by Everly Frost
She wouldn’t realize that I really chose it because it had a high neckline. It would reveal nothing to Kenneth’s bright eyes that stayed on me no matter how much I avoided their owner.
At dinner, Rebecca and I were seated on either side of Kenneth, with Mr. Buckland on Dad’s right and Aunt Alice on his left. Edith, Timothy, and Samuel sat opposite. The boys wore their dinner jackets and Samuel kept scratching at his neck where it must have itched him. Timothy was directly opposite Kenneth and this turned out to be a good thing, because my brother peppered Kenneth with questions all evening, regardless of the quiet maneuverings of my aunt.
At one point, when nobody was watching, Timothy winked at me and it dawned on me that he knew exactly what was happening and how I felt about it. I gave him a grateful smile for keeping the attention off me.
I wasn’t so lucky after dinner. Alice came up with a reason to call Timothy away. He threw me an apologetic glance before he left—and Kenneth headed in my direction again.
When he spoke, it made me think of the tin of oil that Jack kept in the barn to keep the hinges on the stable doors from turning rusty. It smelled strange. I never liked it.
He tapped on his phone as he spoke to me, frowning at the console. “You should visit us in the city. I think you’d enjoy riding our horses.”
I considered remaining silent but caught Alice’s sharp glance across the room. I forced words out of my mouth. “Does your Dad own a lot of racehorses?”
He laughed at me. “Does he own a lot? You really are out of the way here, aren’t you?” He put his phone down. “They said you didn’t have access to the Internet, but I didn’t believe it. Seriously backward.”
I flushed, biting against a retort.
He said, “To answer your question: my father is one of the biggest names in racing. After your father, that is. If Dad has his way, your family will be living in the city by next winter and they’ll be racing horses together, like the old days. Dad hasn’t stopped talking about it since he got the letter. You wait and see.”
“I don’t think my family will ever leave here.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t count on that. My father can be persuasive when he wants to be. And… your Dad might have other reasons to move, not just for the horses.”
He wasn’t looking at me, but I was certain I knew what he was trying to say. I gritted my teeth. Did he think I was some desperate girl? That I would fall at his feet? That I would go away with him to his strange city? My temper rose, but I swallowed my reply.
As soon as I could get away, I raced upstairs, flung off my cardigan, and stood shivering in the cold room. Within moments, my door handle turned. Throwing my arms around myself, I wished my door had a lock.
It was Victoria, come to help me out of my dress. I was suddenly grateful for her company.
“How old are you?” I asked her, as she made her way through the rows of pins in my hair, brushing out what must have been a whole can of hairspray.
She stopped for a moment. “I’m nineteen, Miss Caroline.”
I turned to her, surprised. “So you’re my age, then. Are you expected to be looking for a man to save you?”
She turned paler than pale. “No, miss. I’m not expected to want anything.”
She put her head down and I bit my tongue and didn’t ask her any more questions.
The next morning, I awoke in a puddle of tears. My dreams had been gray, but at least they hadn’t been red and black with slashes of white. Outside, the rain pelted down and the sky was dark. I realized I’d be stuck in the house all day and I wrenched the covers up over my face at the thought of spending the entire day locked inside with Kenneth Buckland. Victoria arrived to do my hair and I was finally forced to emerge from the safety of my feathery bed.
“What am I supposed to wear today?”
Victoria pulled out a denim skirt and long-sleeved cotton top.
“Only that?”
“Your guests have gone out today. Mrs. Drew was up early making a packed lunch.”
Her voice was stiff, like her throat was sore. I eyed her, noticing two bright spots on one of her cheeks as if she’d pressed her skin too hard. I wondered how she’d got them, but I wasn’t sure how to ask, so instead I said, “Really? In this weather?”
“They won’t be back until dinnertime.”
“Okay…”
She pulled the shirt over my head, and for the first time in a long time, her hands were warm, but her movements were jerky and she said nothing else to me before she left. I watched her go, a sense of worry left behind her. For a moment, she reminded me of my mother. I couldn’t say exactly how. Something hurt, maybe even afraid…
I couldn’t place the feeling and couldn’t quite shake it off. I wanted to go after her and find out what was wrong, but I didn’t know how to ask. She and I had never had a real conversation. How could I ask her anything?
I wanted to run out into the garden to feel the raindrops on my hair and under my toes, to wash away the shivers invading my body. When I headed downstairs, Aunt Alice caught me with my hand on the back doorknob.
“Not in this rain, young lady.”
“I’ll put on a raincoat.”
“You’ll put on your heels if you keep insisting.”
I opened my mouth and then shut it. I was almost certain that it was an empty threat, but I took myself off to the library room instead. It wasn’t so bad curled up on the big rug in front of the fireplace and it chased away the cold gathering inside me. Later, I ate lunch staring out at the wet world, wondering what could have possessed my father to take the Bucklands out into the drizzle and mud. I headed back upstairs to figure out which dress to wear that evening. There wasn’t a single frumpy thing in my closet, so I had to accept defeat.
Outside in the hallway, I jumped when I heard voices coming up the stairs and realized they belonged to Kenneth and Mr. Buckland who were back already, despite what Victoria had said about them being out all day.
Mr. Buckland spoke from the stairwell. “Too bad Harry got called away to that calf. I was looking forward to seeing more of the ranch. It’s a gruesome business, my boy. Be grateful we don’t make our living with these poor animals. It changes a man, you know, dealing with the guts of farming.” I heard him sigh. “A man turns to stone—he has to. There’s no choice about it.”
“Do you think that’s why she’s so frigid? It’s this place?”
“Ah, my boy, she is but a flower waiting to be picked and made into honey, you mark my words.”
“She’s very pretty but… that scar on her cheek… I’m not sure I can live with it. That Alice woman keeps saying it’s going to fade, but what if it doesn’t? I don’t want a girlfriend with a mark on her face, no matter how much we need her father’s money.”
“Quiet, son. That’s enough talk. Go and get yourself dry. I’ll meet you downstairs.”
Rage simmered through me. I was nothing more to them than a money pot. The scar on my face would never fade. It was a constant reminder of sharp teeth and a lurking shadow I tried very hard to forget. I wanted to saunter down the hallway and make it clear I’d heard what they’d said, but I thought about how Aunt Alice would feel. I imagined she would be scandalized, and I would be the one put to shame.
They were at the top of the stairs now and turning across the landing.
Afraid they would see me, I dove into the nearest room and shut the door as quickly and quietly as I could. Leaning against it, I held my breath and prayed I was safe from their prying eyes.
I sensed their footsteps heading to the other end of the house where the guest bedrooms were located, followed by silence that told me they were finally gone.
Reaching for the doorknob, I paused.
The color of this door…
I turned to face the room and the breath died in my throat as I realized where I was.
The one room in the house I never wanted to go. The one room I’d avoided my whole life.
The one room where the
memories of my mother were too strong.
I was in Dad’s room.
Chapter 12
THE OTHER ME stirred inside me, her presence stronger than it had been for a long time, as though she’d been waiting for this moment.
I flattened myself against the door, wishing I could push myself through it.
His room had been painted like the rest of the house, but there were no ornaments here, no new pieces of furniture, although it looked like my father had also succumbed to the lure of fluffy blankets. He still had his old desk and dresser, all his documents cluttered around, and instead of paintings he had a row of guns high up on the wall.
If he came back now and found me in here…
But Mr. Buckland had said something about a calf, which meant Dad would be away for hours.
I exhaled as my gaze darted across the room to the adjoining door that led to my mother’s room, the place I didn’t want to go.
I had to turn around.
Open the door.
Leave. Now.
She wouldn’t let me. Like the vines wrapped around my neck the night I wanted to die, something twined through me, twisting around each of my ribs, crushing my lungs until I could hardly breathe, pushing me on. One step at a time.
Mom’s door got closer.
I remembered the sunlight streaming across her bed. Her shape, sitting, never turning toward me. I remembered something wrong about the way she sat, something not quite right about her shoulders and the bare patch of neck where her hair was swept to the side, how it was discolored. But that must have been the sunlight cast through her blue curtains, shining sapphire onto her skin.
I tried to stop, but my hand pushed her door all the way open and it creaked and groaned under the pressure. The room beyond was blue—a pale blue like the sky. It smelled musty and I was sure nobody had been in there for a long time, not even Dad who slept so close by. I struggled against the thing that forced me to creep inside, trying not to go, but my feet moved, one after the other.
Cracks zigzagged across the ailing paint on the walls. The bedspread was faded and moth-eaten. There was a tiny bedside table, frail looking, as though it would collapse at a gentle touch. Across the room was a dressing table—a thick, solid, square thing with a conspicuous gap between ornate wooden curves where a mirror must have once been attached at the top.
There was nothing else in the room: no pictures or frilly feminine touches to collect the dust. I imagined that there was a patch in the corner where the dust was lighter and my mother’s rocking chair once swayed.
There weren’t any curtains now.
Instead, beetles littered the windowsill, their luminescent husks glinting along the rough ledge.
My legs tingled with the urge to leave, as though the cracks and the musty odor were trying to fight the one inside me, to oppose her and press me toward the door where I wanted to retreat.
Instead, my head tilted upward to the ceiling. It was blue too, no surprises there, and the paint was peeling, but it was the outline of a square that I—she—was looking for.
Kicking up dust mites into the sunbeams sidling through the naked window, she propelled me to the dressing table directly below the shape on the ceiling. I flicked off my shoes and scrambled on top of the dresser, disturbing a group of moths that fluttered from the cracks between the drawers and sought safety on the ceiling across the room. They were large, brown moths, with false eyes painted on their big wings, trembling as they settled to watch me examine the ceiling.
A square had been cut out of it at some point and then replaced. There was a small knob—a piece of string attached and frayed away to bare threads. I balanced on top of the dressing table, wary of the powdery grit and crackling hollow insect bodies squishing between my toes, and I pulled.
Debris rained down, forcing me to drop my head and protect my eyes, squeezing them shut as I coughed and spat out a mouthful of dust. I tried to blink out the grit while tears streamed and the dark opening in the ceiling blurred.
With a whoosh, something cold and hard smacked into my hand, making me yelp.
My vision cleared enough to see what had whacked me. Twisting out of the way and protecting my face against my shoulder, I flung the cover downward.
A brace of steps unfurled and slammed down onto the top of the dressing table beside me, making a dint in the wood and sending up a cloud of grimy particles.
I clambered down and shoved the dressing table out of the way so that the steps slid all the way to the floor. I checked them over, tested them with my hand and then a careful foot. They seemed solid enough.
Light streamed in from somewhere above me, revealing shapes within the gloom. With cautious hands, I climbed upward to stick my head through the hole in the ceiling. It took a little while before my eyes adjusted, and then my mouth fell open.
The room was lined with paintings. The far corner on my right supported a bookshelf brimming with books and ornaments. There were ornate vases positioned everywhere. I clambered the rest of the way inside and padded around the room, testing the safety of the floor as I went. It was polished and smooth. The dirt and dust that converged on the end of the room where I’d climbed up didn’t extend beyond, although I couldn’t see any reason why the rest of the attic was so pristine.
I tiptoed forward, knowing that I shouldn’t breathe or make a sound, sensing that the other me held her breath, too.
I paused to examine the paintings and discovered that they were all originals and painted by the same person: M.C.R.
Meredith Caroline Rayburn.
My mother.
Edith had said that our mother painted.
Most of the paintings were of scenery. One was a little church with white walls and an oak tree to the side, dappled grass, and gentle clouds. Another was a valley filled with burnished orange leaves and a partly hidden cabin with crooked steps. I didn’t like that one, though I didn’t know why.
The thing that really took my breath away was the wedding dress hanging in the corner. Clean and white and unearthly.
I hesitated to touch it, in case it came apart, but it felt strong, like new.
It belongs to me.
Her whispers echoed in my head, melting into my own thoughts so softly that I slid the dress from the hanger before I even knew I’d raised my hands. It rustled into my arms, filling my embrace with silk and the scent of lavender.
Without another thought, I slipped off my clothes and pulled on the wedding dress. It felt right on me, familiar, like it belonged against my skin.
I juggled with the pearly buttons and fine loops dotting its back, joining just enough of them to make sure that the dress stayed put.
It fit me. I swished inside it for a moment, savoring its lightness and the exquisite feel of the lace under my palms. I gathered the train but couldn’t find the loop where it would have attached at the back, so I let it drop and trail after me as I walked around the room, careful to avoid the dirty end of the attic. A deep breath exhaled from my chest. My heart rose and fell under the fine material that felt so right, so comforting.
I ventured over to the bookshelf. The books were all old, but still readable. I rifled through the pages of several, surprised by what I found. There were the works of Christopher Marlowe and Shakespeare’s plays.
Sitting on top of the bookshelf was a photo album. I picked it up and opened it to reveal old ladies, black and white pictures, their faces pinched into stoic expressions as they waited breathless seconds for the camera to expose the plate and capture the image. The pictures took on a different hue, faded color.
Then I stared at a picture of a girl next to a horse. She held the bridle in her hands: bare hands, no riding gloves, despite the fine riding suit she wore with all its trimmings in perfect order. She was lovely—in a headstrong sort of way.
The horse had moved during the exposure and the image was blurred, as though its soul had taken flight.
My own heart left my body with it.
&nb
sp; The girl was me.
I froze to the spot, transfixed by the shape of her face, her cheekbones and forehead, the cut of her chin and the curve of her lips. All mine, as though I’d stepped into the photograph. Or perhaps she’d stepped into me.
Step into me.
I shook my head and tried to focus.
On the opposite page, I recognized the wedding dress and the man standing next to the girl, in his stiff, dark suit, unmistakably my father.
The book was shaking. No, my hands were shaking. Shaking so hard the pages rustled and flapped against each other. A soft wail broke through my lips, cold against my skin, frosty as water droplets hanging from old, dead branches in winter.
The other me screamed.
She screamed so bitter cold, I thought I’d shrivel and crack.
The photo album hit the floor, scattering photos and loose pages across my feet.
I whirled, trying to remember where I was, trying not to think about the girl in the picture and the blur of her soul escaping from the frame, but all I saw was me, reflected in the mirror, standing in a wedding dress that didn’t belong to me.
The other me’s scream slapped me again and I jumped out of my skin, clapping my hands over my ears. Her shriek echoed around and around in my head and I realized, with sudden clarity, that it wasn’t happening now.
It was a scream I’d heard years ago.
It was a memory of something I should never have seen—someone’s voice screaming hurt and anger and fear. With it came the image of tousled black hair, blue eyes wild with tears, and droplets of blood sliding from a split lip. Patches of blue skin, mottled with bruises.
On the floor, the image of my mother with her horse protruded from the photo album and blurred as my eyes swam and the scream raged at me again. I didn’t want to hear it, but the harder I pressed my hands, the louder it became.
My blood pumped and my hands moved even before conscious thought propelled me to act, to wrench against the ice in the other one’s heart.
In a frenzy, I ripped off the dress, popping buttons and tearing lace until I stood there in my underwear, staring at the crumpled white thing on the floor.
