The Curse of Wetherley House

by Amy Cross

  “It's not my place to meddle,” she replies, “but I'll let you in on one thing, little lady.” Again, she looks around for a moment as if she's worried about being overheard, and then she turns back to me. “Run away,” she adds finally. “Don't go back, not even today. The world is a dangerous place for a pretty young thing such as yourself, and there are no guarantees that you'll last long. You'll most likely be preyed upon by men, and you'll need your wits if you want to survive. You'll need to do things, too. But it's your only chance. Run away from that house, because whatever's in there, it's worse than anything you'll find anywhere else.”

  “But what -”

  “Charlotte!” a voice yells from inside the inn. “You're taking your sweet time, aren't you?”

  “Go!” the woman hisses.

  “But -”

  “Go! Run and don't look back! Not ever!”

  With that, she empties the bucket, sending soapy water rushing across the cobbles. I step back, making sure to keep my shoes from getting wet, and then when I look at the woman I see that she's already hurrying inside. I open my mouth to ask her if she can tell me more, but she swings the door shut and I'm left standing all alone in the alley, and to be honest I don't feel much like I've learned a great deal.

  Trudging through the streets, I go over and over everything the woman said to me. I'm lost, and for a while I feel as if my tired legs will never carry me home, but all of a sudden I find myself at a junction that I recognize. Sure enough, after walking just a few meters along another street, I spot the road that leads home, and I can just about make out the sight of Wetherley House in the distance.

  For a moment, I consider following the woman's advice and running away, but I know I wouldn't last long. Besides, whatever's at the house, I've survived it this long and I want to know its true nature. Feeling determined to show a brave face, then, I set off for home.

  Mary

  “Who is Marguerite Alesi?”

  As soon as I ask that question, Mr. Carsdale turns to me. I've been helping him groom the horses since I got back from town, and it has taken several hours before I feel ready to ask this most important of questions. I want him to tell me that the name means nothing to him, but already I can see from the look in his eyes that I'm onto something. It is as if I have uttered the name of a ghost.

  “Who?” he replies unconvincingly.

  “You've worked here for several years now,” I continue, “since not long after I was born. Have you ever heard of a woman named Marguerite Alesi?”

  “Why? Who mentioned that name to you?”

  “Nobody. I'm just curious.”

  He hesitates, and it's abundantly clear that I've set him on the wrong foot.

  “I don't know anybody named Alesi,” he tells me, before grabbing an empty pail and handing it to me. “Now go and fill this up, and mind when you get back that you don't ask any more unfortunate questions. And especially mind that your parents don't hear you utter that name, not ever, because there'll be hell to pay if they do. Especially from your... Well, from the lady of the house.”

  “Why?”

  “Just go and fetch some water.”

  “But if the name means nothing, why would Father and Mother -”

  “Go!” Grabbing my arm, he shoves me toward the stable door. “Be told, child!”

  Needing no further bidding, I make my way out into the morning sunshine, although I can't say that I'm satisfied by Mr. Carsdale's response. He's very loyal to my parents, I know that much, and I have no doubt that he would be willing to keep any secrets of theirs that he might learn. At the same time, I also know that he's a fundamentally decent man, and I do not believe that he would willingly be privy to anything truly awful. As I head past the house and toward the well by the old oak tree, I become momentarily lost in thought, until suddenly I realize that I can hear voices talking inside the house.

  Slowing for a moment, I find that Mother and Father seem to be speaking to someone, and a few seconds later I freeze as I hear a familiar French voice.

  It's the man from last night!

  He's in the house!

  Unable to help myself, I set the pail down and hurry to the back door, before slipping through the kitchen and into the hallway. Sure enough, the voices are still speaking in the drawing room, and I make sure to stay very quiet as I edge closer. I don't know the floorboards down here quite so well, and I'm worried one of them might creak beneath my steps and betray me.

  “And this payment,” I hear Father saying, “is to be the end of it, do you understand? We will not tolerate any return visits or attempts to extract another shilling.”

  “You have been most generous, Mr. Carmichael,” the French man replies. “I must say, I did not expect you to be so understanding of my needs. Why, my family had even assumed that lawyers would need to get involved, which would have been very costly for both sides. But as I said, you have surprised me. I assure you, I shall be departing from Dover tomorrow morning, and after that you shall hear no more from the Alesi family.”

  “We should have heard nothing in the first place,” Mother sneers, with more venom in her voice than I have ever heard before. “Then again, I suppose I should have expected such treachery and deception from the French.”

  “Mademoiselle,” the Frenchman continues, “please, I came only to make sure that my family gets what is coming to them.”

  “By taking our daughter away?”

  “That was one possibility, but now that you have made this most generous payment, I believe I speak for my entire family when I say that the matter is closed.”

  Suddenly I hear footsteps heading toward the door, and I duck out of sight behind the grandfather clock just as Father and the Frenchman emerge from the room and head toward the front door. Mother, evidently, has chosen not to exert herself.

  “The girl looks like her mother,” the Frenchman says.

  “Nonsense,” Father snaps back at him.

  “It's true. I saw her last night. I even spoke to her.”

  Flinching, I realize that I shall surely be punished for this.

  “Get him out of here!” Mother sneers. “He's full of nonsense!”

  “Tell the girl that the Alesi family wishes her well,” the Frenchman says as he heads outside.

  “We shall tell her no such thing,” Father says firmly, “and if we so much as see another of your wretched lot in this county again, we shall ensure that you are chased out like vermin.”

  The Frenchman begins to reply, but Father slams the front door and hesitates for a moment before turning and making his way back into the drawing room.

  “How dare he come here like that?” Mother asks, her voice shaking with rage. “How dare her?”

  Suddenly a glass smashes, and I realize that in her fury Mother is becoming violent.

  “We should have known that one of them would pop up eventually,” Father says calmly. “Still, it's good that he was an agreeable type. I'm actually rather surprised that he was bought off so easily. Some of these fellows can get a right bee in their bonnets, but all things considered he was simple enough to get rid of.”

  “You shouldn't have paid him anything!” Mother hisses. “You're weak, Gordon!”

  “And you'd have preferred him to stick around and ask more awkward questions? Perhaps you'd have liked him to have spoken to the girl again?”

  “Don't be ridiculous!” She sighs. “How much do you think she knows now, Gordon? He said he met her last night, and she has said nothing to either of us about the encounter. If she suspects the truth, she will ask more questions. You know what she's like!”

  “She does not suspect.”

  “How can we be sure?”

  “She's just a child, Eve. A precocious child, yes, and very intelligent for her age, but still a child. I'm sure that as far as she's concerned, that wretched French idiot was just a fool who stumbled into the garden. You must calm yourself and keep from worrying too much, my dear. This is all over now.”<
br />
  “Why didn't Mary tell us about the man this morning?”

  “She was probably scared.”

  “Of him, or of us?”

  “My dear, just -”

  “Don't tell me to calm down!” she hisses, and I flinch again as I realize that she is once again becoming very angry.

  Telling myself that I cannot possibly risk getting caught eavesdropping, and that I need time to come up with an explanation for my actions, I begin to sneak back through to the kitchen.

  “Was he telling the truth, Gordon?” I hear her asking after a moment.

  “About what, my dear?”

  “About Mary looking like Marguerite.”

  I freeze, as I realize that at least part of the Frenchman's story must have been true.

  “No,” Father stammers, “of course not, she -”

  “I see it in your eyes!” she shouts, accompanied by the sound of more breaking glass. “You think she does! You think she looks like that awful woman!”

  As more glass smashes, I hurry out the back door and grab the pail, and then I make my way to the well. Mother is in one of her moods, she's angrier than I've ever heard her before, and now I have no idea what to think. Who was Marguerite Alesi really, and why do I look like her? And why is Mother so furious? A moment later, I see Father heading out of the house and going to the stables, which is what he always does whenever he wants to get away for a while.

  When I walk past the window, carrying water, I hear Mother sobbing in the drawing room.

  ***

  “Your mother merely wishes to speak with you,” Father says a short while later, standing with me outside the master bedroom. “There's no reason to be afraid, Mary.”

  “Can you come in with me?” I ask, looking up at him.

  “She wishes to speak with you alone.”

  “But -”

  “And you know that it is best not to go against her wishes, do you not? That is something we all have to learn in this house.”

  “But Father -”

  Before I can finish, he knocks on the door, and I know with a sickening sense of dread that I cannot possibly talk my way out of this. I do not believe that Mother knows I have been eavesdropping, but she must certainly suspect me of some other infraction.

  “Come!” she calls out, and Father opens the door.

  “Be honest with her,” he whispers to me, before pushing my back gently and forcing me to step forward into the room. “Always be honest. If honesty ever harms you, then the mistake was made in the act, not the telling.”

  Mother is sitting on the chair next to the window, working on some embroidery. She's wearing one of her usual large dresses with a frilly skirt, which I know is supposed to disguise her deformities. She peers at the embroidery for a moment, as if she's not aware of my presence, and then a shudder passes through my chest as I hear the door bump shut behind me, followed by the sound of Father's footsteps heading away.

  “Well, come and sit down, girl,” Mother says calmly, still not looking at me. “The way you're standing there like that, anyone would think you were afraid of me.”

  Finally, she glances this way.

  “You're not afraid of me, are you?”

  I shake my head.

  “Then come and sit.” She gestures toward the chair opposite her, in the bay window. “You're almost thirteen years old now. That's an age at which you can be trusted to speak on a slightly more adult basis. I am relieved about that fact, Mary. I am so very glad that I no longer have to talk to you as if you're a child.” A faint smile crosses her lips. “Please, sit. It's very important.”

  Making my way across the room, I cannot help but feel that the air in here is rather thin. Taking a seat, I hear the chair squeak gently under my weight, but I myself do not dare make a sound lest I might disturb or somehow upset Mother. She seems so calm and peaceful, and I know that at times like this she is often at her most testing. At least when she's crying and screaming, the source of her anger is always very obvious. When she is quiet like this, however, one must be on one's toes.

  “Do you ever look at yourself in the mirror,” she says after a moment, as she continues to work on the embroidery, “and ask yourself where your face came from?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Why do you look the way you do?”

  “I don't know.”

  “Do you think you look much like your father?”

  “No. Not especially.”

  “And what about me? Do you think, Mary, that you look very much like me?”

  I swallow hard, but my throat is horribly dry.

  Suddenly Mother glances at me again.

  “Well, Mary?”

  “I don't know.”

  “You don't know?”

  “I mean, it's hard to say. I mean -”

  And now my throat seems to seize up entirely. I hate when Mother questions me like this; I always become so easily flustered.

  “This is not a trick question, Mary. There's no right or wrong answer. I simply wish to know whether you ever wonder where your face comes from.” She pauses. “Let me try to phrase this some other way. Have you ever seen a picture of anyone else and noted any kind of resemblance to your own features?”

  I immediately think of the woman in the photograph.

  “No,” I lie.

  She watches me carefully.

  “No,” I say again.

  Even as that word leaves my lips, however, I can tell that Mother knows I am telling an untruth.

  “A man came to the house earlier,” she continues. “A Frenchman, of all things. Can you even imagine the audacity of a Frenchman coming to England, to an English home, and trying to tell good, honest English people how they should go about their business? The matter is absurd in its entirety. But tell me, Mary... Have you ever spoken to a Frenchman?”

  “No,” I reply, before realizing that I have been caught in a lie. “Actually, yes.”

  “When?”

  “Last night.”

  “Last night? Were you not in bed all of last night?”

  “I got up. And I saw a man outside the house.”

  “Indeed. Then what?”

  “I went to ask what he wanted.”

  “You went outside alone in the middle of the night, to approach a strange man who was loitering in our garden?”

  “Yes.”

  She eyes me cautiously for a moment.

  “Why,” she continues finally, “that is quite one of the stupidest decisions one can imagine. You are extremely lucky, my dear, that he did not haul you away and do terrible things to you. You do realize, I hope, that you were exceedingly lucky not to get your throat cut?”

  “Yes,” I reply. “I mean, I realize. I'm sorry, Mother.”

  “You're sorry?”

  I nod.

  “Good,” she continues. “I'm glad you're sorry. But what concerns me now, is the question of what this Frenchman might have said to you.”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Not a word. I mean, he just greeted me, and I told him to be on his way.”

  “I see.”

  She looks back down at her embroidery, and I can tell that she most definitely does not believe me. Ordinarily, she would respond to my lies by banishing me to my room and handing down some form of punishment, but this time she seems inordinately calm and I find myself worrying even more about what she intends to do next. Finally she looks at me again, and I'm certain that she seems to be studying my face most intently.

  “Turn a little to your left,” she says eventually.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Your left. Turn.”

  I do not know why she wants me to do such a thing, but I do it regardless.

  “He was right,” she continues, with a slightly wistful tone in her voice. “You do look like her. More and more with each passing year.”

  I open my mouth to ask who I look like, but I'm not sure I want to provoke her any furt
her.

  “Well?” she adds. “Are you not going to ask to whom I refer?”

  “I'm sure you would tell me if it were important.”

  At this, she lets out a brief, seemingly very genuine laugh.

  “Oh, I've taught you well,” she continues, “but if you look like her, then perhaps there is more of her in your heart than I had dared imagine. And perhaps that aspect will continue to grow and grow as you age. Why, by the time you're eighteen, you might be a veritable facsimile of the woman.”

  I wait for her to finish, but now she is simply watching me once more. Her eyes are twitching slightly, and after a moment she tilts her head. The more I stare at her, the more I feel as if she seems to be listening to someone else. In fact, as my eyes are drawn to look at her right ear, I feel certain that I can hear a whispered voice.

  “Might I leave now?” I ask suddenly, as a rush of panic thumps through my chest.

  “No.”

  I take a deep breath.

  “And still,” she adds, “you do not ask who I am talking about. I can only conclude that either you are a very incurious girl, or you already know and are therefore too frightened to pose the question. Oh, my dear Mary, you have never struck me as incurious before.”

  “I don't know what you mean,” I reply, but now the fear is so very obvious in my voice.

  “You must think no more of her,” she continues. “Is that clear? Think no more, and certainly speak no more. Not to me, not to your father, not to anyone. And from now on, child, you are never to look at your own reflection ,is that understood? The mirror in your bedroom is to be removed, and you are to avoid all other mirrors in this house, and you are to never permit anybody to take your photograph.” She pauses, eyeing me with a hint of disdain. “And never learn French. Ever. Tell me that you understand.”

  “I understand.”

  “And be -”

  She stops and tilts her head again, and the whispering voice becomes just a little louder.

  “Yes,” Mother says softly, as if to answer, while keeping her eyes fixed on me. “She is. Yes. I know.”