The grounds are still very lovely here, I think their being so overgrown actually adds to their savage charm. And yet…one would think such a wilderness would attract more wild creatures, but I saw no life within the twilit deeps except for a tiny, but bright red bird of a type I had never seen before. It landed on a tree and peered at me silently. I know it will sound strange, but I swear that once it was sure it held my attention, it fluttered to a close-by tree and did not move until I stepped toward it. Then it did the same thing again, and again, until it led me—by chance, surely—to the Calipash family crypt. There it landed on the pediment—and after a moment, flew inside the crypt itself. The door was ajar from Orlando’s midnight sojourn.
The charnel smell that had clung to Orlando’s flesh last night whilst we frolicked emanated from the black interior; I found it nauseating but strangely compelling, and reached out my hand to push open the door and further investigate what lay inside the sepulcher. In I went, and once again braved the stone steps down into the crypt proper.
It is a horrid place, the crypt, a burial-place worthy of the strange legends concocted by the locals. Grinning carven demons watch over the bodies of former Calipash lords, and from their mouths emanate awful orange and purple light, very like sunlight through filtered glass, but they shine even at night! My steps echoed on the granite floor as I peered about, revisiting that dead place where the dead dwell, thinking of the strange ghost I had thought I had seen as a child—but then I am ashamed to say my courage failed me. I fancied I heard the ghost groaning at me; looking up, I saw a shadow of a man, tall and thin—and screamed!
“It is surely the Ghast!” I cried, and fled, nearly falling back down the moisture-slick stairs several times in my haste, but by the time the handle of the garden-door of Calipash Manor was in my hand I was laughing at myself for being such a noodle. The wind often moans when it passes over stone, does it not, and I had left the door ajar—and why, I wondered, had it not occurred to me that Orlando could have walked in front of the crypt-door? That would have cast a shadow very like the “ghost” I saw.
If there is any real danger here at Calipash Manor, it is too much sunshine. I must be more careful of my skin—my complexion will be ruined if I continue taking morning walks. My skin is browner already, I am sure of it.
Afternoon—Orlando did not come down to dinner. I fear I must have done him a mischief. Perhaps attempting to induce a fourth occasion took more out of him than I anticipated?
I had a solitary, silent meal in the dining room; again, Lizzie and Bill would not allow me to dine with them. They were really rather stern with me about it.
“We would have notions of rank preserved in this house, Chelone,” said Lizzie. “Anarchy results elseways.”
“Yes indeed, a woman of your breeding mustn’t break bread with those such as us,” said Bill—which in anyone else I would think to be a crack about my lack of proper parentage, but not from Bill!
Ah well. I have eaten lonelier meals.
I wonder, though, if I didn’t work myself into rather an agitated state, too—I could stomach only the vegetable courses.
Late Afternoon—Something strange is going on, I am sure of it. Orlando must be ill. Before going down to tea I knocked on the door of his room, and heard nothing. I raised my voice and told him it was tea-time, and I heard a faint moan from within. Who declines tea? Even invalids must have their refreshing cuppa and hot buttered toast, surely.
After Tea—I went to consult with Lizzie about Orlando, though I hated to disturb her again after her earlier sternness with me. It is funny, as I approached the kitchen-door, I am sure I misheard her, but before I knocked, I heard her conversing with Bill. He said, “that he will not stir is a good sign,” and I thought I overheard her say, “Soon will come the hour of the tortoise,” which made Bill laugh, a harsh sound. Then I knocked; they fell silent as I entered.
“I fear the Lord Calipash may be ill,” said I.
“As I said, he was up late last night,” said Lizzie. “When I retired he had called Bill to bring him another bottle of wine. Have you never had a hangover?”
“Even if he was up late—”
“Likely he’s a cold upon him,” said Bill. He had obviously been doing something that required his high boots (come to think of it, he could have been the source of the shadow, as he is tall and thin, too). Mud plastered his feet and calves nearly to the knee, but he had not shed his footwear before coming to sit at the table. Lizzie, I was surprised to note, did not chide him for this; indeed, she seemed hardly to notice his mess. This was quite a change from the attitude she used to take when I came in from outside without a care!
“A cold!” I exclaimed.
“He went outside last night, in the storm,” said Bill, and shrugged at me as he put his boots up on one of the kitchen chairs, fouling it horribly. “I tried to speak reason to him, but he would not listen. Said he wished to keep vigil by the side of his dead father. Heathen notion—perhaps it is as you say, and the Lord has punished him with an ailment.”
“Then he must be in need of at least a cup of tea,” I said, exasperated. “Let me bring it to him, you needn’t trouble yourselves.”
“Oh, go on then,” said Lizzie, pouring some liquid the color of wash-water into a chipped cup. “Take him this, if you must be meddlesome.”
It was in low spirits indeed that I went up to Orlando’s room, tea in hand. I have rarely felt so depressed. This slapdash housekeeping and surly language would be understandable, of course, if Bill and Lizzie seemed distraught over my guardian’s death, but neither seem to care tuppence about it—they have not even mentioned it to me! And come to think of it, the house was topsy-turvy when I arrived. From what I saw, taking care of the former Lord Calipash would not have occupied the whole of their waking hours, so how can they account for how decrepit Calipash Manor has become? It pains me to write this, but I feel as though the two of them have no emotion whatsoever as regards their former master; I get the strange feeling if no one would notice the irregularity of it, they would not even attend to the funereal arrangements. When I was a girl neither one of them seemed the sort of servant who would take a “when the cat’s away” attitude toward their duties, but perhaps I was not a perceptive child?
Well, regardless, I went up to Orlando’s room and entered without knocking, only to find him prostrate on the bed, sheets wound around him like a shroud. The curtains were drawn and I could barely see my way over to him.
“Lord Calipash?” I whispered. “It is I—Chelone, your cousin, come to see if you need anything?”
He groaned and stirred, and I took this as a good sign. Setting the cup of tea down beside him, I took the liberty of seating myself on his bed and patting his shoulder.
“It is after tea-time, please—won’t you take a bite or sip of anything?”
“My head,” he groaned. “Oh, Chelone—I was beastly to you last night, was I not?”
“Never mind that,” I said. “I believe you have already apologized enough.”
“Did I?” He flopped over onto his side and looked at me. “I must have had more wine than I thought.”
“Not all apologies must be spoken,” I said, and touched where my new lovely necklace hung below my blouse. Stroking the pendant, even through the fabric, gave me the most visceral shock! Plenty of times I have received trinkets from lovers, but this—it comforted me to have it about my neck, as if it were a warm extension of my very flesh.
“True enough, I suppose! Draw back the curtains, cousin, and hand me that tea—ahh,” he said, sipping it. “Better. I should not have lingered in bed so long, but ach—my head! How it aches!”
“Well, you had a long night,” I said over my shoulder.
“Indeed I did. Ventured out to that tomb—well, you must know that already. Dreadfully wet, and I fell—or hit my head—or something. Must have slipped.” He took another long slurp of tea and fell back upon the pillows of his bed. “Well, no lasting harm done
. Still feel miserable, though.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“I wonder …” He looked at me. “You seem in a maternal sort of mood, eh? Would you be so kind—no.”
“Ask anything and it shall be yours, if it is within my power to give it.”
“Just sit with me, talk to me. Keep me company. I never had a relative to look after me before.”
Poor dear! “Let me read to you, then—and perhaps you will doze until supper-time.”
“Smashing idea, Chelone. What would you like to read?”
“You claimed to have a collection that would make me blush,” I suggested, having retained no small curiosity regarding his literary tastes. “Even if you no longer think me so easily shocked, I should like to see what you have.”
Even in the dim light—for though I had drawn back the drapes, the hour was late, and the sunlight waning—I saw him blush pinker than a rose! I had no expectation of his showing any shyness after the events of last night, and felt such a rush of tenderness for the dear boy that I kissed him on the forehead.
“N—no,” he stammered. “I was, ah, drinking last night, you see, and loose-tongued; I was not myself, and should not have mentioned such things about—about my family, myself, and …”
Such an endearing display! Charmed, I put my finger to his lips and shook my head. I was not to be dissuaded.
“Let me read something—I shall pick it. Just nod where you have stowed them. Coyness will only make me all the more eager!”
He looked miserable as a wet cat, but pointed with a trembling finger towards a valise not yet unpacked. Opening the top, I discovered to my delight that it was entirely full of pornography! He had a lovely old edition of Juliette, several volumes of The Pearl and The Oyster (I cannot fault him; though Lazenby has always been a competitor, his work is very fine), a chapbook of Swinburne’s “Reginald’s Flogging,” The Sins of the Cities of the Plain, which perhaps would explain his ability with arses—and, I was happy to see, quite a few editions of Milady’s Ruby Vase!
“I see you are quite an avid reader,” said I, which caused him to choke on the dregs of his tea. “Here, I have selected something. Let me read to you—ah, yes! Here is a good-sounding yarn, ‘What My Brother Learned in India’ by a Rosa Birchbottom.”
“Not that one,” he said with such trepidation I felt rather wounded.
“Why ever not?”
“I…please, Chelone. She is my very favorite author, and I fear I should—embarrass myself.”
“Rosa Birchbottom is your favorite author?” How could I not laugh! “Let me read this story, then. I trust your taste, cousin.”
“I—”
“My brother studied a great many things whilst in India, and upon his return he was good enough to teach me some of what he learned about the voluptuous peculiarities of the human body,” I read, or rather, recited half from memory. “Given that I am soon to die of a wasting sickness that has claimed my beauty, rendering me unfit to engage in any amorous sport, I have decided to spend my remaining days writing down some of the most exotic techniques he taught me, techniques to induce to sensual erotic pleasure in man or woman…Orlando!”
He had begun to weep, and I set aside the volume, feeling rather rotten indeed.
“Whatever is the matter?” I asked him.
“I am a disgusting creature,” said he, “to own such wicked books—and to ask a young lady to read them! Here I have you debasing yourself before me, and—”
“None of that,” I said sternly. “It is no debasement to read these words, pornography is not a wicked art! Oh, Orlando, I apologize. I was only so very amused. You see, I am Rosa Birchbottom. It tickled me last night when you implied I should read pornography—I write it for my living!”
“You?” he sat up straight and looked at me with fresh, adoring eyes. “You wouldn’t tease me, cousin?”
“Never, I assure you. I told you I worked for a periodical, did I not? I authored ‘What My Brother Learned in India,’ ‘The Personal Papers of Lady Strokinpoke,’ ‘A Penny Spent,’ and ‘A Sporting Attitude Indeed.’ I had to take a nom de plume or risk all sort of unpleasantness if our publication is ever shut down on obscenity charges. It is a bad pun, I know, but my very first story was a Mrs. Lechworthy tale, you see.”
“I have it in my collection,” said he, placing his hand upon my knee in an endearingly familiar manner. “I really think ‘Le Vice Anglese’ is one of the very best stories ever written.”
“Flatterer,” I said.
“Not at all—but …” He blushed again.
“What?”
“I am sorry, I was about to trouble you with an impertinence …”
“What could be impertinent between us, cousin?”
“Do you…ever…do you write from experience? Or is it all…imagination?”
The dear young man! “I know why you ask, Orlando, but fear not. Though I have in the past used my experiences to inform my writings, I never do so directly. And I never name names.”
“I see…so you are not, oh, how did you put it so delightfully in ‘A Penny Spent’? Burdened by an exasperating virginity?”
I laughed. “Is that a question you needed to ask me? Could you not tell?”
Orlando’s lip twitched and then his face lit up in the most handsome smile I had ever seen on a man’s face. “Oh, Chelone, I am feeling ever so much better now, you have raised my spirits to the point I think I could manage a bit of supper! Would you like to dress and come down with me?”
“Very much so, my dear Orlando,” said I.
“I am ever so glad you came to Calipash Manor,” he said. “Why—I feel as though I’ve known you my whole life. It is funny, before you arrived my father was speaking of twins, twins born into this family—do you not think we could be siblings? Look in the mirror, there—are not our faces quite alike?”
“I hope we are not twins,” said I, though it gave me quite a start to see how alike we were. “Are not Calipash twins always supposed to be cursed? Evil?”
“That was what my father told me, at least. Well, well, it seems an unlikely coincidence, does it not? But we shall talk more about it over dinner, eh, cousin?”
And thus I must hurry—he will be awaiting me! Oh, I am ever so glad I came home again. It is rare, when one writes under a false name, to meet one’s public in person! Very enjoyable, as is Orlando himself. I do think I shall have another go with him after our meal, if he is willing and able…
The dress I wore that night was not expensive, and though it had been turned once, I thought it looked well enough when I gazed at my reflection in the glass. My only regret was how high the neckline, for though I wore his gift none could see it. Still, its warm weight was a secret comfort to me, for he had given this present to me as a token of affection, and feeling it ’round my neck reminded me that I needed not fear disgracing myself in front of my nobler relation with my ignorant manners and common conversation.
When I heard the knock at my door I very nearly turned my ankle in my dash to answer the summons. It was Laurent, looking very dashing indeed, and he even took my hand and kissed it when he saw me!
“Dearest Camilla, how beautiful you look,” he said, lasciviously licking his lips with his red tongue. “Why, my cock is half-standing just looking at you, remembering the rapturous sensation of Mr. John Thomas battering his way up inside of you, taking for my own your troublesome maidenhead! Careful, or I might make a mistake—and eat you instead of my supper.”
“I am glad you have not had your fill of me. I have heard it said in town that you are indeed a rake and libertine.”
“It is all in the past,” he assured me. “I have never thought to marry, but you, my cousin, have won my heart, body, and soul.”
Alas, for I was a fool to believe such words! I assure you, as I write this, locked up for crimes I did not commit, that no woman has ever suffered more than I on account of love!
We lingered over supper, which c
onsisted of every food known to inspire amorous devotion: caviar, asparagus, oysters, champagne, artichokes in white wine, and finally, a tiny cup of potent chocolate. By the end of it I was swooning with passion and anxious to retire, but it was not to be. As a final course, Laurent’s housekeeper surprised us by coming in with two chilled glasses of a French anisette liqueur as a digestif—but when I reached to take mine off the silver tray, the silver-filigreed cameo Laurent had given me spilled out from the neckline of my gown.
“Thief!” cried his housekeeper. “Why, it is Lady Fanchone’s favorite ornament, long thought to be missing! How did it come to be concealed on your person, I wonder?”
“Laurent gave it to me last night,” said I, shocked by her implication.
“How could he, when it has been gone these ten years? As I recall it, Lady Fanchone wished to bequeath it to her only son and heir—and could not, for it had vanished!”
I thought Laurent would come to my defense, but when I raised my tear-filled eyes to meet his, I saw only cruelty there.
“Indeed, it had long been my desire to have that ornament turned into a cravat-pin—and here you are, possessed of it! My, my…Camilla! I never thought you would be the sort of girl around whom I should have to count the silver! To discover the woman I thought to make my bride is actually a low thief—and a thief so bold as to wear her ill-gotten possessions around those who might miss them!”
I know it does not speak to my honesty to confess here that I bolted from the table then, thinking to leave The Beeches on foot. But I ask you, dearest reader, what hope I had of protesting my innocence when Laurent—he whom I had thought devoted to me—was speaking such dreadful falsehoods? You, my friend, know that I am innocent, that I would never steal, but I was apprehended by the handyman before I had taken ten steps out the front door. I screamed and beat his breast with my fists, demanding he release me, but he was far stronger than I, and restrained me easily. Then a policeman was called, and the matter seemed more and more hopeless. My character is no longer known in these parts, after all, and so it was the easiest thing to conclude I was a thief!
The Book of Cthulhu 2 Page 23
