“Yes,” she pleaded with the night and anyone who could hear her. “Yes --” she panted, to herself, the word like a spell, pushing her closer to the brink, frantically stroking and pushing and pulling and -- “Yes! Yes -- yes -- yes!”
She bucked in the bed as she came, sending it rocking, like her orgasm was fighting her. She gasped and she cried out again, finally freed -- and she heard the wine bottle fall to the floor.
“Fuck!” Transcendence was instantly lost, and she fumbled for the light. Dribbles of wine were pouring out of the bottle onto the hardwood. She cursed and picked up the shirt she’d worn today and blotted at the wine before it could stain. There hadn’t been that much left in the bottle, and the room was spinning now — she should have told Arthur to tell Mrs. Dudley ten at this rate.
Daphne stumbled into the bathroom with her shirt and clumsily tried to wash it, between forcing herself to drink giant gulps of water down. Then she crept, abashed yet still naked, back to bed.
Chapter Two
“Mrs. Vance?”
Daphne’s eyes blinked open and saw only pillowcase.
“Mrs. Vance, are you all right?”
Daphne lurched up right in bed, and it felt like her head was slower than the rest of her, following two seconds behind. “I’m all right —” she said. The knob turned, and she realized she was naked. “Hang on!”
She was a mess, and she didn’t want him to see. Daphne raced to the bathroom to pull on her robe and smooth her hair down.
“I’m sorry Arthur –“ she opened up the door just a crack, finding his implacable face standing a respectful distance outside. “I must’ve missed breakfast.”
“It’s no matter – but we were getting worried about you. Thought you might have gone exploring last night and gotten lost.”
“Oh, no. Just a rough night is all.” The wine bottle was still in her room. Would he find it when he went cleaning? They had to know it was missing, since it was no longer in the kitchen…she had no idea where the recycling bin was, she couldn’t even throw it away without their help.
“Can Mrs. Dudley make you lunch then?”
She wasn’t hungry, but she needed to eat something real, to center herself. “Please. Something easy though -- a sandwich – something light.”
He nodded. “And then after that, you’ll be unpacking all afternoon, I expect. Will you be requiring any help today? Or would you like me to continue in the library?”
“The library’s fine. I’m not done in here. I was up late night, unpacking, and –“ it was a better excuse than what had occurred. Besides, he wasn’t going to come in here and pry, for all he knew everything in her bedroom was already unpacked.
“Very well, Ma’am. Lunch will be served shortly, thank you.”
“No, thank you, Arthur. And Mrs. Dudley. Please thank her, too.” Daphne said, and then retreated back into her bedroom.
What’d happened last night? She’d drank too much, that was what. She needed to remember wherever she’d packed the ibuprofen. Daphne stumbled back into the bathroom and gulped handfuls of water from the sink, to solve her headache the old fashioned way. Then she brushed her teeth – another chore forgotten in last night’s bender – and looked at herself. She didn’t look nice enough for the bathroom, muchless the dining hall. Maybe there was a breakfast nook or someplace smaller that she could reclaim for eating. She pulled clothing out of her closet, pulled it on, and went downstairs.
A steak sandwich with artfully cut radishes and cucumbers and a side of freshly fried fries waited for her on the long table. She ate in lonely silence, listening to the quiet sound of her own chewing.
“Are you sated, Ma’am?” Arthur appeared in the doorway, three seconds after her last bite.
“Completely.” She drained her glass of water. If she went upstairs, this might be the last human contact she had all day. He could bring her tea but she couldn’t invite him into her bedroom, it wouldn’t be right – and he might see the wine stain. She was suddenly reluctant to be without company, and glad he was present, even if he was paid. “Can you show me how the library’s coming along?”
“I’d be delighted to.”
Arthur led her down a hall at the back of the dining room, to a massive windowed room on the other wing.
Looming over a fireplace set into the wall was a portrait almost as tall as she was. A handsome yet very stern man stared down, in riding breeches and knee high boots, holding a short crop in one hand and a snifter of brandy in the other.
Daphne walked in to stand beneath him and stared up, trying to read the painting’s meaning, feeling penetrated by his eyes.
“As you can see, there’s much work to be done,” Arthur apologized, breaking her communion.
“Hmm?” She glanced around at the stacks of books lying all across the floor, and could see how Arthur was trying to come up with a system prior to putting them on the shelves that ran along the rest of the wall space. Richard had always fancied himself a reader, but the books they had would only occupy a fraction of the space the man had once ruled here. Perhaps that was why he looked so displeased – he was angry over the loss of his own books.
“It’s going to be another day or two,” Arthur went on.
“That’s fine. Richard won’t be home for six more days.”
Instead of looking out the window, or at the spines of books that she’d all seen before, the portrait mesmerized her. His eyes seemed to blaze with barely restrained passion – or disgust.
“Who is that?” she finally asked, as Arthur began to putter.
He looked up. “The Master, in his prime.”
“That’s who lived here?”
“Lived and died here. He was born just down the hall, and died peacefully at night in his own bed.”
“He…died here? Not in a hospital or anything?”
Arthur’s lips drew into a thin line. “The Master always was one to face life on his own terms. Death was no exception.”
It was handsome as art for art’s sake – portraits that size were expensive, and the gilded frame alone had to be worth a few thousand dollars. “Why did they leave it behind?”
Arthur briefly shrugged. “I don’t know. The branch of the family that was left in the will – I hate to speak ill of anyone, but they seemed a little odd. They were very adamant about what they would take, and what would be left behind, like the statues and the pieces of furniture. And then the next family kept things as they were when they arrived, and chose not to take them when they left either.”
“Did you work for them?” she asked him, while still staring up.
“Oh no, only for him. I was retired for fifteen years, until your agent called me back, but because the interim family left so much behind, the place still feels much the same. Would you like an official tour?”
She finally tore her eyes away from the painting. “I’d love one.”
“After you then, Ma’am,” Arthur said, indicating the direction she should go. It wasn’t until halfway down the next hall she shook the feeling that the painting was watching her back.
Arthur showed her all of the rooms on the first floor, even the kitchen, although Mrs. Dudley was suspiciously absent. Maybe she was a ghost and Arthur was, in addition to his other skills, an excellent cook.
Many of the rooms were airy and light, especially now at noon. They all needed a good airing out, and different furniture – between the two families, such strange things were left behind, huge carved couches, desks, a crib, some rooms empty, one full of the strange statues, clustered together as though huddled for warmth. Maybe the Master’s family had only been able to afford one moving truck and had started flipping quarters at the end to see what would fit.
The most important thing though was that she could imagine a child running from room to room, and her running after them, both of them laughing along the way. The epic games of hide-and-seek she could have in this house, once her child – no, children – were old enough – in the bright
light of day, maybe moving here would be worth it after all.
When their tour was done, she felt bad for taking Arthur away from his work, and she wanted to finish unpacking the bedroom, so she begged off.
“What time dinner, Ma’am?” Arthur called after her.
“Seven. And – the steak was excellent, but can tonight be chicken?”
“Of course, Ma’am.”
She smiled and waved to him like he was a friend, and trotted back up the stairs.
Daphne found her own room as light and airy as those downstairs, a welcome change after her overheated claustrophobia the prior night. She whirled in a circle, making her skirt lift, before falling onto her own bed like a swooning girl.
She could almost see a future for her here. It would be hard work, but she’d enjoy it, and with Richard by her side – she smiled and came up onto her elbows to survey the unpacking she’d already done, and noticed that her closet door was open – and now she could see herself, frowning in the mirror on the inside of the door.
She got out of bed slowly and took deliberate steps across the room. She swung it on its hinges – it didn’t seem light. And when she closed it again she felt it latch, like she was almost positive it had been this morning, earlier.
Why would anyone snoop now? When there was so much more unpacking to do? And why a closet? It wasn’t like she had anything valuable in there, she didn’t own any furs – and before they’d moved, Richard’d scooped up all of her jewelry and put it in a safe deposit box.
It couldn’t have been Arthur, he’d been with her the whole time. Which left Mrs. Dudley, and her knees that weren’t so bad she couldn’t snoop.
“My second day here, and already I have to fire someone.” She sat back down on the bed, and the feeling of betrayal and invasion didn’t lessen.
Seven found her downstairs, wondering what to do. Dinner was an entire roast chicken, far too much meat for one person – a chicken sandwich was mostly likely on the lunch menu for tomorrow.
Assuming Mrs. Dudley was still here, then.
“How was dinner, Ma’am?” Arthur asked, after she finished a small bowl of pudding.
“It was excellent, again.”
How far away was the nearest town? Who would she find to replace Mrs. Dudley, and how? She hadn’t unpacked their computer, muchless installed internet yet, and cell phone service this far into the country side was a joke. So the only way she could replace Mrs. Dudley would be to use the old fashioned landline – assuming that there was a phone book written this century hidden somewhere inside the house.
“I’m glad to hear it, Ma’am,” Arthur said, taking her bowl away with a bow. “Mrs. Dudley says to please not do the dishes again. That is her job, after all. A servant does like to feel that they’re gainfully employed.”
“Well tell her to stay out of my closet then,” Daphne said, flustered.
“Ma’am?” Arthur said, eyebrows high in surprise.
If Mrs. Dudley was at all like Arthur – and his familiarity and trust in her implied she was – then – Daphne shook her head at herself. It could have been a thousand other things. This house was old, it’d settled over time, and maybe she hadn’t closed the door as strongly as she thought she had this morning, while still in the grip of her hangover.
“I’m sorry Arthur,” she apologized, instantly deflating.
“Of course, Ma’am. But there’s nothing to apologize for.” He looked at her like a baffled dog. “What time would you like breakfast, Ma’am?”
There’d been no wine involved in dinner tonight – she wanted to stay well away from it for now. “Let’s say eight.”
“Very good, Ma’am. When we leave, we’ll set the alarm and lock the doors.”
Daphne nodded, stood, and pushed in her chair. Firing Mrs. Dudley would have to wait for another day, if ever.
Alone in the house, she retreated to her bedroom again. This afternoon’s efforts had seen it almost half done – Richard’s closet was organized now in a way that she knew he’d find pleasing upon his return. Her own was nearing completion and their antique dresser was now full of mated socks and folded underwear.
She’d be pleased with her progress, except for the stain the wine had left on the floor. It’d set by the time she’d gotten up this morning and in her drunkenness she hadn’t done a thorough job of cleaning it last night. The old wood had drunk the pinot up and now there was a smeared stain, like a lazy trail of blood. Maybe she should just pull the bed over three feet to the left, and put a duster on it. Then no one would ever have to know.
No matter. She wouldn’t be drinking in here again – bedroom drinking was how people became alcoholics, she was sure.
Daphne took off her clothing, brushed her teeth, and pulled on a robe and lay down, completely awake. She wished she had a TV to watch mindlessly – she knew there was one somewhere in the boxes downstairs, but which one and where it ought to go after she found it she was unsure of. But it wasn’t fair that she had to pass all of her time unpacking – and then she remembered the library.
Daphne shuffled across the house in bare feet, turning lights on along the way, realizing how exposed and bright the house would look if there were anyone peeking in from outside. It was a disturbing thought, how open it was, probably the only light for miles around, but she was too scared to turn the lights back off. Curtains would definitely be her next priority.
But the library felt safe once she reached it. The books smelled of Richard, of stability and age. And the portrait of the Master looking down – while she found him pleasantly stern, she thought anyone else would find him threatening.
She walked among the hip-high stacks, bending over to scan familiar titles, looking for something new or something very very old and comfortable to read. She found two books that she knew she enjoyed, carefully pulled them out, and held them up.
“Which one do you think I should pick?” she asked the man in the painting on a whim. “Lady Chatterley’s Lover? Or Rebecca?” She waited half-a-second, smirking up at him. “What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?”
This brief moment of control and whimsy realigned her. Made her feel like she was mistress of the house again, as unfamiliar as it was. She walked out of the library and back to her room, her robe trailing her like a train.
Daphne crawled into bed and began reading about Lady Chatterly’s Lover. It wasn’t long before the book dropped forward on her chest and she began to dream.
In it, she rode endlessly riding toward a horizon, rocking back and forth on a horse’s broad back. Heat built where her legs split and met the saddle, bouncing with every move the horse made, translating the beginnings of pleasure into her, if she could just let herself go. In her dream the horse had no reins and she wound her hands into its mane to hold on as the saddle disappeared and left her grinding against its sweating black back, every motion it made beneath her safe and strong. It raced toward a horizon that -- in the manner of dreams -- it would never reach, and she began to moan.
The horse’s back got bigger, spread her legs more widely and the friction between it and her became more intense. She knew she should be ashamed of even thinking such thoughts, but she knew it was a dream, and in her dream she wanted to let go --
A soft click from the outside world intruded and she startled awake. The sensation of riding didn’t end though – because she could clearly feel the outline of hot hands spreading open her thighs.
She screamed, snapping her legs together, sitting straight up. The book fell from her chest to the ground.
Chapter Three
“Who’s there?” She looked around the empty room – and saw where her closet door was open, just a crack.
“I mean it –“ she fumbled in her nightstand drawer for the remote that controlled the alarm. She didn’t care where in the world Richard was now, they could very well wake him, even if it was all in her head –
But the light had been on when she woke up – there was no way there could
be anyone else in the room with her now. She would have seen them, they’d had no time to hide. She squirmed in bed, an uncomfortable heat still lingering between her thighs. She stood, and walked over to the closet, looking inside of it, and finding only herself in the mirror. And then she checked out Richard’s closet, and the bathroom just in case.
The feeling of danger faded, replaced by curiosity. “I’m not the crazy one, am I?” she asked, well aware that just asking it made it much more likely that she was.
She slid herself back up to the head of the bed, and picked up her book. Lady Chatterley’s Lover had all sorts of provocative horseriding scenes, and her dream had clearly come from that, it was a normal thing. But the sound of her closet door falling open – it was one more thing she needed to fix, and good thing she hadn’t fired Mrs. Dudley earlier, such a good thing – had startled her and in her half-asleep state she’d assumed the worst.
Right?
She set Lady Chatterley’s Lover down and picked up Rebecca instead. And when she felt tired she set the book aside but left the light on.
Daphne met Arthur for breakfast downstairs at eight on the dot. He seemed pleased to see her and for Mrs. Dudley’s culinary talents not to go to waste.
“And what are your plans today, Ma’am?” Arthur asked, after she had eaten a polite amount of everything and the table needed to be cleaned.
Daphne bit her lip. The bedroom was nearly finished, she couldn’t just hide in there anymore. “I’m going to give myself a tour of the second floor, and see where I should turn my attentions next.”
“Very well, Ma’am. I hope to finish the library today, if I do I will find you and ask for instruction.”
The Haunted (Sleeping with Monsters Book 1) Page 2
