by Krista Bean
wound down I had eventually begun looking forward to strolling among the garden paths.
One day I stepped out just after breakfast. The sun was nestled against an azure sky behind bulbous white clouds, and a breeze rustled the new leaves, sending flower petals and stray bits of dirt scurrying across my path. The gardens sat on the west side of the house and trundled into the distance, eventually ending in a lofty border hedge. And beyond that lay the fields and woods, where horse trails wound between voluminous trees. In the recesses of my mind I was anxious about seeing the man, but he had never appeared in the daylight. And now there were people all about; no fewer than four gardeners (all of them known to me, by sight, if not by name) were weeding, planting, and pruning. I could also hear a coach clattering up the drive – probably one of Uncle Ralph’s business associates.
So I was at ease as I strolled through the garden, inhaling the combined scents of a dozen different flowers. The breeze tore strands of hair from my bonnet and sent them whipping around my face. I breathed deeply, relishing the outdoors. As much as I sometimes wished for a handsome townhouse in New York, with the opera and the finest restaurants a mere cab jaunt from my door, nothing could compare to the gifts of nature, and the crystal air that reinvigorated my entire being.
Soon I reached the border hedge, and walked along it until I came to a gap, through which a horse trail passed and continued into the glen beyond. I peered out beyond the cultivated grounds, and then stepped onto the trail. I had no intention of going far, but I did wish to see the wilder part of Tullemont which, before now, had appeared to me merely like a landscape painting framed in an upstairs window. I lengthened my stride as I headed along the trail, as though breaking free of invisible shackles. The house disappeared behind me as I descended a hill, and after a minute I approached a grove of trees that stretched a hundred yards into the distance. I stopped and leaned against the nearest trunk with a contented sigh. Despite my recent family difficulties, I felt lucky to be at Tullemont. The sun had ducked behind a cloud, and I closed my eyes for a moment, letting the wind play over my face. When I opened them, a figure was standing before me.
It was the man. He was perhaps thirty feet away, the ends of his unfastened brown work coat tossing in the wind. He had dark hair and eyes and a short moustache, and his clothes were dirty – a deep-seated dirtiness, that looked as though it went all the way to his skin.
I jerked up from the tree, my head whirling as though I had been awoken from a sound sleep. We stared at each other for several seconds, unmoving. It would be unseemly for us to speak in normal circumstances, but this was, you must agree, not a normal circumstance and I will therefore ask you to excuse my breach of etiquette.
“Are you employed here?” I called out, trying to keep my voice from shaking. I dared not approach him.
The man neither spoke nor moved.
“Are you employed here?” I repeated with irritation. “Why are you skulking about my uncle’s property?”
The man just stared. Was he mentally unbalanced? A new thought then occurred to me, as I became suddenly and intensely aware of how isolated we were in this untamed part of the estate: what if he had no sense of propriety that would keep him from acting as he would? What if he advanced, or became suddenly violent? I instinctively began retreating, the man’s eyes following me as I went. I was afraid to turn my back, despite his stillness; I feared that any moment he might run at me, and there would be nothing I could do to stop him. I ascended the hill as quickly as my lengthy skirts would allow, periodically glancing back to make sure he had not moved. He watched my progress, but when I reached the top and turned to look for him one last time, he was gone.
Rushing back to the house, I was ready to cry as my eyes darted this way and that, looking for any glimpse of him I could catch between the trees. He always seemed to know where I would appear; he had been waiting for me under the library window, and then the storage room window, and then my bedroom window, and now here, today, on this remote part of the property. I sprinted up the trail towards the break in the garden hedge, but suddenly drew up short – he was there, lying in wait on the other side, I just knew it. But there was no other way back to the house, and I refused to remain trapped in that wilderness. Keeping my eyes on the ground, I ran as fast as I could through the gap. When I stopped and looked around, I was alone – quite alone, as even the gardeners appeared to have concluded their work. I felt faint, both from the trauma and from my inability to take a deep breath. My stays were like a death grip around my stomach and chest, and I sank to the ground, leaning forward on my palms, nearly forgetting the man in my efforts to remain conscious; the very last thing I wanted was to be discovered having swooned in the dirt. After my heartbeat and breathing slowed, I straightened up, brushed every speck of dust from my clothing and, double checking that the man had not crept up on me, walked briskly back to the house.
I never again ventured past the hedge. Even while wandering among the well-tended flowers and shrubs, I always kept a member of the gardening staff in sight. The man had again stopped appearing, but his absence, rather than being a relief, was maddening, as I was left with the daily suspense of another unwelcome surprise.
That summer my mourning officially ended, and it was with the greatest joy that I was able to accompany Uncle Ralph and Aunt Victoria to visit their friends, the Van Aldens, in New York. It was on the first night there, at the opera, that I met Alfred. We were congregating in the lobby when Mr. William Van Alden introduced his son, a tall and handsome young man with sandy hair. He was with several friends, but immediately broke away to speak to me. He was a student at Columbia, studying to be a lawyer (a profession traditionally utilized in our set to dispel the appearance of idleness.) I explained, in virtually no detail, about how I had come to live at Tullemont. And I need not tell you that I said nothing, whatsoever, about the man.
Alfred accompanied us to restaurants and theaters daily over the course of our visit, and I glowed inside when Mr. Van Alden commented that he had had no idea his son would play host for so long. By the time we returned to Tullemont, I was in love – or what my inexperienced heart perceived love to be at the time, anyway. Alfred had promised to call on us next week (although indeed he was not sure he could wait that long!) and I myself could barely contain my excitement.
Perhaps, being a woman, I should be expected to regale, in minute and exasperating detail, every conversation, outing, and tender moment of Alfred’s and my courtship. But that is a story unto itself, and, I must admit, few beyond the most hopelessly romantic of you would find it at all interesting. We visited throughout the autumn and winter, growing ever fonder of each other, and by February we were engaged.
With my departure from Tullemont an actuality, marked in ink on the calendar eight months in advance, I was able, for short periods of time, to forget about the man. During those spring and summer days my thoughts were elsewhere – on linens, menus, flowers, and an ever-expanding guest list of New York’s elite. But at night, I still imagined footsteps beneath my window before lapsing into uneasy dreams where dark eyes peered at me from the shadows.
The day I finally left Tullemont, climbing into the coach that was laden with my trousseau, I felt an almost tangible sense of relief. Whatever had happened in that house, on that property, was behind me. Perhaps the man actually was a ghost, the specter of a laborer who had died there years before. Or perhaps he was real, a tramp or a hermit who had somehow gained access to the property and lived in the woods. I would never know, but it did not matter; I was just happy to be rid of him. I settled into my seat, basking in the autumn light that streamed through the window. My mind spun with excitement about the wedding, which would take place in New York the following week. Uniting the Lancaters and Van Aldens, it would surely be the premier event of the season.
The coach gave a gentle lurch as the horses started forward. Aunt Victori
a sat across from me, gazing out the opposite window. Uncle Ralph would follow in a few days with my father, who had finally returned from Europe. Had I not had such a bright future before me, I doubtless would have felt bitter, perhaps even resentful towards him for abandoning me as he had. But it would do no good to dwell on it now. I watched the front lawn fall away as we headed towards the gate. Would I ever return to Tullemont? Not if I could help it, although Uncle Ralph and Aunt Victoria would be welcome at my new home any time they wished. I sighed, watching the perimeter fence draw nearer. A large crab apple tree sat on the right, and as we passed it, my head swiveled.
The man stood under it. He looked the same – the same scruffy dark hair, the same short moustache, and the same dirty work coat. His head turned slowly as we went by, his eyes boring into mine in a chilling farewell. And then he was gone, as we passed through the gate into the wider world. My heart pounded as I looked to Aunt Victoria, but her eyes had already drooped shut.
My marriage, I am happy to say, was nothing short of blissful. We settled into a neighborhood on the outskirts of New York called Marbury Park,
