The Haunting of Ripewood Manor

by Clara Cody

  "What happened to the other maids?"

  "They left. While ago."

  "Did the gardener leave too?"

  Maggie stopped and turned to face her, her eyes seemed to re-evaluate her a moment. She turned away again, continuing up the stairs. "Aye. Most the staff's gone now. Just me left." They reached the top of the stairs and gestured to the right. "This is the West Wing of the house," she continued quickly, before Stephanie had a chance to question her further. The hallway was wide with paintings and portraits lining the walls and a large, open window at the end. "There are five bedrooms and two bathrooms. You're responsible for the Missus' bedroom and the first bathroom. Don't worry yourself over the rest, unless she tells you to do it." Maggie turned on her heel and started back down the hall.

  Stephanie scurried after her. When Maggie started down the stairs again instead of taking her down the other end of the house, she spoke, keeping her voice low. "And what about that part?"

  Maggie stopped suddenly. The seriousness in her gaze made Stephanie instantly regret the question.

  "The East Wing is strictly off limits." Maggie took a step towards her.

  Stephanie swallowed hard, cowering under the intensity radiating from Maggie's face. She nodded, clasping her hands tightly behind her.

  Maggie sighed. "I'm sorry," she chuckled. "I don't want to frighten you, but Mrs. Callowell is very private and very particular." Maggie put a hand on Stephanie's shoulder. "Hate to see you get the boot for something silly like satisfying your curiosity, huh?"

  "No, ma'am."

  They descended the staircase and Maggie gestured to the right. "You've already seen the salon," she said without breaking stride. They turned sharply and continued down the hallway. "Kitchen." Maggie pointed to the right, then the left. "And the study."

  Stephanie's heart skipped a beat. A study would have books. The Burbanks never had books in the house other than for decoration.

  "It's kept locked at all times. You don't have to bother yourself with it."

  Stephanie's shoulders slumped again, but she nodded. "And that room?" she asked, pointing to the right.

  "That's another sitting room. Smaller, but it isn't locked." Maggie started crossing the room again, reaching for the far door. "And this door leads back to the kitchen. But we servants use the other door."

  Stephanie followed Maggie as they retraced their steps back through the dining room, into the kitchen. Maggie walked across the kitchen to the cloth covered bowl on the counter. The dough created a round peak, pushing against the cloth. She lifted the cloth and nodded, apparently happy with the result.

  "Does she spend a lot of time in the study?" Stephanie asked.

  Maggie looked up. "Much as she can."

  "She must be very smart." Stephanie walked up to stand beside Maggie, as she flipped and kneaded the dough.

  "She's a busy woman. A lot of work to do." Maggie stopped mid-knead, glancing at Stephanie from the corner of her eye. "Dinner isn't served 'till six. Your time's your own." She went back to working her dough.

  "I sometimes helped the women in the kitchen with the Burbanks. When I had some time."

  "You'll see soon enough how little time you have to relax in this house. You should enjoy it while you can," Maggie said, shortly.

  "Oh," she said, a little deflated. "I'm sorry, I'll go."

  Maggie sighed. "Here," she said, handing her a bunch of carrots. "You can start with these." A simple, slight smile threatened the hard woman's stern facade.

  Stephanie burst through the servant's entrance to the kitchen, grasping the empty silver tray, her lip trembling violently.

  "My goodness, Stephi," Maggie exclaimed. "What's happened?"

  She stuttered and burst into tears. Leaving aside her sauce, Maggie went to her. "There, there," she said, patting the young woman's back as she engulfed her in her large, soft arms. "Now, tell me what's wrong, hm?" She lifted Stephanie's head up and patted her tears dry with a corner of her apron.

  Stephanie trembled, tears blurring her vision. "I forgot the serving spoon," she blubbered. "I was thinking so hard about not tripping, and which side to stand on and spoons and cloths that I completely forgot the serving spoon."

  "That's not so bad—"

  "I left the soup on the table," Stephanie blurted out.

  "Oh."

  "I wasn't thinking. I just set it down. You should have seen the way she looked at me when I put it on the table."

  "Still, it's not so—"

  "When I came back, I was so flustered that..." Stephanie stopped to bite her lip.

  "What?" Maggie asked, cautiously.

  "I called her Mrs. Burbank."

  Despite biting her lip, Maggie let out a small laugh. Stephanie's eyes gray wide and desperate at the slip. "You certainly know how to make an impression," Maggie said, laughing and breaking her stony exterior.

  "It's not funny," she cried, hiccupping.

  Maggie patted her on the shoulder and turned back to her sauce, waving her hand as she chuckled. "Don't worry yourself. Mrs. Callowell is particular but she's not a tyrant."

  Stephanie set the tray on the table. "I'll bet she's already regretting taking me on."

  Maggie turned, pointing to the tray. "That goes in the cabinet in the other room. And phooey; she's not regretting anything! Though she might if you go out blubbering like this."

  Stephanie huffed, dragging the tray off the table and sulking towards the door. Maybe Maggie is right, she thought, wiping her eyes. After all, Stephanie did have a tendency to overreact. She took a deep breath and replaced the tray. You can do this.

  The rest of the dinner passed without another incident.

  Between clearing the table after Mrs. Callowell ate and doing the washing up, Stephanie ate her own dinner. She sat at the kitchen table, hovering over her plate, fretting over whether Mrs. Callowell's silence was a good thing or a bad thing.

  "You gonna eat that or just push it 'round till it gets bored and walks off yer plate?" Maggie asked, wiping the corners of her mouth with her apron.

  "I'm afraid I'm not very hungry."

  "All the same, you better eat up." She stood, carrying her dishes to the sink. "You got your work cut out. See you in the morning."

  "Goodnight," she said as Maggie left. She turned her attention back to her plate. Her stomach churned at the notion of eating. She forced a spoonful of peas into her mouth and swallowed them down. She sighed, evaluating the ten or so bites she had left.

  "Don't be so excited," came a deep male voice. Stephanie jumped, sending a forkful of peas flying. The man standing in the doorway grinned, leaning against the frame. He was tall with locks of black hair that fell around his face and bright, piercing blue eyes.

  She faltered under his gaze but recovered, rising to her feet. "Sir," she said, curtseying. "I didn't realize anyone else was here."

  The man laughed.

  Stephanie flinched, his laughter grating on her already raw nerves. How much more humiliation would she have to endure in one day? Eyes down cast, she said "I'm sorry, sir, I didn't mean to offend you."

  The man stifled his laughter, content to merely shake his head and chuckle.

  Stephanie looked up at him. Being ignored and unappreciated was one thing, but being openly mocked was quite another. She didn't even know who this man was. "I beg your pardon," she said, forcing her voice and lip not to tremble. "But I don't see what's so funny."

  "It's not you," he said, dismissively, launching himself away from the door. "Not to worry." He walked to the stove where the remnants of the dinner lay.

  "You must find something funny."

  He turned back to her. "Well, do I look like a sir to you?" he asked, gesturing to his clothes.

  She looked him over again. He was right, his brown trousers and faded white shirt didn't look very proper, let alone noble. But there was something in his face and the way he held himself that implied nobility. Arrogance, maybe. "Who are you then?"

  He turned ba
ck to the stove and began serving himself. "Charles."

  "Oh, are you Mr. Callowell's nurse?"

  "His nurse?" His eyes wandered about the ceiling momentarily before landing back on her. "Is that what she's calling me?"

  "What do you call yourself?" she asked, trying hard to hide her curiosity behind a veil of indifference.

  Charles chuckled again, setting her teeth on edge. She'd just met this man and already she hated him. He turned towards her, bowl in hand, and shoveled a spoonful into his mouth before answering. "I'm a man of many roles."

  Stephanie rolled her eyes away and lowered herself back into her chair. She'd rather face the last of her dinner than hear anymore from Charles.

  Charles drained the rest of the soup from the side of the bowl and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. He left the bowl on the table and walked back towards the door.

  "I thought the servants used the other door," Stephanie asked him.

  He stopped midstep and turned. "What makes you think I'm a servant?" He practically spat the word out.

  "If you're not a sir and you're not a servant, who are you?"

  "I already told you. I'm Charles." He narrowed his eyes. "Who are you?"

  She faltered. "I...I'm Stephanie."

  He tilted his head to the side. "Stephanie? A word of advice, Stephanie." He took a step forward and leaned over the table. "Don't get too comfortable around here." He winked and pushed himself away, walking backwards towards the door.

  She could only seethe in quiet anger as he disappeared behind the door.

  Chapter Three

  Eloise

  ELOISE SAT IN AN OLD, hard chair, facing her husband's door. She was lost in memories, almost too old to remember clearly, when Charles came around the corner and started down the hallway toward her. She wiped her eyes quickly so that he wouldn't see.

  "Has he eaten anything?" Charles asked.

  She shook her head, her eyes focused keenly on the door in front of her. "Nothing."

  "Did something happen, Ellie?"

  She looked at him starkly. "Of course not," she said, deep furrows creasing her brow. She stood to face him. "And how many times must I ask you not to call me that?"

  "Would you prefer I call you Mrs. Callowell, pretend we're strangers?"

  She answered him with a hard stare.

  He looked away. "It's not as easy for me as you."

  She scoffed, waving a hand. "Eloise would suffice."

  He laughed quietly, bitterly. "So, rather an acquaintance than a stranger. A vast improvement."

  "It's...better."

  "It's a lie."

  "It's appropriate."

  "And Ellie isn't? Since when is it—"

  She stopped him. "It is inappropriate when I've asked you not to."

  "Fine," he said, coldly. "Mrs. Callowell."

  She sighed. "Must you be so dramatic?"

  "Why shouldn't I be? Isn't this an act?" he asked, looking around. "Aren't I keeping to my character? The nurse. Your servant."

  "I have work to do," she said, straightening the wrinkles from her dark dress. She brushed passed him, moving back towards the staircase.

  "About the maid," he called after her.

  "What about her?" she asked, ready to be done with the conversation.

  "You shouldn't have hired her."

  "What concern is it of yours?"

  "She doesn't belong here."

  "Do any of us anymore?"

  He took a step towards her. "A girl like that, she'd be better off...elsewhere."

  She paused before answering. "I hardly have the time to go about looking for young women to hire. Unless you feel better qualified to find such a person, she will have to do."

  "Fine. Let's hope she lasts longer than the previous one. Bait isn't much good if it is eaten up too quickly, after all," he said with a sneer. He stepped through the door and closed it, leaving her alone in the dark hallway.

  Let's hope, indeed. As much for our sake as hers.

  Stephanie

  STEPHANIE LEANED OVER the basin, plunging the sopping wet rag into the murky water. Was there anything worse than washing dishes? At least, she was almost done. Only a few pots to go and she could sleep. She was saving the largest pot with the hardest, stuck on food for last. She marveled at the state of the pots. Old grease and heat charred the bottoms. Her forehead was damp with sweat as she scratched at it.

  The house was quiet. Terribly so. She thought of the saying "quiet as the grave" and a chill ran through her. She had barely noticed the darkness, creeping in and around with only two flickering lanterns to work by. Her scratching echoed through the room on the otherwise still air.

  Stephanie's mind had been elsewhere, lost in her own dream world while she worked. It was the only way for her to pass the time. If nothing else, her new position supplied her with a fresh fantasy. The library. She imagined leather bound books, worn from use; yellowed pages that crinkled when you turned them; running her fingers across a line up of book spines.

  She wiped her brow. Her back ached terribly. Driving her shoulders back, she tried to stretch the kinks from her spine. Without the continuous scratching, a strange new sound drew her attention. A soft squeaking. She scanned the kitchen, most of which was bathed in darkness.

  She put the pan down and dried her hands on her apron. Reaching for the lantern, she stepped forward, trying to follow the sound. The spring door, the servants' door that led to the dining room. The sound was coming from behind it. She swallowed hard. As she moved toward the door, the sound grew louder. Holding her breath, she pushed it open. The sound stopped immediately. Shining the lantern into the room, she saw it exactly how she left it. There was nothing at all. She looked back into the kitchen. Nothing.

  The house was silent again.

  Releasing the door, she walked back to the washing basin. The door swung noisily on its hinges, feeding her anxiousness. The loud, abrasive whine of the door in the dead silent house. Her heart beat faster as the sound and movement of the door gradually waned. She scratched harder at the pot, drowning out the sound and the impending silence.

  The light from the lantern weakened, allowing the encroaching darkness to creep closer. Of the two lanterns, only one burned brightly. The other's pale blue flame struggled for life. As she reached for it, the light snuffed out, leaving only one lantern to fend off the darkness. The empty canister rattled as she shook it.

  She sighed and moved the other lantern closer. Appraising the work she had left and the amount of time she'd take, she considered doing a moderate job on the last pot and waiting for the morning to clean it properly. She immediately abandoned that idea. It would never do to leave work half done. What would Maggie think?

  With darkness hanging about her shoulders and over her head, she gritted her teeth and cleaned the last pot.

  When she was finally finished, she regarded the cleaned dishes. Even in the dim light of the lantern, they looked ten years younger. She hoped Maggie would be pleased. It might take time for her to master the art of serving, but she was already a master at cleaning up after people.

  She took the kerosene lamp and carried her tired, aching body up to her bedroom. Maggie's snoring breached the walls of her room which made her chuckle to herself. Stephanie hoped she could still manage to get some sleep. She slipped out of her clothes and hung them on a hook on the wall before climbing into bed.

  Her locket lay on the night stand. She took it and opened the latch, gazing at the picture on the right side. Her parents. Her father's kind, proud eyes stared back at her. God, she still missed him so bad it hurt. She'd never really known her mother, but she had memorized her face. A great beauty, everyone said so. Stephanie, unfortunately, didn't resemble her nearly as much as her sister did. Stephanie had a plain sort of beauty. Pretty enough that men would look, but not pretty enough that women would glare at. Not that it had done her much good.

  She closed the locket and placed it back on the nightstand before turning the lamp
off, leaving the room in darkness. She'd always hated the dark. God only knew what lurked in corners you couldn't see. But she was used to pushing her feelings down into the bottom of her chest, as far as they could go. Feelings were just one more thing that had never done her any good.

  Chapter Four

  Stephanie

  THE DIM GLOW OF SUNRISE crested over the dense forest behind the estate. Stephanie breathed in the fresh scent of dew and flowers as she dumped a pail of water off the back steps.

  "I can't believe it," Maggie said, as Stephanie stepped into the kitchen again. "I don't remember the last time these pots looked so clean."

  Stephanie dropped her head to hide her flushing cheeks. Before she could say anything else, the front door to the kitchen flew open as Charles barged through. She retreated slightly, standing against the wall as he made his way across the kitchen. He didn't seem to notice her, anyway.

  Maggie maintained a cool expression, but Stephanie could see how her eyes lit up when she saw him. "Morning, Charlie."

  "Morning love," he responded with a wink, plucking an apple from the bushel on the table.

  Maggie smiled and shook her head, signifying she wasn't completely impervious to his flirtation. "You should be saving that charm for the young ladies."

  His eyes landed on Stephanie, and he seemed to clench his jaw. He looked back to Maggie, taking a large bite from his apple. "I would if there were any."

  Stephanie looked down at the floor, embarrassed that she should be there. It wasn't as though she wanted him to flirt with her, but did he really have to look so disgusted?

  "You hear anything about Tilly?" he asked Maggie, his brow cocked high.

  The heavy pot she was holding fell, clanging on the hard floor. She gasped with a curse.

  "I'll take that as a no."

  "No," she answered coldly, all humor gone. "Of course not." She turned her back, facing Charles so Stephanie couldn't see her expression. Stephanie imagined her mouthing something urgent to him but saw and heard nothing. Maggie turned back to the table, throwing her rag down. "I got eggs to gather," she snapped.