himself is suffering from some form of malady.
“Elizabeth is eighteen years old,” my uncle continues, repeating himself. “She's fit and healthy, and strong, and yet she also knows her place. She's obedient and highly respectful. Isn't that right, Elizabeth?”
I know what he wants me to say.
“That's right,” I mumble reluctantly, feeling a faint churning sensation in the pit of my belly. “I know my...”
I take a deep breath, struggling to get the words out.
“I know my place.”
“Since her parents died,” he adds, “I have taken Elizabeth into my home and raised her as my own. It has not been easy, and many people have told me that I should have sent her to an orphanage, but I took on this hardship out of love for my late sister. Elizabeth has not been an easy child to raise. She has, however, begun to prove rather useful as she matures and becomes a woman.”
Mr. Harcourt lets out another faint sound, although it's hard to tell whether or not he's pleased.
“Perhaps I should leave the two of you to get better acquainted,” Uncle John says suddenly, and with that he turns and heads toward the door.
Instinctively, I try to walk after him, although I doubt very much that I'll get very far.
“Now you must stay here,” he continues, turning once he's outside the room and taking hold of the door's edge. “Elizabeth, I'm quite sure you understand what's expected of you. Please, remember what we discussed after Mr. Cole's visit last month. I am relying upon you to keep Mr. Harcourt happy.”
With that, he swings the door shut, and a moment later I hear the key turning in the lock. I swear, the air here in the drawing room suddenly seems a little thinner. It is almost as if I am in the wardrobe again.
Behind me, the armchair creaks, which means Mr. Harcourt is moving. I know it's rude to keep my back turned to a guest, but I can't bring myself to look at him, not yet. I still have nightmares about Mr. Cole's visit, and I'd hoped that my uncle might not surprise me with any more of these arrangements. As I hear a bump, however, I realize that I simply must be more welcoming to our latest guest, so finally I turn and see to my surprise that he's on his hands and knees, still staring at me with intense, excited eyes.
“Feed,” he gasps.
“I...”
My voice trails off.
“Feed,” he says again.
“I'm sorry,” I reply, “but...”
Even by the standards of Uncle John's visitors, this is an unusual situation. Mr. Harcourt was presented to me as an honorable and esteemed man, yet here he is on all fours, grunting like a simpleton. Like an animal.
“Do you require medical attention?” I ask cautiously. “I can fetch my -”
“Feed!” he hisses, before suddenly crawling toward me and then stopping again in the middle of the room once he's directly beneath the chandelier. “Feed me!”
“Feed you?”
I take a step back, until I bump against the door. I reach behind my back and try the handle, but of course Uncle John has turned the key in the lock.
“Feed me!”
“I'm sure I don't know what you mean,” I tell him. “Please, let me call my uncle and -”
“Feed me!” he blurts out, crawling closer with a sudden burst of speed and stopping just a few feet from me. “Feed me now! I'm starved!”
“I have nothing to...”
Looking around, I hope to spot a bowl of fruit or perhaps some other food, but there's absolutely nothing here. I feel terribly fool
ish, and I can only assume that somebody is playing a trick on me. As Mr. Harcourt crawls closer, I back away, but he seems rather persistent and by the time I reach the piano it's clear that the elderly gentleman is in no mood to stop following me around the room.
“Feed me!” he gurgles, sounding more frantic than before. “Feed me! I'm so starved, I haven't been fed for so long! Not since Mammy died!”
He tries to grab the hem of my skirt, but I pull away just in time and run over to the window. He's already following me, of course, and all I can think is that I must get out of here at once. I know the door is locked, so I turn and struggle with the window. Once the latch is turned, I'm able to slide the main section up and start climbing out, although at the last moment I feel a hand grab my ankle and hold me tight.
“Feed me!”
“Please,” I stammer, “I just -”
“Feed me!”
I try to pull my ankle free, and I manage to slip a little further until he's holding just my shoe. With one final tug, I haul myself all the way through and then lose my balance, tumbling out and landing in the shrubs down below. Letting out a loud gasp, I roll away from the greenery and onto the garden path, and then I look up at the open window and realize I can still hear a faint shuffling sound coming from within.
“Feed me!” Mr. Harcourt calls out, even though I can't actually see him now. “Come back and feed me!”
Getting to my feet, with only one shoe, I take a few steps back from the window and then turn, hurrying along the side of the house and then making my way around to the garden. By the time I get to the orchard, I have to stop and catch my breath, and finally I start laughing. The sight of that strange old man crawling about was just absurd, and I'm starting to wonder whether he was alright in the head. In fact, the whole thing is delightfully silly, even though I know my uncle will most likely not be best pleased.
