Stephen

by Amy Cross

  A moment later, I heard footsteps enter the study and then stop.

  I took slow, quiet breaths as I listened to the silence. I knew that Mrs. Brooks was now in the room with me, and my only hope was that she was unaware of my position. I do not know how long the silence persisted, but I fancy that it must have been several minutes. From where I was hidden, I could not see Mrs. Brooks herself, but I could see her husband's dead body in the chair at the desk, and I count not stop staring at the bloodied stump that was all that remained of his face.

  And then, finally, I heard a faint shuffling sound coming from nearby, as if she was approaching the desk.

  “Passions should not be suppressed,” Mrs. Brooks said finally, her voice sounding a little shakier than before. “He always told me to push them down, to pretend that I did not feel them. He told me I should live my whole life that way, but I warned him. I told him, eventually those passions will find some other way out. They will be bottled up and bottled up until they explode from the soul like...”

  Her voice trailed off.

  Blood glistened in the mulch that dribbled down Doctor Brooks' neck.

  “I truly loved him,” she continued after a moment. “He was my brother, and I loved him both as a brother and as...”

  Again, her voice trailed off.

  “And as a man,” I think she whispered finally.

  I remained still and quiet. I had no idea whether or not she knew that I was in the room.

  “When we were children,” she continued suddenly, “he tried to deny his feelings. He always pushed me away, aside from a few experimental moments in the orchard. I knew that he would succumb eventually, but as we grew into adulthood I became frustrated by his continued refusal to admit the truth. He bottled it up terribly. When our parents died, I thought the moment had finally come, that we could be happy, but suddenly he announced that he was taking a wife. Her name was Hannah Treadwell, she was a girl from a nearby farm. They married in indecent haste and he moved her in here as, I think, a buffer. That was when I realized that he was willing to go to any lengths in order to deny what he felt for me.”

  She fell silent.

  I waited, trying not to shake with fear lest I might make a sound. At the same time, my little finger was burning with pain, and I began to bite my lip in an attempt to keep from crying out.

  “Hannah could not give him a child,” Mrs. Brooks added suddenly. “I don't know how many attempts went wrong, washing out of her body as a bloodied river. She and I would go riding together and she would confess her fears. Elliot was putting her through the wringer, desperate for proof of their love. I would hear him, night after night, pounding her into the bed with no result. Eventually she took to her own room, too tired to continue. That was when Elliot and I began spending more time together, and things began – belatedly – to go how I had always hoped. One night a terrible storm was raging, loud enough to drown out any noises that one might want one's wife not to hear. After all those years, Elliot and I were finally together. In this very room, as it happens, almost exactly one year ago. And all it took was one time, for a child to take root in my body. That child was Stephen.”

  She sniffed, and I wondered whether she might be weeping.

  “That must have been a sign,” she added. “Hundreds of times with her, and nothing worked. Once with me, and a new life was created. Nature must have loved us after all.”

  Please get me out of here, I thought frantically. Please, Lord. Save me.

  “As my belly grew,” she continued, with more emotion in her voice, “Hannah became suspicious. There was really no way to explain my condition, since it was abundantly clear that I was unmarried. Besides, I had barely left the house. Hannah did not say anything at first, but she began to give me the dirtiest looks. Elliot would not acknowledge what had happened, not directly, although he looked after me. He spent more and more time in my room, and less and less time with Hannah. And then when Stephen was born, I saw something in his eyes, as if he finally understood that he and I could be happy together. That we could be a family in every sense of the word. Stephen was the knot that was supposed to tie us together.”

  Suddenly she began to step closer.

  Somehow I squeezed myself even tighter behind the dresser, still hoping against hope that she was unaware of my presence, that she was for some reason speaking to herself.

  “And then Hannah murdered Stephen,” she added.

  I waited.

  Silence.

  I'll do anything, I thought at that moment. Direct me, Lord, and I shall do you bidding in whatever way you see fit. Just get me out of this accursed house.

  “She strangled him,” Mrs. Brooks continued suddenly. “She was ranting and raving, calling Elliot and I all these awful names. We tried to stop her, but she had blockaded the door to the nursery and by the time we got through, it was too late. This was not so very long ago. I was so shocked and upset, I barely remember taking the knife from the kitchen and going after her. I drove the blade into her chest as she was stepping out of the house, and later that day Elliot buried her in the garden. But Stephen...”

  Her voice trailed off for a moment.

  “It was not my idea to bring a proper governess to Grangehurst,” she explained. “I thought that Elliot and I could be together properly once Hannah was gone, that we could have another child. Then suddenly he announced that he was going to London to hire someone. Now I understand that he was worried about me, that I had become a little detached from reality. I so desperately wanted Stephen to be alive, and I honestly saw him smiling and heard him laughing until just an hour ago. Elliot was a fool, I do not know what he was thinking when he hired you, but I suppose he wanted you to help me recover. I would have recovered anyway, though. I just needed time, but now Elliot is...”

  She began to walk toward the desk, and after a moment she came into view. I clamped a hand over my mouth to force myself to stay quiet, as she stopped with her back next to me. She seemed to be touching what was left of her brother's head, and I heard a series of sniffs that suggested she was weeping. I knew that she would see me as soon as she turned around, but then suddenly she stepped around him and walked past the far end of the desk, quickly disappearing once more from view.

  “He called me his wife, didn't he?” she said softly. “When he was speaking to you, I mean. Perhaps that is another reason why he brought you here. He was practicing, he was seeing whether he and I could pass as a married couple. He was, in his own way, trying very hard to make it work.”

  And then I heard her stop at the far end of the study, followed by a series of bumping sounds. I could not tell what she was doing, but some task seemed to have occupied her. I was relieved when I saw that the revolver was still on the desk, but I could not help listening to the continued bumping sound and trying to determine exactly what she was preparing.

  “You might as well come out now,” she added finally. “Please, Ms. Seaton, don't make me drag you out from behind that dresser.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Trembling and weeping, almost whimpering with fear, I slowly got to my feet and saw that Mrs. Brooks was on the far side of the study, working on something at one of the tables. I could not quite see what she was doing, but she had her back to me and she seemed quite consumed by her task at hand.

  “You understand constrained passions, do you not?” she asked after a moment. “I've seen enough of you, Ms. Seaton, to know that your demure exterior hides something darker.”

  I tried to deny this, but I could not get the words out. My throat seized and I was simply trying to work out how I was going to escape the house. All I could think about was running as far away as possible.

  “I could break some more of your fingers, if you'd like,” she continued. “After all, you seemed to like that the last time.”

  “No!” I blurted out, backing into the corner. “No, please no...”

  “Don't deny it. The pleasure was greater than the pain. Or are
they the same thing?”

  “No,” I continued, shaking my head in defiance. “No, just... no...”

  “Elliot did not have enough trust,” she added. “That was his problem. He was too reticent, always retreating into whatever he thought he should be doing. In truth, I don't think he would ever have accepted his love for me, or mine for him. Not in anything more substantial than brief bursts, anyway, and that would not have been enough. I wanted something proper, something real, but Elliot lacked the strength to follow his passion. Perhaps men are always like that. Then again, Ms. Seaton, neither of us can really claim to have much experience in that area, can we?”

  “Please let me go,” I whimpered, holding my trembling hands up to my chest. “I won't tell anyone. I just want to leave. I won't ever tell anyone about what's happened here.”

  “I saw how you reacted to your broken finger,” she continued. “You were being kind to me, Ms. Seaton, and I lashed out at you. For that I am sorry. I should have told you to leave Stephen inside me, but instead I took my pain out on you. Something of a family trait, I suppose. Yet if I had been more reserved, then I would not have learned so much about you, would I? As I told Elliot so many times, one is not rewarded if one represses one's true feelings. One must follow one's passion, or one will end up destroyed by it.”

  “Please don't hurt me,” I sobbed. “Please...”

  “You have passion, Ms. Seaton, do you not?” she asked. “You try to hide it, but it's bubbling beneath the surface. The very first time I laid eyes on you, I asked myself what you were trying to keep from others. You go to great lengths to appear meek and pious, but I saw through that immediately. And I would like to think that in the very short space of time in which I have known you, I have come to see the real Beryl Seaton, and you have proved one of my theories correct. I have long suspected that those who go to the greatest lengths to appear righteous, are in fact those who have the most to hide. You agree, don't you?”

  “Please -”

  “Let me help you,” she continued, interrupting me. “I could not help Elliot, not in the end, but you are different. You so clearly want to unleash your true self, to accept your passion as part of yourself. I can help you feel free. I can help you release the woman who lurks in the depths of your mind, the woman you push down because you think she is wicked and perverted. Can you imagine how it would feel to let her out, Ms. Seaton? Or shall I call you Beryl from now on? Yes, I think I shall, and you must call me Severine. Can you imagine how it will feel, Beryl, to no longer have to hide your true feelings from the world? After all, you don't want to end up like Elliot, do you?”

  With that, she turned and began to walk toward me.

  Startled, I leaped out of the way, but she merely made her way over to the desk and then stopped again. Staring at her brother, she seemed lost in thought for a moment.

  “I hope I don't seem cold,” she said finally. “I loved him more than you can ever know. I suppose I am still in shock, but soon... I will feel the grief. It's there now, cooking slowly, waiting until it is perfect before it rises up and consumes me.”

  I backed away, before looking down and seeing that she was holding the riding crop in her left hand. Glancing at the wall, I saw that she had taken the crop from its mounting. I remembered the story from a few days earlier, about how Doctor Brooks had forced her to give up riding, but I could not fathom why she had taken the crop now, of all times.

  “Poor Elliot,” she whispered. “My poor, poor brother.”

  “Dear Lord,” I whispered as I began to make my way across the study, heading toward the hallway, “lead me and guide me, and deliver me from this madness. Please, don't let me die here.”

  “Where are you going, Beryl?” Mrs. Brooks called after me calmly.

  “Guide me and protect me,” I sobbed, shivering with fear as I reached the far end of the room. “Save me from this place.”

  I had to stop and lean for a moment against the door jamb. I could see the front door ahead, just twenty or thirty yards away now on the other side of the hallway. I knew I had to find a way out, but I did not know how. I was so timid, so scared and compliant, that it took me a moment to realize that instead of trying to open the windows, I could smash them. The idea appalled me, but I quickly noticed several large pots near the foot of the stairs, and I supposed that one of those – thrown without enough force – would shatter the window and allow me to find a way out of the house.

  I hesitated for a moment longer, before taking a step forward.

  Suddenly I heard a cracking sound over my shoulder. I scarcely had time to react, before a sharp pain sliced against my back. Thudding forward, I dropped to my knees and then leaned down on my hands. The pain across my back was intense, burning my skin and flesh, and for a moment all I could do was remain on the floor as I let out a series of agonized gasps.

  A moment later, I finally turned and saw Mrs. Brooks still standing next to the desk, beside her dead brother. The riding crop was in her right hand.

  “I had it lengthened,” she explained calmly. “In truth it's not really a conventional riding crop at all, not anymore. It's more just a... whip.”

  Shaking my head, I got to my feet and stumbled toward the front door. Before I could even manage two paces, however, the whip cracked again. This time the pain was double, triple as strong, and I screamed as I once again fell down onto my hands and knees. Now I could feel blood rushing from the lashed cut, soaking the back of my dress from the nape of my neck all the way down to my waist.

  “You won't leave,” Mrs. Brooks said behind me. “You can't. You need to be set free, Beryl. You feel it, don't you? You feel the passion that's waiting to break free.”

  I tried to cry out, but all that emerged from my lips now was a slow, guttural whine.

  “Where do you think you're going, anyway?” she continued. “You want this, Beryl. You need it. Or would you rather live your whole life as you are, repressed and tangled in your own knot?”

  I took a moment to steady myself, before slowly and very unsteadily getting to my feet. I was sobbing now, and I could feel strips of lashed skin hanging from my back, but I keep my eyes focused on the window ahead. Finally stumbled forward, I managed a couple of faltering steps toward the nearest pot, and finally I reached down and picked it up before turning to look once more toward the window. My hands were trembling, but I knew that breaking that window was my only hope of escape.

  And then I heard steps behind me.

  I opened my mouth to cry out, but the whip cracked against my bare back and I felt my back ripping open diagonally from shoulder-blade to waist. Dropping back down onto my hands and knees, I squeezed my eyes tight shut for a moment as I felt not only the immense pain of my flogging, but also the slow rumbling tightness of pleasure. I clutched the pot against my chest, desperate to keep it in my hands so that it would not break. Still the pain burned through my back, bringing pleasure too. It was the same pleasure I used to feel when I use the discipline upon myself, except this time I was not sure I could keep it contained.

  After a moment, whimpering and sobbing, I began to get back to my feet. My body was racked with a mixture of extreme pain and fresh, burgeoning pleasure. I could barely think except in grunts. But I still held the pot, and I knew that I could still break the window.

  “Elliot's chief problem,” Mrs. Brooks said calmly, “was a conflict between the type of man he was, and the type of man he thought he should be. He thought he should be grand and cold and passionless, when in fact his passion was immense. The human body cannot contain that kind of struggle, Beryl. I am glad that you are not dooming yourself to that sort of life. Now come to me.”

  Trying to ignore her, I kept my eyes fixed on the window. I could feel the agonizing pain still searing my back, getting stronger and stronger. I took a step forward, then another, but my legs were trembling wildly and I felt that my knees were going to give way at any moment. Still I managed another step, tottering desperately, before fina
lly I began to raise the pot.

  “Come on, Beryl,” Mrs. Brooks said with a sigh. “We both know you don't really want to leave. You're just trying to escape because you think that's what you're supposed to do.”

  At that moment, the whip cracked yet again. White hot pain burst through my mind and I dropped immediately to my knees. Cradling the pot tight in my arms to keep it safe, I squeezed my eyes tight shut and tried to push the pain away, yet instead I felt wave after wave of pure agony bursting up through my body. It was just like the time with the discipline, and like the times in my room, only stronger. Something between my legs seemed to tighten and loosen rapidly, hundreds of times each second, becoming more powerful as I attempted to force it back. I cried out, my voice filled with horror but also with a sense of frantic release, until finally I was momentarily overcome by the sensation that now vibrated through my every muscle.

  And somehow, in the midst of all this, I raised the pot above my head and threw it with all my strength, and I let out an anguished cry as the window shattered.

  Stumbling to my feet, I rushed toward the window and threw myself through. I could hear Mrs. Brooks calling after me, but all that mattered at that moment was getting out of the house before I felt the crack of the whip again. The window was only partially broken, of course, so large shards dug into my waist as I forced myself out to the other side. The pain was immense, but somehow I managed to keep going until I fell, gasping and shaking, out into the cold air and down against the steps outside.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Letting out a gasp, I reached forward with my glass-studded right arm and dug my fingers into another clump of half-frozen mud. I steadied myself for a moment, trying to find some last reserve of strength, and then I grunted as I dragged myself another few yards across the night-black garden. Finally I slumped against the mud again, trying to find a way to keep going.

  And still Mrs. Brooks' words echoed in my thoughts:

  “We both know you don't really want to leave. You're just trying to escape because you think that's what you're supposed to do.”