The North Sea House: a gothic romance

by Camille Oster

  "No, there doesn't," Vivienne agreed. If Mrs. Bollingworth had visited as much as she claimed, then they would know each other quite well, and there was clear dislike on both sides. Enough dislike that Mrs. Sims was quite vocal about her dismay, which was highly unusual. Vivienne had never seen staff be so disrespectful to a guest in a house. But when she'd spoken to Mrs. Sims, she'd seemed quite a kind-hearted and sensible woman. "It is curious."

  "Do we know if anyone actually pushed her?" Brynnell asked. “Or did she simply trip?”

  "She says she felt a hand at her back pushing her," John replied.

  "Yet she came out rather unscathed."

  "Apparently her knees are scraped raw. Under the circumstances, though, we cannot fetch a doctor to tend to her," Vivienne added.

  "No," Brynnell agreed.

  Biting her lip, she wanted to ask him about where he'd just been and why, but she couldn't think of a way to bring it up.

  "As you say, curious," Brynnell said before walking away to take a seat close to the fire. He had to be frozen after spending so much time outside. The light of the fire cast over his face and he stared into it. Where did he go, she wondered. Was it the things from his past that drew him back?

  "I think everyone could use some more hot tea," Sophie said, going in search of Mr. Jenkins.

  Mrs. Bollingworth was still flustering, her husband apparently unable to make her comfortable.

  "I think I shall be in the library," Horace said and walked out of the room. Mrs. Dartmoor sat quietly in the corner, drawing little attention to herself.

  "One hell of a storm," Lewis said as he walked into the salon. "I assume I missed breakfast."

  "And a murder attempt on Mrs. Bollingworth," Sophie added as she returned to the room and walked past toward her seat.

  "Oh what a shame. Must these things happen so early in the morning? Give a man a chance to get up."

  Mrs. Bollingworth flustered with frustration and annoyance. Some were taking her ordeal a little too lightly and Vivienne felt bad. Lewis and Sophie in particular could be a little curt and tactless. Someone pushing the woman down the stairs was a serious misdeed, not something that should be treated as entertainment.

  Now Vivienne didn't know what to do. It seemed strange to just sit down and read after such a commotion, but what else could they do? It couldn't really be that someone had pushed Mrs. Bollingworth down the stairs. She must have imagined it. In a house like this, it was easy to let one's imagination run away with one, particularly as the house groaned and stirred with the roaring wind outside. It must have been the wind she felt down her back. Strong drafts and currents were coming from every direction. It was as if the wind had a life of its own.

  With a sigh, Vivienne took her typical seat in the salon and picked up her book. It was almost too dark to read, but there was little else to do.

  "Oh wonderful," Sophie said. "The tea is here."

  Its arrival seemed to cheer everyone up and Sophie decided to play hostess and make sure everyone had a cup.

  "I think you need a strong cup of tea first," Sophie said, smiling to Brynnell, "being that, I am sure, you were utterly frozen on your recent walk." He accepted the cup with a nod. It was inescapable that Mrs. Bollingworth's expression was tart, likely feeling that her experience should constitute the most immediate cup. Unfortunately for her, Sophie's interest lay elsewhere.

  Chapter 18

  IT WAS A DAY WHERE EVERYONE seemed to get on each other's nerves. Mrs. Dartmoor sat in the salon and embroidered, while Sophie tended to pace. Lewis slept and Mrs. Bollingworth had retired to her room, while her husband dutifully waited until three o'clock before having his first drink of the day.

  Archie had taken this inclement weather as a good time to get to know the household accounts, while John and Horace played cards. Brynnell was apparently in the library, seeking solitude.

  Most were bored and the incident with Mrs. Bollingworth had stripped any enjoyment on the behalf of everyone else. Vivienne struggled to read her book, her mind refusing to settle on the words.

  Mrs. Sims reaction to the accusation remained on her mind. She clearly didn't like Mrs. Bollingworth, or was it simply the aspersion toward her son that she resented? It was an unfounded claim to state he'd done it without any evidence at all, but perhaps there were things they did not know about the relationship between Mrs. Bollingworth and Clive. The only people who had been here before were Mrs. Bollingworth and the staff.

  But to push her down the stairs was beyond the pale. Such things happened in penny dreadfuls, but not in real life. It had to be the woman's furtive imagination, even as her husband had claimed she had no imagination—which was probably a misspoken utterance by Mr. Bollingworth.

  Putting the book down in her lap, Vivienne sighed.

  But it wasn't the only strange thing that had happened. Jonathan Fitzgerald's journal had appeared in her room. Where had it come from, and who would have put it there? It had to be someone who knew where it had been to start with, which suggested it wasn't one of the visitors, unless they had stumbled across it in the study or library. But why would they put it in her room? It made no sense.

  Looking over, she saw the portrait of Jonathan Fitzgerald on the wall. The young man portrayed did not look like someone in the throes of melancholy. It was strange that Mrs. Dartmoor would have such a notion from looking at the portrait. He looked full of life and confident of his place in the world. His diary was full of mundane things related to him enjoying his life. But love did have a way of upsetting a person, and the journal was from before the time of the scandal, so it gave no clues to the events leading up to it.

  A gust of wind pummeled the house and for a moment she feared yet again the wind might break the windows. All seemed to have the same concern as they all faced toward the windows. A gust also traveled down the chimney, forcing embers to flare.

  "I think it's getting worse," Sophie said.

  "God have mercy on any ships that are caught out there," Horace said. "A storm like this would sink ships."

  The thought of people sinking into the cold sea was uncomfortable. It would be an awful way to die, the floor beneath your feet giving away to dark, stormy seas without a chance of survival.

  "The fishermen seemed to know it was coming," John said.

  "I guess you would if your life depended on you reading the weather," Horace replied.

  "I think I will stretch my legs," Vivienne said and rose from her chair. The salon was starting to feel a little claustrophobic and she needed to move, so she walked out into the main hall and passed the suit of armor that always made her feel uneasy. Its metal hands clutched the hilt of a sword. It was amazing to think that many of the finest families in the country had such brutal beginnings. Although this house must have been built after the era in which people wore such armor, but perhaps not. It wasn't unheard of that people tore down old structures to build more modern ones. And the coastline had always been defended.

  And now this belonged to Archie. She didn't think even he knew the history of this house. Portraits of ancestors lined the walls, interspersed with images of the sea.

  Walking past, she could see Archie in his office, studiously engrossed in a ledger. Likely not a time he wanted to be disturbed.

  It was a fine house, but neglect had left it dark and forlorn. The carpets were worn in places, the curtain tattered. Miss Trubright, for all her notions of being a caretaker for the place, appeared to have invested very little in the house.

  A pair of wooden doors sat down one of the corridors leading away from the main hall. This wasn't an area she'd explored and she tentatively tried the door handle. The door creaked as it opened, revealing what looked like a music room. The walls were covered in faded green silk and a piano stood further into the room. Everything had a light covering of dust, so this was one of the rooms that wasn't cleaned regularly. It wouldn't take a great deal to clean it, but it simply wasn't a room in use.

  The windows
faced toward the meadow and the road leading to the house. Everything was wet and dark outside. The wind carried the rain with it as it blew, also flattening anything that grew. The area surrounding the house was nowhere near as desolate as the scenery that had appeared in her dreams. Why had her mind concocted such desolation? In truth, she didn't dislike the house. It was in dire need of care and investment, and more staff, but it was a beautiful house—if a little on the dark side.

  It could use some modernization. Some lighter paper on the wall—something a bit more cheery. But one could not fault the quality of the woodwork. At some point, someone had invested in this house, but the occupants since had not been as fortuitous. And although Archie was inordinately pleased at having received this inheritance, he did not love this place. Much too social to live in a place like this. It did seem to suit Brynnell better.

  "Disused," a man said behind her, making her startle. Just as she'd thought of him, Brynnell had appeared. "I suspect the instruments are in dire need of a tune. An instrument master would be hard to find out here."

  "Probably," she concurred. "I wonder who used it. I assume it wasn't Miss Trubright. I understand she wasn't musically inclined."

  "Are you?"

  "Well, I enjoy music. I'm not much gifted myself."

  Her hand felt clammy. There were her nerves again. Why did she always feel them when he appeared?

  "I trust Mrs. Bollingworth has recovered?" he asked after an awkward moment of silence.

  "She has retired to her room again."

  "Ah. There appears to be little respite for her when she leaves it."

  "Even in it. An old journal of the missing heir appeared in her room yesterday," Vivienne said.

  "Yes, very odd. As if the very spirit of him is haunting her—if you believed in such things." His dismissive tone suggested he didn't. Mrs. Bollingworth clearly did. "But she is accusing one of the staff of having pushed her."

  "What do you believe happened?"

  "There are drafts all over the house with this storm. I suspect she mistook someone wishing her harm for a mere draft." As she said it, the windows rattled with the change in pressure inside the room. "An old house like this does seem to come alive in strong weather, doesn't it?"

  "Yes."

  "What did you seek when you left the house this morning?" It was a bit forward to ask, but her curiosity got the better of her.

  "The sea, I suppose. It rages with such power. There will be erosion along the coastline."

  "Surely not where we are. The house is not at threat, is it?" Concern filled her now.

  He smiled. "No, the house is built on bedrock. The person who built it, I think, chose the site specifically because it would not be at threat. It takes the sea millennia to erode rock, forming caves."

  "Caves?"

  "Yes, there are caves around. But not ones that are safe to enter, probably even on the calmest days. You can hear the sea pounding into them if you listen carefully. It sounds a little like echoes sometimes. You hear it more outside."

  "Of course," she said, mostly because she couldn't think of anything else to say.

  "This storm should blow itself out later today," he finally added.

  "I hope so. This storm has everyone on edge. Along with Mrs. Bollingworth's wild accusations."

  "It is not difficult for some to see fantastical things in dark corners on a day such as this."

  Her own sleepwalking came into her mind and she blushed. He had seen it when John had discovered her up on the landing a few days back. What must he think of her?

  "Perhaps," he started slowly. "When the weather clears, we could walk a little."

  The suggestion surprised her. It was a clear indication of friendship—interest in such, at least. "I would like that."

  "With your brother, of course," he added.

  "Or simply within sight." For some reason, she didn't want her brother to walk with them. Perhaps because if he walked with them, he would definitely be serving the role of chaperone. That would have him teasing her for months after. And worse would be if her mother found out that Lord Routledge had asked her to walk with him. That was a tiger she did not wish to rear in her mother, in case she got some notion of trying to encourage Vivienne to pursue his interest. Obviously, it could be anything but interest. Sophie was both more beautiful and worldly. More than likely, it was simply friendship that interested him, particularly as they, to some degree, shared an interest in what happened to this missing heir.

  Still, she could not stop the flush that accompanied her acceptance of the suggestion. And no matter how drudging the rest of the day was, she had this to look forward to. If she could only get hold of her nerves.

  Chapter 19

  THE FEROCITY OF THE WIND did diminish over the course of the afternoon, but dusk fell around four and it was as dark as Vivienne had ever seen it outside. Not a single light could be seen in any direction. No stars, no moon. It was only her own reflection that looked back at her in the window. The sea could be heard, but not seen. A wild beast in the darkness, raging and tearing.

  The glass of the windows was biting cold, and it seeped into her fingers when she touched it. Pulling her hand back, she clenched her fingers closed to preserve the warmth in them.

  Candles had been lit around the dining room, but they could hardly chase the gloom away. Everyone was in attendance tonight and they sat silently and sullenly in the salon before Mr. Jenkins called them into supper.

  "A bit of warmth in the belly would be most welcome," Horace said as he took his seat. Both warmth and light had difficulty in competing with the pressing atmosphere.

  Mrs. Bollingworth sat quietly and with a thinly drawn mouth. Her husband was staying away from her rather than attending, which suggested he knew he was a little on the animated side for her liking.

  "I say we all get drunk," Lewis added. "That will chase the gloom away."

  "The noise of the wind has given me a headache," Sophie said. "I think I will retire early and hopefully wake up to a lovely day with sunshine and warmth."

  "Not sure it ever gets warm here," Archie said.

  Mrs. Bollingworth had nothing to add to the conversation. "Now where has that silly man gone?" she asked.

  "I believe Mr. Jenkins said something about a missing serving spoon," Mrs. Dartmoor replied.

  "He is always missing something. You should watch that carefully," Mrs. Bollingworth said and slowly exhaled as if her patience was being tested.

  "I'm sure he'll be back in but a moment."

  "I think the wind has died down quite a bit," John said. "There is often brilliant weather after a storm."

  "Like a woman who has blown her temper out," Lewis added and received a terse look from Sophie.

  She continued to look unimpressed. "I am sure this is the worst storm I have ever experienced. The candles actually blew out when I was walking down the hall earlier, plunging me into compete darkness. It's a wonder I didn't break my neck."

  "Well, I almost did," Mrs. Bollingworth added. "And it wasn't the wind."

  "It is astonishing that anyone should carry such ire towards you that it pushed them to actually try to murder you. What trespass must you have done?" Lewis asked, that edge of teasing in his voice.

  "One cannot account for the minds of madmen."

  Jenkins returned with the errant serving spoon and started serving the soup course. It was creamy with leek.

  "Mrs. Sims is a marvelous cook," Vivienne said.

  "Yes, she'll have you fat and content in no time," Sophie added.

  "Absolutely nothing wrong with being fat and content," Archie replied. "In fact, I have made that the primary goal of my life. Once my youthful good looks go, what else is there to look forward to?"

  Vivienne smiled because she could actually see Archie with a family, happy and content. Marriage would suit him eminently. It is the selection process that was daunting for him, having to make an appearance during the season and court the young women and th
eir demanding mothers.

  "Here, here," Horace agreed.

  Although Horace did not have the forthrightness to approach young women during a season. In fact, he probably couldn't force himself to attend a ball as dancing was simply beyond him. But he would make someone a steady and gentle husband. Unfortunately, he showed more interest in plants than he did women.

  "Do you not think so?" Sophie asked, her attention directed to Brynnell, who sat quietly eating.

  "Of course."

  "Sometimes I think men want to marry more than women do," Sophie said when he didn't add more to his answer. "Men are happy in a marriage, but women are only happy in a good marriage. It is such a gamble. Did you hear that Terence Marcombe's wife ran off? Up and left, claiming he could never make her happy."

  "I don't think anything is ever going to make that woman happy," Lewis said dismissively.

  "But Terence is both dull and stupid. I can't blame her. He will have to seek a divorce."

  "Then he will be on the market again. You will finally have your chance."

  "Don't be a bore, Lewis," she chided him.

  Terence Marcombe was from a fine family, with an equally fine estate, but he was arrogant and probably even cruel. And he had chosen the shining star of the previous season to be his bride. A celebrated beauty. But marriage had clearly not lived up to her expectations. It was quite the scandal. Even Vivienne had heard it repeated.

  "Imagine going through that whole palaver and then the silly girl runs off with some adventurer," Lewis said with a snort. "Now the poor man has to do it again."

  "And every single girl in London knows his previous wife was so disappointed she gave up her life, her position and her family," Sophie shot back.

  "Poor man," Mrs. Dartmoor said.

  "Stupid woman," Mrs. Bollingworth stated.

  "Oh, don't feel sorry for him. I'm sure he brought it on himself," Sophie replied dismissively.

  "Hopefully he'll choose better next time," Brynnell added and the room went quiet.