by Krista Bean
which was composed of immense houses on sprawling lawns. I wasted no time employing servants and filling our rooms with the finest furniture and artwork. The neighborhood was alight with talk of the handsome young couple that had taken up the yellow mansion on the corner of Lincoln and Welldale. Our tray was soon littered with calling cards, and people were taking tea in our parlor almost before I was ready to receive them. We dined out, and attended the theater and the opera, sometimes four or five nights a week. And most importantly of all, Alfred and I were deeply in love, a love that seemed to grow stronger with each passing day.
For several months after moving in, especially on Wednesdays (which were my afternoons at home) I would discover myself, quite inadvertently, looking for the man. Cloudy afternoons, when the sunbeams and shadows on the floor blended into a seamless matte of gray, were the times I most often gazed out the window, searching our grounds for a mysterious, statuesque figure. But almost always, the clatter of hooves outside, the sound of the doorbell, the announcement of a guest, would fetch me back to reality.
About a year later, I gave birth to our first child. Daisy was a beautiful, rosy baby, who cried boisterously, and laughed even more so. She became plump, with dimples, nearly-black ringlets, and deep brown eyes. I adored her, indulging her with every luxury at my disposal, and even though Alfred said we needed to stand firm and teach discipline, I must confess that – perhaps because of my own mother’s indifference towards me – I spoiled her terribly. But she was not a poorly-behaved child; she loved wholly and indiscriminately, bringing me bouquets of flowers from the garden, and doting on our three white kittens. She was bright and curious, always questioning how things worked, and why the world was the way it was. I agreed with Alfred (who often tried to curtail her animated behavior) that such gross outwardness would be tempered at finishing school, but I felt that it could not hurt too badly to indulge her nature before turning her over to society.
A few more years passed, and I fell into the role of matron. All unsettling thoughts of Tullemont were virtually gone from memory, other than occasional pangs on a summer’s night, when the curtains billowed at the windows. Once, such movement actually woke me from a sound sleep. My heart sped up, and I felt the old dread as I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling. Then exasperation overtook me; I was too old for such nonsense now. I recalled, as a small child, listening to my mother shriek and wail in the dead of night, and the idea of putting Daisy through something like that nearly made me ill. Plus, the man belonged to Tullemont, which was a lengthy journey from Marbury Park; not in all the years we had lived here had he ever appeared. Regardless, the old compulsion became too strong; goaded out of bed, I anxiously crossed the room. Settling onto the window seat, I took a breath and, my pulse nearly visible on my wrist, I drew back the curtain.
The ground was covered in moonlight, as it had so often been at Tullemont. But there was nothing; the grass was clear, the paths empty. I stared at my property for nigh on thirty minutes, expecting, waiting for, and finally daring someone to appear. No one did. My pulse had slowed, my breathing was deep, and my eyes heavy when I finally dropped the curtain and returned to bed.
In late October, I awoke to a crisp, cool day. The landscape now resembled a painter’s palate, and the sky was consistently peppered with flocks of birds migrating south. The harvest was being gathered on outlying farms, and every day wagons filled with corn, apples, pears, and pumpkins rattled down the main thoroughfares on their way to market.
After dressing, I descended the stairs for breakfast. Alfred was outside, taking his morning stroll in the garden. I entered the parlor to double check its presentability for the day, and then headed to the dining room. Daisy was already there, dressed and waiting for the rest of us, clinking her spoon against the rim of her plate. I removed the utensil from her grip, returned it to the table, and dropped a kiss on her head as I took my seat.
“Mother?”
“Yes, darling?”
“Why does the new gardener never do any work?”
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Krista Bean lives in Southern California with her husband, two dogs and a cat. (Okay, just kidding about the pets – her apartment building doesn't allow animals, she just wishes it did.) She works in television production.
The Blank Page
Eye of the Storm
Find me online:
My blog: kristabean.com
Twitter: https://twitter.com/KristaBean2
My podcast/writers' resource site: scriptsandscribes.com
