The North Sea House: a gothic romance

by Camille Oster

  With a drawn smile, she nodded. She didn't love being locked in, but understood the necessity. There was silence after John left and she got in between the cold sheets of the bed after undressing. The fire was warming and casting light across the room, occasionally crackling and popping. A mesh screen protected the floor from flying embers.

  Taking a deep breath, she tried to relax. Tried to get the tension out of her shoulders. In truth, she'd never wanted to leave this place as badly as she did just then—for the comforts of home. Her own bedroom and her parents.

  *

  The main doors were open and Vivienne stared out into the vast nothingness outside. It scared her, like staring into an endless chasm. The sheer nothingness was balking and it seemed to call to her, but she knew only bad things were out there. If she left the house, she would never find her way inside again.

  Moving to the side, she tried to push the door closed, but it refused to move, as if the hinges were so rusty, they'd seized. A cold wind flowed through the room, and it was almost as if it contained a whisper she couldn't hear.

  "Where's that stupid girl gone?" she heard behind her, coming from the dining room. She knew who was in there—Miss Trubright. But there was fear in her now—fear she couldn't understand. Who was she speaking about? Her?

  There was an urge to run out the door into the nothingness, but she fought it. It was an escape, but she would be harming herself by doing it.

  Footsteps echoed across the space, coming closer. Her breath caught in her throat, but her feet refused to move. Bad things would happen if she were seen. Miss Trubright would punish her, and it was a punishment she feared deeply, even as she didn't know what it would be.

  She had to run, but her feet felt so very heavy. The footsteps were growing louder and louder, but she had barely gotten half way to the stairs.

  "I know you're there, girl," the woman said, her voice booming in the space. "Deceptive little whore."

  A hand clasped around her elbow and she screamed, frantically turning to see the suit of armor had her. The cold metal cut into the skin at her elbow, but she wrenched herself free, but it was still reaching for her.

  Fight, her mind told her. You have to fight.

  Sheer panic rose, from both the suit of armor and the woman still coming closer. "I want her found," Miss Trubright called. There was nowhere for her to go. The shadow of the woman appeared in the doorway and then her form, dressed in black, her hair tightly pulled back. The hard expression in her eyes.

  "No," Vivienne yelled. "You will not."

  "I will not what?"

  "I'll stop you."

  The woman laughed. "Stop me? You? You are powerless."

  "No," Vivienne said, feeling the cold, grasping hands of the medieval knight. Searching behind her, she reached a clunky candlestick and held it in front of her like a weapon. The knight seemed to fear the fire.

  "What are you doing?!" a voice roared, but it wasn't the knight, because he had no voice and she knew it, and it wasn't Miss Trubright. A rush washed past her, as if she'd been plunged into the surf, then darkness.

  The first thing she saw was fire. Fire so close it scared her. Someone wrestled with her and she relinquished whatever it was. The candlestick. The acrid smell of smoke tickled into her nose and she instinctively drew back sharply.

  Then wind and whacks. Someone was hitting, but not her as she expected. Instead at the fire. The portrait of Miss Trubright. Fire was spreading up the portrait, burning blue at first, then yellow after. Someone was beating the fire. Lewis.

  "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

  "I …" she started.

  "You deliberately set the house on fire."

  "No, I …" Backing away, she didn't know what to say. She wouldn't believe it if she hadn't herself seen the candlestick in her hands, holding it to the painting.

  "What's going on?" It was John and Vivienne reached for him.

  "She tried to burn the house down with us in it."

  John's arm went protectively around her.

  "I didn't have the keys," Vivienne said. "I shouldn't be here."

  Then Brynnell appeared. The fire was mostly extinguished now, leaving an ugly mark up the woman's skirt.

  "I was dreaming," Vivienne said. "She was trying to hurt me."

  No one responded for a moment.

  "See her back to her room. And stay with her," Brynnell said to John.

  "I didn't mean to hurt anyone," Vivienne floundered. "I swear, John. I wasn't trying to hurt anyone."

  "I know," John said, but she could hear the worry in his voice. "Let's go back to your room."

  He forcefully led her away and across the hall. The doors were firmly closed now, but she was awake. "The doors, they're always open."

  "You're talking gibberish."

  "In my dreams, the doors are always open and there is nothing outside."

  "You're overwrought."

  "Miss Trubright was not a good person."

  "This is all from your dreams," he stated. "They're dreams. You cannot trust anything you see in dreams."

  "What's happened?" Mrs. Bollingworth demanded, appearing in her nightgown and mob cap.

  "Vivienne was sleepwalking," John said.

  "Do I smell smoke?"

  John ignored her and walked past, his arm still around Vivienne. "Everything is fine. Return to your room."

  "You believe me, don't you?" Vivienne pleaded when they got to her room. "I don't remember setting the painting alight." The door was locked and he reached into his pockets and drew the key out.

  "You were sleepwalking, but it seems to have taken a more dangerous turn. Let's not talk more about it. Get in bed. I'll stay in the chair." He bundled her into the bed and firmly drew the blankets down over her.

  "But how'd I get out? The doors were locked."

  "We'll talk about it in the morning."

  Vivienne wasn't anywhere near close to sleeping, but she also knew that when her brother was like this, he was not going to talk. Morning light wasn't going to make this right, or put it in a different perspective. Downstairs, she'd just tried to burn the house down, and somehow she'd gotten out from a locked room. None of this made sense. She'd done this, but she couldn't recognize herself in these actions.

  There had to be another key. Someone had let her out of the room. Unease tightened so much inside her, she could barely lie still. Something very bad was happening. None of this made any sense.

  Chapter 29

  FOR A MOMENT, EVERYTHING felt fine as Vivienne woke up, and then she remembered the previous night. Madness had descended and she had been the center of it, the cause of it. While asleep, she'd tried to burn the house down. What in the world could she have been thinking? The idea of her setting light to Miss Trubright's picture was inconceivable.

  A shift drew her attention and her attention quickened for a moment before she realized that John was still in her room—sleeping in the chair. It had to be an uncomfortable position.

  Sitting up, she shifted her back toward the headboard of the bed. She'd done something crazy the previous night, something dangerous. If Lewis hadn't been there, she would likely have burned the house down and probably stood there, completely nonsensical as the house started to burn around her.

  Her body shook with distress for a moment. Her wanderings were turning dangerous to herself and others as she had tried to kill everyone in the house. "Damnation," she said and John shifted again.

  "You alright, Viv?" he asked, groaning as he set up.

  "You didn't unlock my door, did you?"

  "Of course not. Why would I do that?"

  "Because I got out through a locked door."

  "It couldn't have been locked, then. There has to be a third key," he said.

  "I want to go home, John."

  "I know, but we can't go anywhere."

  "Something is so very wrong here. From the moment we got here, I’ve felt that something is very wrong. I don't wander. I haven't wa
ndered in years. Yet here, I walk through walls, apparently."

  "There is something hidden here—something we don't understand."

  "Why would someone let me out to wander? And why would I even consider burning down a painting?"

  "I don't know, Viv," John said and ran his hand over his face.

  "I didn't poison Archie."

  "I know you didn't. We left Archie in your care for days and you didn't do anything. All these things happen when you're asleep, right? Archie wasn't poisoned while you were asleep."

  Vivienne didn't know if that was reassuring or not. It seemed she was only a threat while she was sleeping.

  "Don't worry," John continued. "While you are here, I'll stay here with you. A second chair and this will be comfy enough, you'll see."

  That did make her feel somewhat better. "I had better get dressed."

  "Yes, of course," John said and rose. He quietly left the room and Vivienne sighed deeply. Discomfort rose up her spine at the idea of having to present herself downstairs after what she'd done, but what was the point of hiding in her room? Obviously she had to apologize to Archie for destroying the painting of Miss Trubright.

  With a heavy heart, she dressed and left her room. There wasn't anyone in the corridor, or in the main hall, although she could hear voices from the dining room.

  Straightening her spine, she walked into the dining room. Everyone seemed to be present, even Sophie and Lewis who were normally late risers. Even Archie, who looked pale and drawn.

  "Here she is," Mrs. Bollingworth said. "The hidden murderess."

  "I am not," Vivienne said with offense.

  The painting of Miss Trubright had been destroyed and the shadow of it was still on the wallpaper above the fireplace, along with a dark burn mark.

  The room was quiet. What could she say? Defend herself by saying she hadn't tried to murder anyone when she'd been caught in the act during the night.

  "I knew it was you that pushed me down the stairs."

  "It could not be," Brynnell said. "She was in the dining room when you said that happened."

  "You must be mistaken," Mrs. Bollingworth said. “You were not even there.”

  "But quite a few others were." There were nods around the table.

  "She tried to burn the house down while we slept in our beds," her husband added with an equal degree of offense. "We should call the magistrate on her."

  Was that what the other people thought too? Was that what Brynnell thought? Did they want the magistrate to come take her away? Brynnell had just said she wasn't responsible for pushing Mrs. Bollingworth, so surely he wasn't entirely condemning her. But it wasn't as if her actions were defensible.

  "And you've destroyed a painting that was part of the history of this house," Mrs. Bollingworth continued. "Pure vandalism."

  Again she had no defense. "I wasn't trying to hurt anyone," she said weakly.

  "In fact, Miss Harcourt was locked in her room because of her propensity to wander, but someone had unlocked her door. Who here has a key to her room?" Brynnell asked. All were silent.

  "You're directing your question in the wrong direction, Lord Routledge," Mrs. Bollingworth said. "House keys are staff issues. Amongst which someone tried to poison the owner of this house already. More likely Miss Harcourt has hidden a key."

  "She has not," John said. "Someone unlocked the door."

  "Then you had better talk to the staff," Mr. Bollingworth said with a sniff.

  Mr. Jenkins had already handed over his key. Surely he would have said if there was another—which there had to be. Or could someone have fashioned a key?

  Vivienne was too upset to eat and more so by the gazes around the table who were avoiding her eyes. It was as if her presence was putting them off their food.

  "I think I will," she said, her voice sounding weaker than she liked. Without waiting for anyone else to speak, she walked toward the door Mr. Jenkins came and went from and walked downstairs. Mrs. Sims was in the kitchen, peeling carrots. The woman looked over quickly and then again when she saw who was there.

  "Miss," she said cautiously.

  "I need to know if there is another key to my room. Mr. Jenkins was kind enough to hand his over, but someone still unlocked my room last night. And I have a tendency to wander."

  "And burn things from what I hear."

  Clive was sitting with his breakfast at the staff table, watching the exchange.

  "I don't have a key to any of the rooms upstairs," Mrs. Sims said. "Neither does Clive. If Mr. Jenkins doesn't know where the key came from, then no one does."

  "Miss," Mr. Jenkins said from behind her. His silent walk had hidden his arrival. "There are no other keys."

  "Someone let me out of my room. How could that be?"

  "Unless someone has made a replica."

  "Or the hidden passages," Clive said.

  Vivienne turned to him and stared, not believing her ears. "What hidden passages?"

  "Some of the bedrooms have them. I don't know if all do."

  Incredulously, she turned to Mr. Jenkins for explanation. "It's been fifty years at least since anyone has entered those."

  "Is there one to my room?"

  "No one even knows where the entrances are," Clive answered.

  "Is this true?" Vivienne demanded.

  "Yes. The knowledge of where the entrances are has been lost. As I said, they have not been entered in at least fifty years."

  "But someone could have come into my room," she said.

  "Or you walked out," Clive added.

  "How would I know where such an entrance is?"

  "I don't think Mrs. Bollingworth even knows they exist. It is not something we ever mention to anyone staying in the house."

  "You all know about them, though. Surely it has to be Mrs. Bollingworth who knows them."

  "If so, it had to be Miss Trubright who mentioned it to her, because I never have," Mr. Jenkins said.

  Placing her fingers to her lips, Vivienne's mind was still reeling from this revelation. Immediately she wanted to talk this over with Brynnell. He seemed to be the only one who shared her concern about this curious house. John, of course, but it was Brynnell she wished to talk to.

  Thanking them for their candor, she walked back upstairs, arriving in a bare dining room. There was still a hint of smoke in the room, but she had to admit that the room felt lighter without Miss Trubright surveying the space. Without her, the room seemed different entirely.

  With a sigh, Vivienne straightened her back before making her way to the salon where everyone now seemed to be gathered.

  "We are to head off shortly to further clear the slip," John said and Vivienne nodded. It was important to clear the road. It felt especially important now. In fact, if there was any way it could be acceptable, she would help, but there wasn't.

  Her tongue was heavy as she cleared her throat. "There appears to be hidden passageways in the house."

  "No there's not," Mrs. Bollingworth said with certainty.

  "Mr. Jenkins just confirmed it to me. But he says they have not been entered in fifty years, yet somehow, a person released me from a locked room last night."

  "Or maybe you released yourself," Horace said.

  "How would I know how to? I have never been here before, or ever heard of this house."

  A few suspicious looks were thrown at Mrs. Bollingworth who was the only person with previous knowledge of the house. "I have never heard mention of such passageways," she said tartly. "If they even exist."

  "If Jonathan Fitzgerald's journal did appear in your room, perhaps that was the means by which it arrived," Brynnell suggested.

  "It was some careless maid who left it," Mrs. Bollingworth said.

  "Some maid we have yet to find."

  The woman's mouth opened as if to argue, but nothing came to her. "No, it had to be," she finally said. "Why would someone deliver a journal to my room if not by mistake?"

  "Why indeed?" Lewis added.

 
Chapter 30

  "IT IS A CURIOUS DEVELOPMENT," Mrs. Dartmoor said, approaching Vivienne who was standing by the fireplace. Sophie was distinctly ignoring her, seemingly unsure how to deal with this. She wasn't the only one that Vivienne made uncomfortable. Mrs. Bollingworth threw her terse looks as if she was an actual murderess.

  Even Lewis was very uncomfortable around her, which wasn't perhaps surprising as he'd been the one who'd found her burning Miss Trubright, while out of her senses.

  "Yes," Vivienne said non-committally.

  "Curious you should burn that portrait of Miss Trubright," Mrs. Dartmoor continued, obviously not picking up on Vivienne's ambivalence about broaching the subject. "Such a personal act. And with such vehemence."

  "No, I have no personal feelings toward Miss Trubright," Vivienne replied.

  "Yet you set fire to her."

  Vivienne's mouth opened, but what could she say? The truth was that her dream had been about Miss Trubright and they had been arguing. Not arguing—it had been an altercation.

  "And you seem to know secrets of this house," Mrs. Dartmoor continued. "How very peculiar."

  "But I don't." Vivienne was starting to feel very uncomfortable about these observations.

  "Some say that depictions of us have a piece of our souls."

  "Nonsense," Vivienne said, refusing to think of such things.

  "When my husband died, he was overseas, of course, but I swore I felt him lingering in our house for quite a while."

  "What are you trying to say?"

  The woman shrugged. "I don't know, of course, but there is more between heaven and earth than the things we see. I, for one, have noticed a change in the house since the portrait was taken away."

  "I think the artist did a good job depicting Miss Trubright's disapproval."

  "Maybe," she said, while Vivienne wished this discussion would end. Truthfully, she wanted to talk about anything other than the worrying goings ons in this house, which she was now unquestioningly the center of. Particularly if it didn’t center around anything concrete that explained what was going on.

  "Even with the troubling worry, there is a change in the house," Mrs. Dartmoor said. "It feels different, but I cannot put my finger on it. Perhaps you destroyed that part of Miss Trubright's soul trapped in that portrait."