My eyes open into darkness. Bits and pieces of a strange dream tickle my mind, but I can’t place the location or context. My focus turns to another sound. I hear the faint back-and-forth tick-tock of the grandfather clock against the far corner of the bedroom. The drape is still open but only the night engulfs the other side of the glass. Who might be spying on me?
I close the drapes. It is 11:09 P.M. I haven’t been asleep but a few hours. The other side of the king bed is still empty. Did Robert not come home tonight? Why wouldn’t he? I didn’t think to ask the butler where he was. Talking to Mr. Reynolds is like communicating with an old, stubborn oak tree. His tone is as hard as bark with important details shrouded by leaves. Maybe the other butler or one of the maids would be better suited for such an inquisition.
I could go back to sleep, I’m tired enough, but this seems like the perfect opportunity to search the home. I won’t be able to use the main lighting. Someone might notice the embers from inside or outside and come investigate.
I’ll have to improvise. I open my door, cross the threshold, then softly close it. The hallway is dark. The grand foyer chandelier has been turned off; the bulbs still pulse with whispers of faint light. I’m drawn again to the painting of the dog in the pit. I know it only by its location along the wall, the third from the bedroom. There isn’t enough light now to discern the intricate details or the inscription. I can only perceive the ladder, the people, and dog through recollection. Why I’m fascinated with this painting is a mystery. If only I had a flashlight.
I grip the balcony railing as I make my way to the other side. When it slopes downward, I step away from the landing. A fall would do me no good and unsheathe the spirit of deception in which I’m basking. Getting one up on the old butler has me feeling special, clever. A black pool enshrouds the bottom of the stair. Only a splash of moonlight bleeds through the glass of the main doors.
I’m not ready to venture to the first floor yet. The maids and butlers must reside somewhere on the premises, probably in a small cottage behind my own. I feel along the wall for the door Mr. Reynolds had locked earlier in the evening. It is still locked. Pure tomfoolery. Mr. Reynolds may have won the set, but I will win the game.
A moving light on the other side of the frosted glass startles me. It has the look of a handheld lantern swaying back and forth. I step away from view. Looking back to my bedroom, I’m thankful I had the presence of mind to close my door. Why would anyone be up here at this hour? Do we have guests staying I don’t know about? There is electricity in the home. Why is a lantern being used? Could it be Robert? What will I say? I haven’t a clue as to what he looks like. My hands are trembling. I find myself putting weight on one foot then the other in a panicked sway.
I press my body against the nearby wall. I hear footsteps coming closer. There isn’t enough time to return to my room without being seen. I’m frozen, unable to move, clenched by fear. Slithering through the house, fueled by deception, silent in approach, yet completely defanged, my ignorance in the art of treachery is on full display, another useless point on the invisible scoreboard of modesty.
The door doesn’t open. I listen in the gloom, concentrate on my breathing, trying to use my nose more than my mouth. I don’t know if someone saw me in the glow from the other side of this door, but I don’t see the light again or hear any movement. Did the person lay back down or are they waiting for me to make the first move? I retreat along the wall, inch by inch, careful not to graze the paintings when I come upon them.
The glass door is still closed. No trace of lantern light streaks through the night. Maybe they were up to use the bathroom and I caught them coming back. At least, that’s what I want to believe. I open the bedroom door only enough to squeeze through and walk inside backwards; my eyes fixed on the closed door on the opposite side. My door creaks as I close it. Blast it all.
I go to the window bench hoping to spot evidence of a visitor. The main drive is empty. The rain has ended and the brisk night air would feel good upon my arms. However, the window doesn’t have any latches and no handles to lift it. It’s a contraption I’ve either never dealt with before or can’t remember operating.
Sudden movement in the distance captures my attention. By the time my eyes focus in the darkness, I can’t tell if I actually saw anything. I don’t have to wait long. Another flicker of light, faint and brief like a short-lived firework, fizzles away from the home. If I’m judging correctly, it would be just beyond the row of trees beyond the lawn. The drive goes this way, leaving the mansion and guiding into the wider world.
Was this the same thing which had concerned Mr. Reynolds earlier in the evening? He was focused on something through the glass. My presence had startled him, but he seemed tense before my interruption.
Tomorrow will be a day of questions and much-needed answers. My home is still a mysterious treasure waiting to be plundered. I must find a way inside the locked door on the second floor, even if it means gaining access directly from Mr. Reynolds. I’ll learn more about the visitor and why someone has access to a room which I don’t.
Does Robert always come home this late? Questions, questions and no answers yet. This will not do. In this process of waking from a coma and rediscovering myself, I am proving to be a very inquisitive person, but rightly so. Who else lives in a mansion without intimate knowledge of the place or its visitors?
Even after lying down, I can still see the driveway. Staying awake until Robert is home is important, but my eyes are growing heavy. I know already my vigilance won’t last long. Moments before drifting into sleep, I’m pricked again by the troubling thought I had earlier. I judge my conclusion is correct, but accepting it will only lead me to despair. I can’t resign myself to doom just yet.
7
The night falls in layers of black, voluminous with intrigue, and works a spell on time. Sometimes the night can last an eternity, sometimes it’s as faint as a goodnight kiss.
I lay flat, grasping at the thoughts in the back of my mind, an echo of something I knew in detail before. Rolling onto my side, I bury my cheek into the pillow. The tick-tock of the grandfather clock is a soothing comfort, enticing a return to Dreamland. I faintly remember the fear which hung over my dream earlier. Illumination itches just below my subconscious, but I can’t draw the experience to the surface of my recollection. I’m not sure I want to remember.
I think of Robert and open one eye. Reaching my hand into the darkness, I feel the flatness of the other side of the bed. The undisturbed crisp sheets are cool. I have a problem and it’s a doozy. The kind you would rather not think about, or won’t face, until the moment you can’t avoid it any longer.
I don’t know what Robert looks like or anything about his personality. Is he kind? Is he cantankerous? Does he drink? I should hope not, but why else would he be out this late, unless another woman is involved. This could give me a path of escape if I find myself unsettled by him. These are not the thoughts of a loving wife, but a worried one. My predicament isn’t ideal, but it could be worse. I could still be in a coma, asleep and indifferent to the choices made around me. Oh goodness me, I can’t dawdle in dejection, frolic in forlornness. I’m a grown woman.
There isn’t any reason for me to be tiptoeing in my own home. If I want to turn the lights on and look around, it is my business to do so.
I toss back the sheets, strengthened by my position. Donning a robe and slippers from the closet, I come to the door.
It won’t open. I try the handle again. It doesn’t budge. Someone has locked me in my room. I could fry an egg on my head right now. This is preposterous. I check the handle again, but there isn’t a release mechanism to unlock from this side, only a keyhole. I’ve become a prisoner and in my own home, no less. It must be Mr. Reynolds who has confined me here. Can’t have the missus scouting the property while he sleeps, is it? Just wait until I am released from this predicament. I’ll fire him on the spot.
I place my ear to the door, listening for sig
ns of life. Knocking, pounding and shouting would be preferred, but it will do no good. No one would hear me. I’m surprised I can’t catch his laughter from the quarters outside. Removing my robe and slippers, I retreat into bed, my temper languishing to a simmer. There is nothing I can do at this point. Sleep shall find me when it finds me.
8
The brightness of the day and the warm sun on my skin rouses me. My neck is stiff against the bay window bench. I open my eyes and crawl to the floor below, trying to escape the sun. The cherrywood floor is no better. I feel as if I’ve been clocked over the head by an assailant, an unsuspecting victim of deep sleep.
Yawning, then stretching, I rub at the crick in my neck. Then I remember the locked door from last night and rush to it. I grip the handle. It turns.
Game on.
I check my spacious closet, searching for something which might pass as a garment for firings. If I had executioner’s gloves, I’d have worn them. A crimson, knee-length dress seems fitting.
The grand foyer is empty as is the large sitting room. When I enter the dining room, Maddie is coming through a set of double doors where I presume is the kitchen. She’s carrying two plates of china with one arm, one balanced against the crook in her elbow, with a full glass of orange juice in her other hand. She has a pleasant smile on her face. I smell the aroma of bacon and fresh biscuits. Scrambled eggs make a trio and a waffle flies solo on the other plate.
“I was just about to check on you,” she exclaims as she sets breakfast and juice on the table. “Did you sleep well last night?”
“Yes, thank you.”
She’s a pleasant young lady, no more than twenty-five with a pale complexion and curly dark hair. Her maid’s uniform is pressed. “Breakfast is served, madame.”
I am hungry and the food looks scrumptious, but I have more urgent business. “Thank you, Maddie. Have you seen Mr. Reynolds this morning?”
“No I haven’t, madame.”
I suspect not. He must have needed some extra shut-eye after rambling through the halls half the night. She can tell there is something bothering me, perhaps my clenched jaw and sharp gaze. I could explode in an instant, but that reservation is for someone else.
“Aren’t you hungry?” she glares at my food.
“I am,” but I linger before sitting. “Do you know when he’ll be in?”
She brings a hand to her face, then pinches her chin. “Hard to say. His schedule changes sometimes.”
I was expecting a very different scenario and it didn’t involve breakfast. I sit and take a bite of eggs, then work my way to the bacon, slice and munch on the waffle. It’s delicious. By the time I chase it with the orange juice, Maddie is coming back from the kitchen, heading in another direction. “Maddie?”
“Yes, madame?”
“Have you heard from my husband?”
“No, madame. I rarely speak with Mr. Prelude when he’s home, and never when he’s out on business.”
“Do you know when he might be back?”
“I’m sorry, madame. The last I knew he should have been back last night.”
I’m just as perplexed as she looks. “Do we have any pictures of the family?”
“There are a few albums in the upstairs bedrooms.”
My eyes shine with delight, “Do you have a key? I tried the door yesterday and it was locked.”
“Why no, madame. The butlers are the only staff with keys.”
Big surprise there. “Why on earth would they be the only ones with keys?” Pure tomfoolery. I toss my napkin on the table.
She doesn’t respond to the question. “There’s a picture of Mr. Prelude in the sitting room.”
My lips curve into a toothy smile. “Show me.”
“Of course, madame. Right this way.”
We go through the doors to the next room, the conservatory. An early morning golden glow floats through the two outer glass walls and ceiling. A potted combination of date palms, aloe, and agave plants sing with life, invigorated by the sun. It’s a pleasant room, but for some reason, my legs lock in place for a moment when I pass a sofa and several oversized armchairs. As I follow her, my heart jolts and an uneasiness grows in my stomach. My heels aren’t clicking on the floor in the same rhythm as hers. My pace dwindles to a crawl. She turns around.
A look of concern emboldens her eyes. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, yes. Just fine.” I try to wear a smile, but the label reads 100% fake.
“Are you sure? Do you need to sit down?”
“Please continue, Maddie. I’m just a little surprised by the amount of sunlight.”
She continues, but keeps glancing over her shoulder at me as if I might fall over any moment. Through a set of glass doors, we have come to a sizeable, carpeted room with an immense stone fireplace. Two sofas form a V in front of it with a circular coffee table in the middle. Even without a fire blazing, the room is comfortable. A small bar sits on the far end of the wall. Glasses are hanging upside down behind it, as well as a plethora of bottles with various amounts of liquor in each. Robert must be fond of drink.
“I believe this is what you wanted to see.” Maddie motions with her hand behind me. I turn to see a painting of a man. It is so large it runs the entire length of the wall from top to bottom and at least half that distance wide.
“Oh goodness me,” I say, placing my hand above my breast.
Maddie never takes her eyes off me, examining and measuring, as if I’ve taken some bitter pill and she must observe my reaction. I don’t care what she thinks or how much she knows of my inability to remember. She probably knows a great deal more than I do.
The man in the painting is large with an invading baldness. He is holding a top hat in one hand as if he’s just come in from a long walk. A black cloak is around his broad shoulders and his hands are in white, fitted gloves. The features of his face are sharp with a partial smile. His head is cocked with an air of sophistication like he has a secret to tell you, but won’t dare divulge it. His eyes are difficult to stare into; they are haunting. I have to look away, then back again, just to analyze the depth in them. The theme of the portrait is dark and brooding. It could have been stroked after a funeral.
“He must think highly of himself to take an entire wall.”
Maddie’s lips pucker before the words stumble out. “Well Mrs. Prelude, you were the one who arranged the painting.”
“I did?”
“Yes, madame.” She’s looking down, unable to meet my eyes, either too modest to disagree with me or perhaps, for some other reason.
“Maddie, am I a pleasant person?”
“Madame?”
“Have I had an unpleasant disposition in the past?”
“No, madame, not that I’m aware of. Everything I know is from the butlers.”
“Are you sure? Please tell me if I have.”
She shakes her head no. “I can’t rightly say.”
“How long have you worked here?”
Her eyes focus on the ground, trying to remember.
“Were you here before my sickness?”
“It was a sickness?”
“I’m not sure. Mr. Reynolds said I had been in a coma, but he didn’t elaborate.”
“When did you return home?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve never laid eyes on you before. They only told me about you.”
Thinking back, I try to remember some history about myself, but there is only a stark emptiness. I stare back at her, expecting more.
“Besides, there aren’t any hospital machines in your chamber. Aren’t people in comas hooked up to machines? They—"
“Maddie,” a stern voice behind us calls.
She looks past me to our eavesdropper. I turn around, hoping it’s Mr. Reynolds so I can send him packing. Another man is standing at the glass doorway. He’s dressed like Mr. Reynolds, but it’s not him.
“Shouldn’t you be looking after your duties this morning?” His eyes are fix
ed on her, looking through me.
Maddie rushes past me, as if expecting to be on the receiving end of a good tongue-thrashing when I’m not present.
“Now, hold on a moment,” I object, wanting to have a say in where she goes.
She doesn’t stop and leaves the room to me and this man I am unfamiliar with. “What is the meaning of all this?”
“Mrs. Prelude, I’m pleased to introduce myself to you again.” Except he doesn’t look pleased at all. He has an air of superiority about him as if he’s the homeowner and I’m the maid. “My name is Joseph Crestfield. I’m one of the butlers on staff.”
“I wasn’t finished speaking with Maddie. Your intrusion into our conversation was a bit rude, don’t you think?”
“Not at all, madame. Maddie needs constant supervision to stay on task. It is a weary job sometimes to keep her productive.”
“I don’t care about her work ethic. I want to speak with her at once.”
He doesn’t budge. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”
“I wonder, Mr. Crestfield, would it be possible if it meant you packing your things and removing yourself from this property if you don’t comply?” My stare is focused and direct. Sometimes, putting your foot down is the only way people know you mean business. I’ll squash him like a cockroach if I must.
“That wouldn’t be a wise move, madame.”
“Not for you, it wouldn’t. So, which is it? Are you going to fetch her or are you packing your things?”
“I’ll have her see you at lunch, madame. You don’t know what her day is like here.”
I suppose lunch will do. It’s better than nothing. “Alright. Now, tell me about yourself, Mr. Crestfield. You said we’ve met before.”
“Yes, madame. Although it has been a while. I’ve been at your service for many years.”
“Then which hospital was I at?”
“I’m sorry?”
“When I was in the coma. What hospital was I at?” I want details and I intend to expel all the ammunition Maddie handed me.
Harrowed Dreams Page 3