The Haunting of Ripewood Manor
Page 16
"My legs?" Stephanie's heart pounded. She didn't understand the request but she didn't like the look Mrs. Callowell wore.
"Yes, your legs," she repeated, her voice like ice. Suddenly, her face lightened into a soft, concerned smile. "Rashes like these can spread quite badly. I'd like to see the extent to which it has spread."
Stephanie was somehow more disturbed by her sudden change in demeanor, but there was no way around it. Leaning over, she collected her skirt in her clenched fists and raised it mid-calf.
"Hmmm, just as I thought," Mrs. Callowell said, looking at Maggie. She turned her gaze back to Stephanie. "Quite the nasty case of poison ivy you have, Stephanie. I didn't realize the path to the lake was so overgrown. Go back to bed and get as much sleep as you can manage. Maggie can prepare you an ointment for that in the morning."
"Thank you, ma'am." Stephanie turned and took the last few steps up the stairs.
"Wait a moment," Mrs. Callowell called.
Stephanie froze and turned.
"Why are you wearing your coat?" Mrs. Callowell asked, looking up at her, her face illuminated by the candlelight.
"Oh," Stephanie looked down at herself. She'd been hoping Mrs. Callowell was too distracted to notice. "I—I must have been disoriented when I woke up." She attempted a light-hearted laugh at herself but it came out awkward and hollow. "Sometimes it takes a while for me to properly wake up."
Mrs. Callowell started up the stairs towards her, not removing her stare. "And why, might I ask, were you sneaking up the stairs?"
"Oh...the stairs, I—" Her mind was horribly blank. Her heart pounded as she searched desperately for any plausible excuse but came up with nothing.
Maggie stepped forward, taking Stephanie's arm. "Sleepwalking, ma'am. Stephanie is a sleepwalker. Caught her a few times myself going through the kitchen late at night. Scared the life out of me last night when I woke up and she was standing next to my bed, all quiet and not moving. She didn't want to say nothing, bit afraid you'd think she was a danger and fire her if you knew."
"I see," Mrs. Callowell said, her voice softened again. "Well, you have nothing to worry about. Perhaps we might consider putting a lock on your door, just in case? For your own safety, of course."
Stephanie's stomach sank at the idea of being locked in her room. "Yes, ma'am."
"Very well. I'll see to it tomorrow. In the meantime, get some rest. Maggie and I have to attend to Mr. Callowell." She turned to Maggie. "Come," she said, her voice harsh and cold.
Stephanie dragged her tired, aching body across the threshold into the kitchen the next morning to a surprising sight. Nothing at all. The kitchen was just as she'd left it the previous night. Spotless, organized and quiet. Maggie's welcoming form, normally standing over the table or the stove, was absent. Adding to the strange scene was an intense, lingering cold that, while present throughout the rest of the house at varying times, had never found its way to the kitchen
Stephanie stepped inside, looking about tentatively. "Maggie?" She went to the stove and held her hand above the surface. Cold.
Confused and worried, she looked about. Her eye landed on a note on the table. Leaning over the table, Stephanie read:
Stephanie,
Your responsibilities will include preparing the meals until I can find someone to properly replace Maggie, who has decided to leave her position. You may leave the guest rooms for the time being and alternate days cleaning the sitting room and the dining hall.
You have the ointment for your poison ivy on the table. Use it on your legs during the day and apply it to the entire rash at night.
I will take my lunch in Victor's room.
-Eloise Callowell
A choked sob fell from Stephanie's throat. It was her fault. Maggie had lied to Mrs. Callowell to help Stephanie and she'd lost her job for it. A heavy, nauseous feeling clung to Stephanie's stomach. And what would happen to Maggie? She'd been so grateful to have the job, to not be living in the streets. Is that where she'd be now? Begging for scraps of bread or bits of change?
No, she promised herself, I will find some way to help her after she's helped me. Theodore had a way of finding people and information. He could find Maggie and even find her a job. It was the least she could do.
Lunch was going to be considerably more difficult. The truth was, she'd done little more than help the cooks in the kitchen. She'd never cooked for someone else other than her father by herself. She was a competent enough cook, but with only her father to teach her, she'd had a very simple education. The little she knew of fine cooking, she'd learned from observing others. She regretted not paying closer attention.
Stephanie looked about the kitchen. If nothing else, at least she knew where things were kept. She removed a skillet from a hook on the wall and placed it on the stove and set about building a fire in the stove.
While the stove warmed the kitchen, Stephanie went to the sitting room and the dining hall to build fires there as well. When she came back to the kitchen, the fire was casting warmth about the room and heating the skillet on top nicely.
Searching the room, she found a bowl of eggs on the table and some potatoes. Dad's famous eggs and shredded butter potatoes it is!
Despite her initial apprehension, cooking was the same in one place or another and the result was as good as she could have hoped for.
She read the note over again. Mrs. Callowell wanted her breakfast served in Victor's room. The very place she was supposed to avoid at all costs.
With breakfast out of the way, Stephanie set about her regular cleaning chores. The simple repetitive motions of dusting, sweeping, and mopping, allowed her to free her mind and ruminate.
Time passed quickly. She was halfway through her work in the sitting room when the grandfather clock in the foyer rung eleven o´clock.
Over the morning, she'd been contemplating what to make for lunch. Breakfast had been relatively easy, but lunch and dinner would require more imagination. And more time. Eleven o´clock was already late.
Stephanie entered the kitchen and looked about for ideas. She found more potatoes and outside the door hung a string of onions. Standing in the open doorway, she observed the garden and chicken coop to the left of the maze. It was too late to collect a chicken but the garden might offer more possibilities. She followed the muddy path alongside the back of the manor and across the field to the garden.
The garden was nearly full, even in autumn. Maggie had spent hours pulling weeds and tending the plants. Stephanie regretted now having the burden of the garden on her shoulders. She'd never be able to care for it as Maggie had and it would only worsen over time.
After a quick root through the dark green leaves and rich soil, she left with carrots, tomatoes, and a cabbage. Luckily, she was used to making do with little.
When she arrived inside the kitchen, she saw another note had arrived mysteriously on the table. She let the vegetables tumble onto the table and read the note.
Stephanie,
A woman will come today about the chef position. Inform me when she arrives. I will be in Victor's bedroom.
-Eloise Callowell
Stephanie sighed a breath of relief. If she could make it through lunch, she'd be free to return to her regular chores. She prayed the woman would arrive early and be hired on the spot. Fried eggs and cabbage stew would only get Stephanie so far.
The stew simmered, dark orange bubbles exploding on the surface. Stephanie looked down at the pot as she stirred slowly, feeling an overwhelming sense of accomplishment that she rarely experienced while cleaning. The purpose of a maid was always to maintain rather than create. Stephanie felt proud that she'd produced something as rich and fragrant as this from little more than vegetables and herbs. She lowered the edge of the wooden spoon into the broth and cooled it with a soft blow.
As she sipped the liquid from the spoon, the thick, tangy broth coated her tongue. She licked her lips, savoring the flavor of the pungent herbs.
Nodding cont
ently at the pot, she went to collect the plates, tray, and silverware from the cupboard room. She ladled out a generous portion of the stew into a deeply concave bowl, arranged it on the plate and carried it over to the dumbwaiter.
As she raised the door, the pained, desperate voice of a man filled the passageway and traveled down to her.
"Please Ellie," he begged, "you must help me!" Chains rattled. "I can't live like this."
"I'm afraid this is the only option, Victor," she said coldly.
"How can you look at me like that?" He began weeping, thick, choking sobs. "I—I—I'm not an animal. I'm not a criminal!"
Stephanie was almost tempted to believe him. But if not Victor, then who? She would have thought Fredrick was behind her mother's murder, but what of the other women since his death? Someone was carrying on his legacy.
"It won't be for much longer. Here, take this. You will feel better."
"No," he cried. "Please, no more drugs. I can't take it anymore. Why won't you help me?"
"I am trying to help you, husband. You know better than anyone how strong Fredrick is becoming. Now, be still a moment."
"No, please!" he cried. The sounds of bedsprings and chains rattling followed. Stephanie pictured him thrashing on the bed as Mrs. Callowell hovered above him.
Eventually, the movement died down and everything was quiet again. Footsteps walked from one side of the room to the other.
Stephanie let the door slide slowly from her hands, lowering it quietly. The soup is still fairly hot, it should cool some. She stepped back from the door.
There was that name again: Fredrick. She talks of him like he's still here, a definitive presence in the manor. Had Theodore been wrong when he said that the man had drowned? In which case, how could he be getting stronger now a year after his disappearance?
Stephanie waited a few minutes and re-opened the door. She waited a moment but heard nothing. She sent the soup up without a word from Mrs. Callowell and without incident.
Chapter 33
Stephanie
IT WAS JUST BEFORE four o´clock when the doorbell rang. Stephanie hurried across the foyer, smoothing out her hair as she reached for the door.
A plump young woman with black hair stood before her. She had large, dark eyes, a round face, and a nervous smile. "Morning, miss," she said. "I came here 'bout a job. I'm a cook."
Stephanie smiled back. "Of course, Mrs. Callowell is expecting you." She stepped aside, allowing the woman inside the house.
Her wide eyes got even bigger as she stepped inside, looking around the foyer. Stephanie couldn't help but remember her first moments in the house.
But the woman's expression darkened as soon as Stephanie closed the door behind them. Her eyes returned to Stephanie as her brow furrowed. The woman stepped back towards the door, tightening her coat around her neck.
Stephanie reached towards her. "Are you quite all right?"
"I...yes, I'm fine," she said, giving an uncertain half-smile. She wrapped her arms around herself.
"Are you cold?" Stephanie asked.
The woman shook her head.
"Well," Stephanie started, tentatively. "There's a fire in the parlor." Putting a hand on the woman's back, she gently led her in the direction of the parlor. "You can wait there for Mrs. Callowell. I'll go get her." Stephanie stopped at the doorway, watching the woman walk towards the sofa, and began pulling the doors shut.
She looked back at Stephanie, a look of panic on her face. She seemed to bite back a response and sat gingerly on the sofa.
Stephanie turned, leaving the doors open. She realized then what hiring the woman would mean and she felt guilty for ever hoping she'd stay. Then again, they couldn't go on without a cook. Stephanie just couldn't manage everything herself and she was certain Mrs. Callowell couldn't either.
She darted up the staircase and turned towards the East Wing. She instinctively felt as though she ought to be sneaking down the hall, but reminded herself that, for once, she'd been told to enter this part of the house. Without Maggie around, more responsibility was put on Stephanie's shoulders. She could only pray that Mrs. Callowell didn't ask her to help administer Victor's medicine, like Maggie.
She came to Victor's door and knocked gently. Footsteps crossed the floor and the door opened a crack to reveal Mrs. Callowell's face.
"Has she arrived?"
Stephanie nodded.
"Very well," she said, slipping from the room and locking it behind her. "Will you do me the favor of remaining here?" She gestured to the chair in front of the door.
Stephanie looked between the chair and Mrs. Callowell, not finding a response.
"I prefer to have someone close to my husband at all times. In case something comes up. You needn't enter for anything. Just sit here and notify me at once if anything happens."
Stephanie swallowed and nodded.
"Very well," she said, turning gracefully like a ballerina on a music box.
"Yes, ma'am."
Stephanie waited until Mrs. Callowell's footsteps faded into the distance before she shot towards the door. Her hand hovered above the doorknob, but she couldn't help but think of the man on the other side. The man that murdered her mother. She couldn't bring herself to turn it, to look at him face to face. Did that make her a coward?
She knelt down and pressed her ear to the door, but heard nothing. Supporting herself against the door frame, she peered through the keyhole. The curtains must have been open since the room was brightly lit. There was little to be seen from the small hole: the end of the bed on the far wall and a rug on the dark hardwood floors.
Though nothing inside moved or made a sound, Stephanie's heart quickened. She couldn't explain her sudden gripping anxiety. A heaviness settled on her chest as she pulled back away from the door.
The lock clicked free and the door fell away from the hatch. Her heart leaped into her throat. She gently nudged the door with her fingertips, testing it. The door swung open.
Stephanie pushed herself off her knees and rose to her feet. The smell of sweat and stale air poured from the room. Stephanie wrinkled her nose as she gazed inside. Since the door was half-open, she could make out the center half of the room and half of the bed.
Leaning back, she looked down the hall and back to the room. She might not get this chance again; she couldn't turn away now. Holding her fear at bay, she stepped into the room.
On the bed, his wrists bound by thick leather stirrups and held at his side, a heavy chain around his waist, lay Victor. His bright blue eyes were red-rimmed and watery. The wide smile he wore pushed the gaunt flesh around his mouth into thin, circular lines framing the corners of his mouth. Even from the doorway, Stephanie saw his dried and cracked lips dotted with lines of blood.
"Welcome to my home," he said in an overly musical tone. "Won't you have a seat? You cannot stay for long, but, I promise...I'll be sweet." The words dripped from his lips like acid.
A shiver traveled up her spine. Words caught in her throat. Her presence there seemed suddenly ridiculous. She turned towards the door.
An uneasy, pitchless tune filled the dead air in the room. Stephanie held her stomach as it lurched. She turned slowly back towards him. He was still again, looking very pleased with himself.
"You knew my mother." She took a step.
He closed his eyes. "Hmmmm, perhaps. A pretty little bird with a voice like crystal. A very pretty bird. A pity about her wings."
Stephanie grasped folds of her skirt in her hands. They shook wildly but she wouldn't hide them behind her back. "You murdered my mother."
Victor opened his eyes again. "Such a strong little nightingale she was." He looked at Stephanie, his eyes suddenly cold and piercing. "The most delicate neck."
She bit back her words. "You admit it, then?"
"Have you ever seen a bird fly into a window? They're stunned for a moment and their heads go backward. It looks like they're dead."
A thick, glutinous lump formed in Stephanie'
s throat. She was sure if she tried to swallow it down, it would choke her.
"It seems, the faster they fly, the more they're hurt. Unless they die, that is." His gaze returned to the ceiling above him. "Hardly seems fair."
Stephanie grit her teeth. "Who are you?" Her voice rang clear and strong.
"Don't you know yet?" he asked, sounding disappointed. "I'm Fredrick."
Stephanie shook her head. "Fredrick's dead."
A thin grin spread across his face and he nodded. "I met you once before," he groaned, lowering his head to the pillow and returning his gaze upwards.
"I've been here for several months," she explained, struggling to get each word out. "You saw me in the doorway."
He tsked, shaking his head. He looked at her. "You were just a baby." He laughed, coughing on his own phlegm. "You were this sickly, whimpering thing."
Her cheeks burned under his mocking stare. "Why did you kill her? What did she ever do to you?"
The humor drained from his face, replaced by a blank face. "Come here, and I'll tell you," he whispered.
She took a step backwards, shaking her head.
"Ah," he said, rolling his head to the side. "Then I can't help you. Close the door on your way out."
Her eyes went to the leather straps and the iron chains. He can't move, she told herself. Ignoring her pounding heart, she stepped forward.
He looked at her as though humoring a small child. "A little closer dear."
She took another cautious step forwards, judging the ties that bound him in place.
"Don't be frightened, child," he said, moving his arms to tug at the straps that bound him. "I'm only as dangerous as a kitten."
Stephanie clutched at her skirts as she approached him, fighting against every muscle of her being that cried for her to run. The room seemed to grow smaller around her as she stopped before him.