The Curse at Rose Hill

by Camille Oster

  Biting her lip, Emmeline evaluated what she should do while she waited. She wasn't in the mood to read, or even to lay down in her room. Instead, she milled around the corridors, quietly moving from room to room. It was a lovely house, constructed for the tropical climate with large, breezy windows, dark wooden floors and white walls.

  The veranda kept the sun away throughout the day, which kept it cool. Soft furnishings didn’t thrive in the heat, that left an unpleasant odor in disused rooms, of which the house had quite a few.

  The Thorntons had some lovely trinkets and also stately portraits. One was of a fine English house, Clevedon Hall, it said on the small brass placard at the bottom of the gilded frame. Although she noticed that the frame had been chewed by some insect infestation. This place had to have some importance for them to place it so prominently in the hall, where all arriving guests would see it. Perhaps it was where the family was from. It wasn't unusual that lesser sons made their fortune in the Caribbean. It could be that Philip Thornton had been just such a son, a sibling to the brother who was now the titled owner of that English hall.

  There was also a portrait of Philip. He had been a portly man with a large belly and round eyes. From what Mrs. Thornton had said, it seemed he had liked his liquors, and the pallor of his face did suggest so. The next was of Percy, who couldn't have been more than fourteen when the painting had been commissioned. He was thin with a long face and dark blond hair. As opposed to Philip, in which she had seen pride in his eyes, Percy's expression was indeterminable; his eyes said nothing, but then that wasn't perhaps surprising with a youth.

  The next portrait was of another young man, somewhat older. There was arrogance in his eyes. The family resemblance was obvious. Green eyes like the rest and a bit broader in the shoulders than the youthful Percy. Was this a brother? She hadn't heard of a brother. Perhaps it was a cousin. By the style, she could tell it was the same artist, and the background was clearly the study of this very house.

  Emmeline stared at the portrait for a while. Who was this person? And why had he never been mentioned? He had to have died, or been disgraced in some way.

  A creak in the dining room distracted her. Joseph was making preparations. Emmeline walked over until he came into view. He was placing a silver bowl on the table covered with lace.

  "Good morning, Joseph," she said.

  He smiled at her. "Miss Emmeline, can I get you some breakfast?"

  "I thought I would wait for Mrs. Thornton."

  "I think she will be very late today. You shouldn't wait."

  "Alright, then," she said, giving into her hunger. She took her usual seat, while Joseph disappeared through the door to the kitchen, where she had never been. He returned before long with a plate of bread, eggs and ham.

  "Did Mrs. Thornton have another son?" Emmeline asked as he served her.

  "She had two other sons. Harold and Rufus. Both, sadly, not with us anymore."

  Joseph had a tight expression on his face and it was clear he didn't relish speak about it.

  "I'm sorry," Emmeline said automatically.

  "They were lively boys. Rufus was only a boy, Harold a young man. Percy was the middle child," Joseph said. Emmeline realized that he had seen all the Thornton boys grow up, had served them as he did Mrs. Thornton. "This house used to be very different."

  There was sadness in Joseph's voice. He had cared for those boys, for the family. Perhaps that was why he was so tolerant of Mrs. Thornton. Emmeline had always assumed that he was because he had to be, but perhaps the losses Mrs. Thornton had suffered had made her bitter and disagreeable. Emmeline felt ungenerous now for the judgmental thoughts she'd harbored at her employer's treatment of her servant.

  It was hard to imagine this house with three boisterous boys. It would have been very different. The sadness in Joseph's voice kept her from asking how they had died.

  Joseph left and Emmeline ate in silence, listening to the birds in the garden outside. It seemed the Thornton family had been extremely unlucky, losing both their head, Philip, and two sons. Families being struck by tragedy wasn't extraordinarily rare. Being a trading port, yellow fever was always a fear in Boston, which at times come through and wiped out whole families.

  When Emmeline had finished, Mrs. Thornton appeared, walking with heavy steps. Her face looked drawn. Emmeline smiled at her, but Mrs. Thornton ignored her in return. "Joseph," she called with impatience.

  "Madame," Joseph said, already carrying Mrs. Thornton's breakfast tray, seemingly anticipating her arrival.

  "We won't go out today," Mrs. Thornton said after a while. "I don't feel up to it. Not after last night."

  "Of course. If I may ask… "

  "You may not," Mrs. Thornton said sharply.

  Emmeline twisted her napkin. "I meant to ask about the drums."

  "Be quiet, girl," Mrs. Thornton said in a low, warning voice. "You are speaking nonsense. Drums. Just some people playing music. Probably not something you ever heard in your convent school."

  Emmeline blinked, not exactly sure what inspired such vitriol. Clearly, Mrs. Thornton wasn't in the mood to talk, so Emmeline reined in her curiosity.

  "Stop milling around like a ghost, girl. Off you go."

  Emmeline rose, because she didn't know what else to do. She'd never been treated like that before. "I'm sorry," she mumbled and left the room. The only place she could think of going was outside. So far, this was the crabbiest mood Mrs. Thornton had been in. She was never pleasant, but today, she was positively caustic.

  Poor Joseph, who had to stay and serve her every moment of the day.

  It was hot outside and Emmeline grabbed one of the sun parasols that sat in a large vase on the veranda. It kept the sun off her head. The air felt heavy, although the atmosphere was much lighter out here than inside the house. It was almost as if Emmeline learning about Mrs. Thornton's losses had made them plague her more, even as the woman could not have known of her discussion with Joseph. Surely, she hadn't been listening. Emmeline couldn't imagine it. Perhaps it was still the drums that had made her so disagreeable this morning, even though she had dismissed them as simply some people playing music.

  Further down one of the fields, she saw Mr. Hart on his horse, slowly striding down the edge of the field. The slaves were working and he was supervising.

  Emmeline decided to walk toward him, because he seemed to be the only person who gave her straight answers.

  "Miss Durrant," he said with a nod as she approached. "A bit late in the day for you to be out, isn’t it?"

  "Yes, typically," she responded.

  "Well, be careful of the heat. Heat stroke is a serious affliction. It does kill, particularly women who are tightly bound. Doesn't let the lungs extend properly, which is particularly trying in this climate."

  "Thank you for the advice, Mr. Hart," Emmeline said. "I wanted to ask you," she continued.

  His eyes returned to her after sweeping the field. "What is it you wish to ask me?" he said with loftiness.

  "The drums… " she started. "The drums last night. What did they signify?"

  Hart chuckled. "Voodoo, Miss Durrant. They," he said, pointing with the butt of his whip at the slaves in the field, "are all cursing us with painful deaths in the darkest hours of the night."

  Emmeline's mouth dropped open in astonishment and she frowned deeply. Of course, she had heard of voodoo—curses and spells, and witchcraft. Tales told to scare children. Was he jesting with her? His voice sounded utterly melodramatic. "Surely, you can't be serious."

  The smile remained on his face. "Well, they haven't succeeded so far. The madam runs around her house like a headless chicken whenever they do, though. I think they do it on purpose," he said in a half-whispering voice and urged his horse forward. "Good day, Miss Durrant. Don't worry your head over drums. The weak-minded fear shadows in every corner, and so far, you haven't struck me as weak-minded."

  He rode further down the field to where one of the carts was now full of canes an
d Emmeline watched him for a moment, still not sure how to take anything he'd said. It seemed Mr. Hart did not have the greatest of respect for Mrs. Thornton, implying she was a fearful and weak woman.

  Chapter 8

  Mrs. Thornton had taken to her bed for a few days and had no need for her companion. It seemed some melancholia that had struck her, which wasn't perhaps surprising considering that her family had been decimated.

  For Emmeline, however, boredom was starting to set in and she even missed the girls at the school where she’d taught. There was always something going on at the school, but here the silence of the house was now ringing in her ears.

  Countless times, she had stood on the veranda and looked out over the fields. She’d paced up and down its length more times than she could remember. Perhaps she could consider a project, but what? She wanted something more fanciful than embroidery—something that reflected her circumstances and her thought turned to shells. One time, she had seen a depiction of flowers done with shells in the salon of the school's patrons, a bouquet made of colorful shells. It had been fascinatingly beautiful.

  This was the place for shells, and technically, they weren't so far away from the seashore. On arrival, she had seen beautiful, white beaches at the edge of the lush tropical foliage that covered all of the island.

  "Joseph," she called as she entered the house, walking from room to room until she found him. "How far it is to the seashore from here?"

  "About three miles," he said. "But I cannot take you. Madam has sent the carriage into town. A ship is arriving today with supplies from England."

  "Is it difficult to get to? I think I can manage three miles." It was a little overcast today so the heat wasn’t as pounding as it normally was.

  "There is a small cottage out that way, and a road leading to it, some seventy yards from the oak tree."

  Emmeline remembered the large oak tree. She'd wondered who had planted it once as they had passed in the carriage.

  "I think I will walk there," Emmeline stated.

  "Mind the weather. Nettie says there's gonna be rain in the afternoon. Feels it in her arthritis."

  "I'll be back well before the afternoon," she called back as she headed to her room. "Just in case, though, I will take an umbrella."

  It felt good to actually have something planned. She'd been milling around the house for days on end, and now she had an agenda, a purpose. She was going to create some artwork with shells. Passing her room, she grabbed her bonnet and a small satchel which she would use to collect the shells, and she set off, almost running down the road leading through the fields.

  It also felt wonderful to move. In the house, she always felt conscious about making noise, worrying that it would disturb Mrs. Thornton. In truth, she had never been so inactive as she was here. Reading and drawing diverted the mind, but it did little for her health and condition.

  Three miles was nothing; she could walk that in her sleep. Perhaps the seashore would turn out to a be a sanctuary for her and she would visit it on a regular basis. She'd never stepped foot on an actual beach. The foreshore in Boston was more stone than sand, which were brutal on any shells that washed up, which tended to be tiny to begin with.

  Before long, she reached the main road and found the small road leading farther away from the house as Joseph had described. It was little more than a track, two strips of packed gravel with vegetation growing through the middle.

  The jungle was dense around her, dark and gloomy in its thickness. It swallowed up any sight of the Rose Hill estate within minutes. She hadn't realized it would be so imposing, but she had the track and it was supposed to lead her almost all the way to the shore.

  The jungle around her was noisy, screeching birds and occasionally, a worrisome snap of a twig. As far as she knew, there were no dangerous animals to worry about, like tigers, but it still made her jump whenever she heard something, recalling the man-eating snakes Mr. Hart had mentioned. The crunching of gravel under her feet was loud and at times, she stopped to look behind her when she thought she heard a snap of a twig, or whatever it was. It was exactly how she would imagine it would sound if something was stalking her. A shiver ran up her.

  Listening intently, she tried to distinguish the noises, but nothing appeared. For a moment, though, she wondered if she should turn around and return home. She did have her umbrella to defend herself with if something accosted her, but nothing appeared as her eyes dashed around the greenery along the road's edge. No, she was being silly.

  Picking up her pace, she ran for a while, wanting to escape the oppressive feeling that had come over her. She kept the pace up for a while and had to slow to a walk again to recuperate. Maybe this trip wasn't the best idea, or else, she was simply being fanciful, faced with an intimidating stretch of jungle.

  The cottage finally came into view and Emmeline sighed her relief. It hadn't occurred to her that she would feel so lost once out of view of civilization. She'd always thought herself a sensible girl, but she was being embarrassingly skittish. It was just that she wasn't used to being alone in what was essentially wilderness.

  The cottage was locked, a thick, rusted padlock on the door. It seemed no one had lived there in quite some while.

  The ocean was heard before it was seen, the waves a roaring rush. Glittering water peeked through the trees and suddenly, she emerged on the beach. The sand was blinding in its brightness after the dark jungle. The ominous feeling lifted immediately and this sight brought sheer happiness. The water sang as it stretched and retreated up the beach, glittering like diamonds. The roar of the waves and the darker hued golden sand it left behind.

  She saw shells, including some utterly stunning ones, decorated by nature in the most extraordinary patterns. One even looked like how she imagined a spotted cheetah would be, brown and beige square spots. Their color didn't run off on her fingers and it felt as smooth as porcelain. One had a crab still inside and she gently returned it to the water, the tiny legs of the crab flailing in the air.

  Walking along the beach felt as though she was walking through a painting. Everything was bright and beautiful. The sea was like a giant jewel, vivid blue and sparkly. Her heart soared.

  The sun was out, but the breeze from the sea made the heat bearable. With a sigh, she stood and watched it all for a moment. It turns out that she loved the sea, love the beach—everything about it. There were wonders everywhere she turned, and for a moment, she wished she had her girls there so they could discuss every detail. It felt a shame she was viewing this wondrousness alone.

  She set to work gathering shells. For the picture she was to create, she wanted small, colorful shells, although she couldn't help being distracted by the large ones with their pleasing, curved domes. Her satchel was starting to make sounds when she moved with all the shells in it. There was always that next shell that looked so promising.

  When next she looked up, it had grown considerably darker. The sun had retreated behind clouds again. How long had she been distracted with shell collection? It was hard to tell. One moment it was bright, the next, she looked up and the sea had turned much more muted. Dark, heavy clouds had gathered overhead, but the worst was that she had lost her place along the beach. How far had she walked? And how was she going to find the road again? Why hadn't she paid attention where she'd emerged from?

  The stretch of vegetation gave no indication. It all looked the same. She followed her footprints until she found no more. Some had been washed away by the sea. As she saw no more, she had to assume that was where she'd emerged. Surely, she could walk along until she saw a cottage, or had she walked too far? Not far enough? It was impossible to tell. She had been too distracted. Damn it, how could she have been so stupid?

  Fat rain drops stained the shoulders of her dress, almost pummeling her in their heaviness. Oh, no. She had stayed too long and now it was starting to rain. The drops kept coming and the catch of the umbrella seemed to be stuck. Her shoulders were practically soaked by the tim
e she got it open. Rain drummed on the material of the umbrella.

  Turning around, she saw the pattern it had created on the sand and the roughened surface of the water. The rain now pelting her umbrella, which did manage to keep most rain from falling on her. Still, her hair was already soaked, and a rivulet of water started meandering down her forehead.

  Walking into the jungle, she tried to spot the cottage. It refused to come in sight. Maybe she had already passed it and was now walking in the wrong direction. Why hadn't she paid attention?

  After a while of walking, her insecurity got the better of her and she walked back the direction she'd come, thinking she might already have passed the cottage. It had to be close. It wasn't that far from the beach—one hundred yards maybe.

  Keeping tight control on her panic, she told herself she had to be sensible, but it was hard when the rain only intensified. It was now pouring off the edges of her umbrella. Her skirt was soaked and clung around her ankles and legs. The patter of the rain on the jungle canopy created a loud orchestra of sheer noise, drowning out her steps.

  Perhaps it was best to wait until the rain stopped. When she reached the cottage, she would stand on the covered porch for a while until it died down. Hopefully it would die down, but there was no way of telling. It could rain for hours—days even, she had been told.

  Once she found the road back, it didn't matter. Rain or not, she would find her way home. Rain wasn’t, after all, the end of the world, was it?

  Puddles were building around her as she walked, still not finding the damned cottage. Her dress was heavy, the wetness gathering in the material, which made it harder to walk.

  It felt as if she'd been trying for hours with no luck, but she finally found what looked like a footpath. She had no idea where it led, but some person walked here regularly and chances were that it led to the road, and that was more than she had already, so she followed it. Once she found the road, making her way to Rose Hill shouldn’t prove all that difficult.