by Lark Watson
And, studying it in my little dream, for a flash of a moment I thought I saw someone in the window. I jumped back, embarrassed to be caught as a Peeping Tom. But on closer inspection I guessed I must have been wrong.
The house looked…still. The way of empty houses that hold no life. It’s a sad thing for a house to be asleep like that. But it seemed to be the way of the neighborhood. And, why own only one empty house when you could own two? Or three? Maybe one for each favorite country?
I wondered why they didn’t rent it. I couldn’t imagine a world where I was so well off that I owned empty properties and didn’t need extra income.
For some reason, the little house stayed with me, and, as autumn grew later and leaves fell away from their trees, finally dead and past their pretty little colors, I found myself looking out my bedroom window, straining to see the roof of the cottage. Watching as it came more into view each night, like a lady across the alley undressing slowly with a lamp behind her.
These nightly vigils were how I started seeing the lights.
At first, I thought they were my imagination. Just reflections caught off my own window, or lights shining across the water and hitting the house. But the more I watched it, the more I wondered. Perhaps someone did live there. Maybe they had rented it. That’s why they moved the path, to give their tenants more privacy.
I envied the people in the little house—as I’d come to think of it even though it was probably large enough for a young family.
Finally, when I hadn’t seen anyone coming and going for three weeks, I asked Mrs. Fairfax at dinner.
“Who lives in the little house?”
“What little house?” she asked, and I remembered that the house might not belong to the estate. It could be part of the neighbor’s land.
“The house down by the water to the west. On the land’s edge? Is it part of the estate?”
“Oh, that.” Mrs. Fairfax laughed as if I’d said something funny instead of asking what I’d thought was a fairly normal question. “The old guesthouse. Well, no one lives there, dear.”
“But, I thought I saw lights on.”
“Well, maybe. I know Frank does walk through it every once in awhile to make sure everything’s fit and proper. You never know when Mr. Thorneton is going to come back with guests. He may want to give them their privacy…or his own.”
Ah. The mysterious Mr. Thorneton.
“How often would Frank go down? I thought I saw them on at night.”
Mrs. Fairfax just laughed. She was not a woman to be drawn into thought, but she was kind, so it typically didn’t bother me.
But, she didn’t have any further thoughts beyond, “Perhaps he’s heard Mr. Thorneton’s planned a visit. And, of course the local kids are always looking for somewhere to hang out. It can’t look empty too long or the inside will end up gutted.”
“Does he visit often?” Because, after almost two months I hadn’t seen a sign of him.
I’d heard about him. Nothing interesting at all, but enough that I was finally sure he existed.
Mr. Thorneton likes things this way. Mr. Thorneton rarely calls ahead when he visits. Mr. Thorneton has requested the house be made comfortable for the winter. Mr. Thorneton has sent word he’s working in the city and to forward any corresponds accordingly.
Mr. Thorneton seemed to do a lot of telling without any real communicating.
But, as he was master of the house—and in a sad, twenty-first century way, of me—who was I to say?
He stayed away and let all of us do our jobs in a home that was well-heated, quiet, and safe.
It was more than I could have thought existed growing up. And so, Mr. Thorneton could stay away and make demands all he liked as far as I was concerned.
It wasn’t until a week later that I wondered about Frank and the inspections again.
The end of the fall was having a warm sweep of weather, lifting everyone’s spirits and spreading the lie that was winter into a distant future.
I’d finished my day with Adelia and headed out for what I thought would be my last walk around the lake. It was, as those cold days were, short on daylight, the sun setting hours before supper. But, with the air warm and still, it was a pleasant enough evening as the path was opening on the side of the lake, giving it enough light to walk by.
I’d gotten through our miniature version of the rear gate and was stepping onto the gravel of the trail when I glanced toward the little house I’d begun to think of as mine. I thought I heard the strains of music coming, a soft touch on a piano. A melancholy song that made me want to draw closer. Made me want to cry for no reason whatsoever.
I followed the path around and as I got to the back of the house, the flood lights came on and—I am sure, no matter what someone may say—the interior lights doused at the same moment. The music falling silent in the wake of all that light.
It seemed an odd thing, the lights and the music. But, as I stood there, watching and wondering if the lights would come back on, nothing happened.
The floodlights stayed on, like bright eyes watching me. But there was no movement or sound from within.
I eventually convinced myself it had all been my imagination. Or, more likely, the sound came from across the lake. Sound carried over the water and now that people were filling the houses as the season led up to the holidays, there would probably be more noise and light and traffic on my solitary path.
It made me wish they’d all go back to wherever they’d come from. Couldn’t they enjoy one of their other houses and leave this for me?
With one last look at the cottage, I went again on my way, not worrying about the lights I suspected would flicker off on a timer once I was out of distance.
The music never returned even as a strained my ear passing each home, glancing up their long sloping lawns at the lights within.
Chapter 5
One day, Adelia brought up her guardian, and I was surprised to find she’d only known him the past year.
I’d assumed he’d been either a long time friend of her family or perhaps even an uncle—or father.
But, if that was so, it wasn’t something she was yet aware of and these weren’t things you asked a five-year-old anyway. Perhaps she just didn’t remember him being around when she was younger.
“Mr. Thorne says that when he comes to visit next I shall have to speak to him in English,” she explained before demanding, “You need to teach me the important English words.”
The entire purpose of the last month had been to get her working on her English. But, the struggle was real.
On my end.
Her English was worse than an infant’s and she had so little interest in it that getting her to do any work at all was headache inducing on a good day. I was about to throw away all our books and teach everyone else Spanish.
The whole freaking world if necessary.
In the meantime, all her other studies, as well as her behavior, were coming along nicely, so I hadn’t been very worried about the other catching up.
But, at two mentions of Mr. Thorneton in one week, I began to worry that, just like the Devil, speaking his name would summons the man.
As I wondered about this, it became just the weapon for training Adelia in her neglected language. Hinting that Mr. Thorneton—or, Mr. Thorne as she called him—could arrive anytime with the holidays drawing near, she went on to list phrases she needed to learn which were so absurd as to make me wonder if she was a tiny evil genius who knew no one could resist a cute child speaking broken English. Or really just that thoughtless. She wanted to learn words like gift and phone and shopping and dress and necklace.
If only those had been my worries at five.
“Plus,” she went on when I tried to teach her words like sleep and reading, “I’m turning six this weekend so I shall have presents and cake even though Mr. Thorne may not arrive.”
And with that, she flounced off. Completely sure about her place in the world and the spoils that w
ould be coming her way.
Knowing I would never finish winning her over if her birthday was a failure, I hunted down Mrs. Fairfax to make sure the woman was aware of the date. Fortunately for us, the week gave her enough time to bake a cake and generally make a celebration out of the small holiday Adelia would make this in to.
I preceded to call the mother of the girl she sat with at Storytime when we went to the library and invited her and their other friend over for dinner and cake on the night of the big day.
But, I realized nothing would save me if I didn’t have a gift in hand as Adelia was a very materialistic little girl.
With the warm weather holding, it seemed like the perfect evening to walk the mile to the village. I had an hour before things began to close and I knew which shops to hit for a pretty little something that would catch her eye but not completely destroy my savings.
This evening it felt like a kind of escape.
It was unworthy to admit, but even after an upbringing so lacking in comforts and to have fallen into a job so cushy with income and security, I found myself longing to know more. For years I’d only known the blocks between my foster house and the school and now the quiet empty miles between the lake house and the village.
For someone who had come so far, my world continued to feel incredibly small.
The walk to town was a treat I tried not to give myself too often for fear it would ruin the specialness of it. And, what girl wants to spend too much time around shops she shouldn’t be buying things from. My income was more than fair, but my savings was too important to risk. One day this would be snatched away. And with no home to return to, I needed to be ready for the instant it ended.
But, this evening, as the full moon came over the hill filling the sky while the sun finished dropping below, I thought about all that went on below at the cottage.
The little house was still my hottest fascination. Each night I sat by my window as I read, keeping myself turned in hopes to catch more lights flickering between the trees. And, since I’d raised myself on stories of fairies and elves and woodland creatures, I began to think that maybe—just maybe—the lights weren’t from the house at all, but the darting glow of fairy orbs being tossed between the little ladies of the woods.
Each night I tried to create a new and more adventurous story of how I’d come to hear music and see lights in an abandoned grove. There were dragons and highland warriors and lovers meeting secretly. Each night I wove a more colorful story to share with myself.
But each night the lights stayed tucked away.
It seemed a shame to have imagined it all…even the music.
So, as I walked along the road toward the village, I pretended that the lights were real and told myself one more story, watching my breath freeze as it caught out of my throat in quick gasps. The temperature had dropped so rapidly I was afraid Mrs. Fairfax would send Frank on to fetch me. But, these times alone were my one true freedom, so the weather never bothered me because it was on my terms.
I was thinking how slick the walk had become when a lone headlight sped around the curve, catching the edge of the yellow line before it dipped quickly.
The grating noise of metal on pavement scratched high and loud. I caught my breath, sick with the sound of it and what I might find on the other side of the light, the engine still revving hot as it finally died off. I darted across the street, hoping no car would come along too quickly for me to save myself and hopefully the person whose silhouette lay far too still on the road.
I rushed over, not thinking of anything but the man. My own safety never entered my mind. Although later, when I reflected on the man and the strength of him, I realized that living a soft life outside the city had slowed my impulse to defenses.
“Sir?” I crouched beside him as he moved a bit, trying to sit up.
He grabbed my arm, using it to leverage himself and groaned, cursing not quite under his breath.
I reached out, bracing myself for the pull again since he was going to use me either way. Once he was sitting up, he gave his head a bit of a shake before reaching up and unlatching the strap of his helmet.
He pulled the helmet from his head and the light of the moon caught him, squaring off already sharp-angled features. He had the look of an old time boxer, all sharp-squared lines, heavy brow set low over dark eyes, and a squat heavy shape of a man fully in control of his body.
I stood, taking a step back at the overpower strength of him—remembering my place in the world and how easily it could be broken to dust.
He looked me over, before cursing again. “You’re too damn small. Come here. Crouch down and I’ll use you as a stool.”
I’d never been called a piece of furniture before, but the way I’d been trained since entering the system to obey, plus my desire to help him, had me crouching down so he could place a hand on my shoulder and pushed himself up from there.
“That’s fine,” he said instead of thank you when he was upright. “You are a little thing. Sturdy though.”
I listened to his tone, trying to figure out if that was a compliment or not. Before I could decide he went on.
“What are you doing out here at this hour?”
“It’s early yet. Not quite five.”
He looked to the sky before dropping his gaze to his watch. “Is that all? Feels like I’ve been driving for hours.”
I glanced at the bike as he limped over to it, wondering what type of madman road that out on a cold night like this.
Having read my gaze he scowled before turning away, “It was warm and light when I left.”
“It usually is.”
I thought he may have snickered at that, but he just reached for his bike, lifting the heavy looking machine upright and glancing over it for damage.
“Are you headed home?” he asked, still giving the bike his attention, not me. Probably just wondering how long I’d stand there watching him.
But, as he was the most interesting thing I’d seen in months, I figured I’d look at him until he was gone.
There was something about him—not that he was good-looking. He was too heavily featured for that. Not in a fat way. But in a way that made you think there was nothing soft about him anywhere inside or out.
“No. To the store to buy a gift.”
“Ah. Gifts.” He shook his head as if gifts were the bane of his existence. “All of this caused by gifts.”
“I didn’t cause this!”
I stepped back. Who knew what kind of man this was, but to blame me for his own careless driving was not where I wanted to be on the receiving end of that
“I didn’t say you did, did I?” He gave me a passing glance as he straddled his bike, turning it over with a practiced move that had my stomach dropping. “But, gifts. They did.”
I didn’t have a response to this, so I waited, not wishing to fill the empty space between us with noise when I could rather watch him be interesting and off-putting instead.
“Well then, hurry home. I’m sure someone will be missing you.”
“No, sir.”
“Is that right?” This seemed to be the first thing to truly catch his attention and I kicked myself at the stupidity of admitting that. “No one at all?”
“Well, Mrs. Fairfax eventually, but she’ll not be waiting up.”
“Mrs. Fairfax?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I see. So you live…?”
“Down the hill.” More than that he’d have to guess.
“You work at one of the houses?”
I remembered I didn’t look like the ladies around here, with their matching walking sets and their perfectly corrected noses.
“Yes. I’m a nanny.”
“Oh. The nanny. Well, nanny, better get home. The ice is hell.”
And with that, he road on, leaving me watching the red of his tail light fade out down the next hill.
Chapter 6
I finished my trip, getting Adelia a little embroidered purse l
ike the ones I’d noticed my first night, before heading back. The ice on the road became worse and I watched as cars skidded a bit at each curve, making sure to stay well out of their way.
To my surprise, when I got back to the gate, a car was just passing through. An odd thing, that and one that caused me to stop thinking about the stranger on the motorcycle, if only for a moment.
I walked the lined drive to the house, impressed that Frank had already managed to take better care of our lane than the town had down with the streets.
When I came around the last curve, I had yet another surprise. The house was lit up in a way it hadn’t been before. Not only were the outside lights on, but the west wing had rooms lit up—something I’d never seen before.
When I got to the door, the car that had passed me at the gate was pulled along the edge of the drive at the front.
I pushed inside, glad to sneak in without Mrs. Fairfax announcing my arrival with her typical, Well, hello there! everyone usually got when coming or going.
Passing through the foyer, I heard a commotion in the great room and headed that way, curiosity over coming good sense. Adelia’s voice squeaked out over the deep tones of two men arguing.
When I got to the door, the deep tones drew me in, the unfamiliar rumble of them seeming almost out of place in a house that typically only heard the din of female voices.
“Damn, Marcus. I’m not dying. Just slap something on it and let me get back to work.”
I edged round the corner, not letting myself walk into the room where Adelia danced about a sharply dressed man with a dark bag opened at his feet.
“Thorne, you’re not in a place where you can let something like this slow you down. Broken ribs are nothing to wave off. The last thing you need is to end up in the hospital with a pierced lung.” The man—Marcus—bent to grab his bag, giving me a clear view of his patient.
