by Amy Cross
"I believe he is inspecting the gardens," Margaret says. "A boy should return shortly with some provisions from town. I am sure tonight's dinner will be a vast improvement upon last night's offering. I can tell you that Mr. Lively was most ashamed of the poor effort yesterday, and he is quite determined to make amends tonight."
"It is not Mr. Lively's fault that we arrived to find the house abandoned," I reply. "Tell me, is there any sign of my husband's uncle?"
"None whatsoever, Madame," Margaret says. "Nor of his servants."
"How curious," I say, getting out of bed. My whole body aches, and I cannot help but wonder if I might be coming down with some kind of illness or fever.
"Are you okay, Madame?" Margaret asks, noticing my tiredness. She has worked with me for many years, and she knows my habits better than I know them. While my husband might not always notice subtle changes in my character, Margaret is much more attuned to my needs. This is only right and proper, of course: my husband is a busy man, while Margaret is a paid employee.
"I'm very tired," I say, though in truth tiredness is not really the right way to describe this feeling. It is more as if I have absolutely no energy, and as if heavy weights have been tied all over my body.
"I was informed that you had experienced a trouble night," Margaret says, "and that you might require some extra rest today."
I smile as I change into my clothes for the day. "I'm not an invalid, Margaret," I say, "nor am I a weak woman. I am a little tired, but I shall continue with my day as planned. My husband expects me to prepare this house, and that is what I shall do. There is no point dilly-dallying and avoiding the necessary tasks."
"Very good, Madame," Margaret says. "Mr. Lively has prepared a breakfast for you, but if you would prefer brunch -"
"Anything is fine," I say. "I am just anxious to look around and work out what needs to be done. Margaret, you will have to accompany me and take detailed notes. This is not going to be the job of a moment, and it must be approached with full determination."
"Of course, Madame," Margaret says as she opens the door and I head out into the corridor. Walking downstairs, I find that Lively has conjured up a magnificent breakfast. After I have eaten, I head out to the steps that lead down to the garden, and for the first time I am able to take in the wonderful view. All around the house, there is the most perfect green lawn, bordered further out by a large and thick forest. Further on, green fields spread as far as the eye can see.
"I have never seen such a wonderful location," I say, genuinely shocked and a little intimidated. Perhaps this place can be made habitable after all.
"It is a wonderful house, Madame," Margaret says.
I spot a couple of figures moving about near the edge of the forest. Squinting a little, I realize that it is my husband and one of the footmen. They are examining the grounds, probably to determine what foodstuffs can be grown. My husband has a particular interest in the methods by which a house can grow at least some of its own food, since he does not entirely trust the methods used by unfamiliar farmers. The endeavor takes up a lot of his time, but I dare say he is correct to have such worries. The modern world is bringing many changes, and it is probably very wise to retain links to the old world so that one is prepared for any eventualities that might occur.
"It feels a shame to spend all day in the house when there is such a lovely garden, and such wonderful weather," I say, sighing. "Nevertheless, we have a job to do, and there will be plenty of time to enjoy other luxuries some other time." I turn to Margaret. "We must set to work at once."
As we head back into the house, however, my attention is caught by a peculiar pattern on one of the window panes. Moving closer, I see what appears to be the image of a human face burned lightly into the glass.
"What do you make of that?" I ask Margaret.
"I don't know, to be sure," she replies.
"Oh come on, Margaret," I say, a little impatient with her politeness. "Don't you find it rather creepy?"
"Perhaps, Madame," she says. There's a pause. "It does look like a man's face, indeed."
As I stare at the image, which is faint but perceptible, I am struck by its resemblance to... No, it cannot be Patrick. He is just a figment of my imagination. Besides, the more I look at the pane, the more I realize that there is no face at all. It is merely a trick of the light, the sun's rays falling upon a few scuff marks. "We shall have to replace this pane," I say, turning to Margaret. "Make a note that it is to be removed as soon as a new pane can be found." I glance back at the image. "Treat this as a matter of urgency. I find the stain to be discomforting."
Heading inside, I lead Margaret through to the drawing room. Half expecting to find that the painting has been returned to the wall, I am instead relieved to see that it remains hidden behind the bureau. "This room will need a lot of work," I say, looking around. "The decoration is hideous. I don't know who chose these colors, but they are all wrong for a south-facing room. All wrong." It feels good to be speaking about something of which I know a great deal. I so often have to defer to my husband, but today I am the expert. He trusts me, too, to get this place fixed up in a manner that is fitting to our needs.
As we walk around the room, I notice something on the floor. It takes only a moment for me to realize that it is yet another of those bloodied pebbles. What are these things, and where in God's name are they coming from?
"Get rid of that," I say, turning away. I walk over to look at a large painting on the wall. On the bottom, there is a plaque that identifies the subject of the painting as Edward's uncle, Dunstable. He appears to be an elderly man, with heavy, bagged eyes and a jaundiced look. "What a frightful image," I say. "Tell Lively that this painting is to be removed and burnt." I turn to Margaret and watch as she picks up the pebble in a handkerchief. "Throw that thing away at once," I say. "I do not want it in the house. Take if off the grounds."
"Yes, Madame," Margaret says. "I shall bury it with the rest."
"The rest?" I pause, my heart skipping a beat. I am almost afraid to ask the next question. "Have you found others?"
"Five or six," she replies. "They really are quite unnerving. They all appear to have blood on them."
"Where were they?" I ask.
"All over," she replies. "I found a few last night, and another one this morning. The funny thing is..." She pauses.
"What?" I ask.
She seems reluctant to continue. "Well... I swear there wasn't one outside my door last night, when I retired, but it was there this morning."
"Like they're moving," I say, as much to myself as to Margaret. "Or being dropped by someone. Has Lively seen any?"
"He says he hasn't," Margaret replies, "but I don't believe him. He had this look in his eyes, like he knew full well what I was talking about, even though he acted like I was speaking gibberish."
"Have you mentioned them to my husband?" I ask.
"Of course not," she says. "I wouldn't have mentioned them to you either, Madame, if it wasn't that -"
Suddenly the door bursts open and my husband storms into the room. "There's a bloody intruder down in the forest," he says, his face red with anger as he heads to the gun cabinet. "Damn it!" he says, finding it locked. "Where the hell would Dunstable keep the key?"
"What kind of intruder?" I ask, alarmed. Immediately I'm reminded of my nightmares.
"Probably a poacher," Edward says. "I need to send Lively down there to drive him out, but we don't have any guns."
"Did you see the intruder?" I ask.
"Of course I did," Edward says. "How else do you think I know he was there?"
"But did you see his face?" I continue, desperate for an answer. "Did you see what he looked like?"
"Briefly," Edward says, eying me suspiciously, as if he's surprised by my keen interest in the subject. "Funny looking fellow, dressed all in black. He was just standing and staring at us. He had the most piercing dark eyes I've ever seen. I swear, he looked rather peculiar."
I feel
a chill run down my spine. "Perhaps we should leave," I say.
Edward frowns.
"If it's not safe..." I continue. I have an overwhelming, and quite desperate, urge to get out of this house and to never, ever come back. I look over at the image on the window pane. Could it be Patrick after all? Is he real? Has he stepped out of my dreams and into reality?
"Of course it's safe!" Edward bellows, clearly angry with me. "I won't be driven out of my own home by some common poacher! If the man thinks he can come and steal my livestock, I'll give him a gut full of lead shot and bury him in an unmarked grave."
Lively walks into the room, carrying an ax. "Shall I, Sir?"
"By all means," Edward says, stepping aside as Lively swings the ax at the cabinet. With one blow, he smashes the door open, revealing a row of rifles.
"Excellent work," Edward says as he and Lively grab a rifle each and start loading them with ammunition. "We'll put a few shots through this fellow and show him what happens to poachers. And then maybe we'll put a bullet through Dunstable too, if he ever shows up. I can't believe he's just abandoned the house in such a state, with poachers running amok."
"Perhaps I should go alone, Sir," Lively says. "It might be dangerous. These poachers can get awfully violent when they're challenged, and they often work in groups, with guns."
"Nonsense," Edward says. He's clearly very worked up, almost excited, and he has that blustery expression that he gets when he wants to assert his manliness. "I want to see the whites of this fellow's eyes before I blast him." He turns to me. "You must stay inside until I come back and tell you that it's safe," he says, before turning to Margaret. "You must protect my wife if needs be."
"Of course," Margaret says.
With that, Edward and Lively head out of the room and into the garden. I go to the window and watch them hurrying across the lawn. They seem so keen to take on this poacher, as if doing so will provide them with an important role in life. Looking toward the trees, I see no-one else, but could it be possible that Patrick is out there? Was it Patrick I heard in the house last night? If so, my nightmares seem to be coming true.
"Madame," says Margaret, looking concerned. "Are you quite alright?"
"I'm -" I start to say, but I'm quickly overcome by a powerful feeling of weakness. I try to turn and walk away, but everything goes black and the last thing I feel is my body hitting the floor before I pass out entirely.
Chapter Five
"Wake up," says a voice in the darkness. It takes me a moment to realize who's speaking. "Wake up," the voice says again, and this time I'm certain: it's Sophie. "I need your help."
"Leave me alone," I say, keeping my eyes closed. "Take Patrick with you. Whatever your problems, I do not wish to be a part of them."
"He's here," Sophie says. "I'm not, but he is. I can't help you. You have to help yourself. Do you understand? If the prophecy is denied any longer, the spiders will come back."
"I don't understand a thing," I reply. "Who are you?" Silence. I wait for her to answer, but she doesn't say anything. I open my eyes and for a fraction of a second, I see Sophie standing before me, covered in thousands of spiders; seconds later, I blink and she disappears, and I find that I'm laid out on the bed upstairs, with Margaret sitting beside me. The room is filled with the day's fading light and, with window open, I'm a little cold. Outside, birds are chirping.
"How are you feeling, Madame?" she asks.
I open my mouth to reply, but I feel indescribably weak. "I..." I start to say, but the effort of saying even a few words seems beyond me. It's as if all my energy has been sucked away and I have been left as a hollow shell.
"A doctor has been sent for," Margaret says. "He should be here tomorrow."
I stare at her. A doctor? What's wrong with me? "Where's Edward?" I ask.
"He and Mr. Lively are still out hunting for that poacher," Margaret says. "They caught sight of him, but he got away before they could get any shots off. Still, they're hopeful of at least scaring him from the property by tonight. If he dares to come back, that is."
"Oh, he'll dare," I say quietly.
"Pardon, Madame?"
"What time is it?" I ask, changing the subject.
"I believe it's almost five o'clock," she says.
"In the evening?"
She nods.
I look over at the window and see that it is already starting to get dark. Soon the sun will dip entirely in the sky and the house - and all of us inside - will be consumed by shadows. The thought of another night in this place makes me shiver: during the day, the house seems fairly friendly and un-threatening, but I fear that the dark of night will awaken various ghouls and fears in my own mind, if not in the real world itself. All my old certainties have wasted away, and I'm left wondering if there is any divide at all between my fantasies and the real world. It is as if a barrier has been broken, and all my nightmares are spilling out into the house. "We must leave," I say, turning back to Margaret and trying to sound as determined as possible. It is difficult for a woman to seem authoritative, but I must make an effort. "This house is not a good place for us. It is full of darkness and it will do us no good to remain here."
"That's the Master's business," Margaret says. "Not mine."
"It's my business too," I say. "I cannot spend any more time in this house. There is something about it. I don't know what, exactly, but I feel as if I shall fall apart if I am forced to remain here." I pause. "I know I must sound like the most dreadful fool, but I have these nightmares and now I fear they are spilling out. Do you have any idea what life is like for me here?" I stare at Margaret. "Of course you don't. How could you ever understand my suffering?"
"I try," Margaret says quietly.
I sit up. "I feel so weak. What's wrong with me?"
"The Master thinks you might be expecting a child," Margaret says. "That's why he's sent for a doctor."
"I'm not expecting a child," I snap back at her. "I'd know if that were the case. Wouldn't I?"
"I expect so," says Margaret.
"Of course I would!" I say somewhat sharply, before sighing. "Sometimes I feel I would be better served having a woman around me who has been through childbirth, rather than a barren hag." I instantly regret my choice of words. "I hope I did not offend you," I add.
"Not at all," she replies unconvincingly, looking down at the floor.
I put a hand on my belly. "I am not swollen," I say. "I do not feel nauseous in the morning. I am absolutely certain that I am as yet not with child, though..." I turn to Margaret. "Obviously, were it to be the case, I would be extremely happy."
"Of course, Madame," Margaret says.
"Typical," I say, sighing. "As soon as a woman becomes a little ill, it is assumed that she's with child. I should have known Edward might -" I pause, suddenly noticing that Margaret has tears in her eyes, and she looks very pale. She's clearly trying to hold back her emotions, but her efforts are in vain and I can see that she is almost fit to burst.
"Margaret," I say, genuinely touched by her problems despite the fact that she is merely a servant. It is usually the case that employers should not meddle in the private lives of their employees, but I cannot shake the feeling that in this case Margaret's anguish is in some way connected to my own fears. "Whatever is the matter?" I ask. "What has caused you to drop your guard in this manner?"
Her bottom lip is quivering, her face is becoming red, and tears are rolling down her cheeks. "I can't say," she bursts out, and then she starts to sob. I am quite sure that I have never, not once in my life, seen a person cry, although obviously I have heard of such an event. But to see this woman show her weakness in such an obvious way is, to be honest, rather pitiful.
"You most certainly can say," I tell her. "And you will. Tell me immediately." The best way to deal with such a situation is to be firm. Sympathy would only encourage Margaret in this act of weakness.
She looks over at me, and her eyes have a look of such sorrow in them. I never knew that se
rvants could feel emotions so keenly, but she certainly seems to be in absolute anguish about something.
"Margaret," I say, affecting my most commanding tone of voice, "you must tell me at once what is causing this... this... scene. I am not used to having people in my employ show such weakness, and I want to know the cause at once." I feel that perhaps I am being a little too strict, a little too severe, but I must get to the bottom of Margaret's problems at once. "Tell me," I say firmly, "or I shall dismiss you from my service this very instant."
"I saw it," she says, her eyes fixed on me, her expression filled with extreme shock. Despite her lowly status, it is hard to dismiss such obvious fear. "On your back," she continues. "I saw it."
I stare at her. "Saw what?"
She pauses. "I saw it sitting on your back," she says. "When I came into the room a short while ago, to check on you and bring you some water. I opened the door, and it was sitting there. And it turned its head and it looked right at me."
"What did?" I ask, feeling a chill run through my body.
"I can't say," she insists.
"Tell me!"
"It was the Devil himself, Madame," she replies, her whole body shaking. She makes the sign of the cross on her chest.
"Nonsense," I say.
"I saw him," she continues. "Small and hunched up and red of skin, with yellow eyes. He was sitting on your back while you were asleep. He was perched there like a bird."
"You're having a delusion," I say, hoping to get some sense back into the foolish woman. "The Devil was most certainly not sitting on my back. Don't you think I would be aware of such a thing if it happened to me?"
"He was putting one of those things inside you," Margaret continues.
"What things?" I ask. "Margaret, you are in serious danger of being dismissed from my service if you do not right your attitude at once. I am tired of your -"
"One of those stones," she says, interrupting me, still sobbing. "He took it out of his mouth, and he... he..." She bursts into tears, covering her eyes with the sleeve of her dress.
I stare at her. "What did he do?" I ask, but Margaret just sobs like a weak fool. "Tell me!" I shout at her. "What did he do?" I am rapidly losing patience with her.
