Harrowed Dreams

by Timothy Moonlight

  “You were never at a hospital. You were here, safe at home. Mr. Prelude didn’t want you away, thought it would be better to have you here in a familiar setting.”

  A lot of good it did. “Then where are the machines I was hooked up to?”

  “They were removed. Days ago.”

  “Maddie said she never saw them. She also said she’d never seen me, either.”

  “Did she?” His head cocks to the side. “Well, she wasn’t part of the staff handling your care, so that shouldn’t be much of a surprise.”

  “What happened to me?”

  “Mr. Prelude will need to tell you the details. He’s given us explicit orders to be the one to explain everything.”

  I’m wasting my time with these people. My patience is wearing thin, but I can’t have everyone angry at me. “You sound like Mr. Reynolds, now. Where is the old chap, anyway?”

  “He had some personal affairs to attend to today, but he’ll be here later on.” He muses over the painting. “I see you’ve found your husband. Does the portrait jog your memory?”

  I sigh in frustration, “Unfortunately not.”

  “I wouldn’t worry. All will come with time. You’ve just gotten reintroduced to the world. We’ve all been expecting your return.” His smile is halfhearted and his obumbrated tone could hide an ulterior motive.

  I want to ask, but I know it will get me nowhere. The butlers may be in league together. If I’m to discover the truth, it will have to be through Maddie. I must be ready at lunch.

  Walking back to the conservatory, I disquiet the uneasiness inside me. We cross the room without incident. Mr. Crestfield is watching me like a hawk examining a field mouse. In the front room, I look out the window. The day is bright and upbeat. Getting some fresh air and exploring outside would be good.

  “What are on the grounds?”

  “There is a garden. It’s nice this time of year. You used to spend a good portion of the day there when you were well. We also have the stables.”

  “Horses?” I turn to him, morphing into a wide-eyed schoolgirl.

  “Yes,” he dips his head and smiles, wanting to laugh at my reaction, but restraining himself. “Your fair and noble steed, Grace, hasn’t been ridden since your last outing.”

  “I have my own horse? How lovely.”

  “Yes, but madame, you can’t go outside to ride. We have a problem close to home.”

  I look at him. He is reticent to continue. I stare into his eyes, not allowing him to squirm away. “It’s the war. There are battles being fought all around us.”

  “Near my home?”

  “Yes, madame.”

  “How far away?”

  “I wish it were farther than I could recognize. We might see our city destroyed and if that happens, they’ll burn every home.”

  My legs feel like jelly and my breath locks in my throat before I’m able to respond. “We’ve got to do something, Mr. Crestfield.” I didn’t know what could be done though, except to run and hide somewhere far away. I think of Robert. “Why has Robert been away so long? Is he in danger?”

  Mr. Crestfield raises his hands as if expecting to catch falling china, trying to calm my worry. “I’m sure Mr. Prelude is quite alright. Mr. Reynolds spoke with him yesterday. I expected him last night, but sometimes there are delays.”

  I look out the window again. A large explosion somewhere nearby pulses through the air. The sound rattles the windows. I look back at Mr. Crestfield. His eyes are the size of an adult bullfrog. Up to this point, I didn’t know if I could trust anyone here, but maybe I should. “Very well, Mr. Crestfield. I will stay indoors. The sunshine would be nice, but not on a day when the earth is falling around us.”

  “Yes, madame.”

  “When will lunch be ready?”

  “In a few hours, madame. Can I get you anything before then?”

  Ignoring his question with my own, I say, “Aren’t you concerned with the house? Do you believe we should leave the property?”

  “No, madame. This isn’t the first time we’ve heard noises such as this. It’s just another day for us to grin and bear it. Besides, if we left, where would we go?”

  “Good point. Is the town still standing?”

  “Oh, yes.” He doesn’t sound too concerned. His tone is beleaguered with weight, as if he had been asked the question a thousand times before with the answer never changing. I wish I could have the same confidence.

  Maybe I do have my own and just haven’t rediscovered it yet.

  9

  I’m restless. I have scouted the fields around the house through the second-floor master bedroom several times, hunting the woods for soldiers. Even though there hasn’t been another explosion and I have no reason to believe a march upon the mansion is mounting, I still can’t shake the feeling something is lurking in the woods.

  I can’t remember a relationship or a single memory with Robert, even though I now have a face with which to conjure the past. I would expect to remember details about some part of my life with all of my faculties in working order. My speech isn’t slurred. My legs and arms work fine, but not my mind. It could just be me or my condition, or whatever a doctor might call it. My childhood, parents, where I lived, if I went to university, or if I had children all seem to escape me. Even when Mr. Reynolds told me I didn’t have any, it didn’t faze me. There wasn’t a recognition within myself that the saying rang true. I still don’t know my age.

  This feeling is quite scary, like I’m lost in my body with no way to identify it as my own. I look at myself in the mirror. My face doesn’t look weary. The life I’ve lived hasn’t been hard on me, for which I’m thankful. As I brush my hair, I think again about the painting next to my room in the hall. It has puzzled me since the night I wasn’t able to read the inscription. I lay the comb aside.

  This mystery can no longer evade me. Outside the room, I gaze at the painting as if frozen in time. The grandfather clock lulls in the background. A dog is trapped in a large pit, unable to climb out. Two men are on a ladder climbing down to give aid. Below the dog is something I wasn’t able to see in the dim light from the previous evening. A circle below leads to another realm where it appears the dog could escape to if it wanted. The inscription reads: ONLY WHEN THE TIME IS RIGHT.

  I sense an uneasiness creep into my heart again. This painting holds some significance, a bruised memory, unrecognizable, yet I know it from somewhere. I rack my brain trying to understand that which I didn’t know I was seeking. The fraught dog, one of the men dropping a rope, loosely gripping a rung of the ladder, stretching while sweating profusely, it all alarms me. For what reason or how it should, I can’t name. The constant tick-tock of the grandfather clock exacerbates my frightened state. I look around, but I’m alone.

  Somehow, I know I’m running out of time and I don’t know why. My breathing is heavy. I take a deep breath, trying to relax, but it doesn’t help. What can’t I see in this picture? Why does it pique my interest in the first place?

  The clock tolls noon. I back away from the painting. There is something there, I can feel it in my bones. What can’t I see? Or am I overreacting because there are battles being fought close to my home? Shouldn’t this be the greater concern? The shock this truth could bear upon all thought and morph the mundane into the dramatic, the dull into the problematic.

  “Mrs. Prelude?”

  I turn from the mesmerizing scene and peer downstairs. Mr. Crestfield is staring up at me. “Lunch is served, madame.”

  I clear my throat before I speak, not trusting my speech. “I’ll be right down.”

  “Very well.” He turns and leaves me alone.

  I glance at the painting once more, but can’t decipher the riddle. “You’ve got an overactive imagination, Penny. Pure tomfoolery,” I whisper. The palms of my hands are damp. I blot them on my dress.

  As I descend the steps, the front door opens. It’s Mr. Reynolds. Perfect timing. He closes the door behind him.

  “Mr.
Reynolds, so good of you to come. Your timing is impeccable.”

  He smiles, accepting the pleasantry without responding. He is carrying a bag of groceries and must have a mind to enter the kitchen.

  “Not so fast.” I’m standing on the second step from the bottom on one of the dual staircases, watching him. I raise my voice. “Mr. Crestfield?”

  “Coming, madame.” He appears from the sitting room.

  He sees Mr. Reynolds, then looks at me. “Yes, madame?”

  “Take the bag of groceries from Mr. Reynolds, please. He won’t need to venture any further into my home.”

  A look of confusion crosses Mr. Crestfield’s face, but he obliges.

  Mr. Reynolds furrows his brow. “What do you mean?”

  “Last night you locked my bedroom door and made me a prisoner in my home. Then early this morning, you came and unlocked it.” I stare at him, waiting for a response.

  He doesn’t oblige, but guilt permeates his eyes. He knows I see it.

  “Tell me why.”

  “For your own protection.”

  I laugh. “You think a grown woman such as I need to be restrained from my own freedom? Let me tell you something, Mr. Reynolds. I can get along very well under my own capabilities. I certainly don’t need a butler to bid my coming and going for me.”

  “But Mrs. Prelude, you—"

  “You’re fired, Mr. Reynolds.”

  His mouth drops and his eyes bulge like he’s desperate for his next breath. “This is insane. Mr. Prelude will never—”

  “Never approve? Leave that to me. I’m sure there are plenty of butlers out there who are more than willing to complete a satisfactory job without the incessant need to imprison their employers.”

  Mr. Crestfield’s head sways back and forth as if watching a match of tennis.

  “But Mrs. Prelude—" Mr. Reynolds has melted into a man of pleas.

  “Hand me all the keys to the residence,” I say dryly. I won’t be haggled by the begging of the guilty.

  He draws a ring of ten keys from his pocket and hands them to me.

  “This is all of them?”

  He nods.

  “Mr. Crestfield, can you verify this for me?”

  “That looks to be all of them. Four exit doors, a key to the cottage, a key to the main gate, and a variety of keys for locks inside.”

  “Like the one locking the door upstairs?”

  “Exactly, madame.”

  “Thank you. Mr. Reynolds, your services are no longer needed. I will give you one hour to remove your things from the cottage and be on your way. Mr. Crestfield will supervise your remaining time here. I bid you good day.”

  Frothing with visible anger multiplied by his clenched jaw and stertorous breathing, Mr. Reynolds places his hat on his head and walks out the front door in silence.

  “Mr. Crestfield, keep your eyes on him and let me know if he gives you any trouble.”

  “Yes, madame.” He turns his head toward the dining room and calls out, “Maddie?”

  Footsteps come shuffling from two rooms away.

  “Can you take this bag of groceries to the kitchen? Something has come up which I must attend to.”

  “Of course.”

  “As for you,” I say, pointing at Maddie, “You and I are going to have a pleasant lunch together.”

  10

  As I chew crisp lettuce drenched in a tangy vinaigrette dressing, I am ecstatic with myself. I have been relieved of the burden of an insolent and overreaching employee. Who knows what else the man had been involved with here at the mansion. He might have been robbing us blind. With Robert away all the time and me in my comatose state, Mr. Reynolds had taken it upon himself to rule the roost.

  Maddie sits across from me. She seems uncomfortable with this arrangement.

  “Not hungry?” I ask.

  “It’s not that, madame. It’s just, if Mr. Prelude walks through that door right now, I’m a cooked goose.”

  “Oh fiddlesticks, Maddie. Truly, who do you think has asked you to have lunch?”

  She shakes her head. “I should be in the kitchen prepping for the afternoon. There are bathrooms I must clean today, mopping the conservatory—”

  “Ah! The conservatory!” I squeal with delight. “Yes, yes, of course. Maddie, do we have a library?”

  “Do you have a library?” she repeats with amplified effect and eyes dazed with excitement. “Just wait till you see your library, madame. It’s the showroom of the entire place.” The sparkle in her eyes dim as she remembers where she is and with whom she is speaking. “I mean, it’s pleasant, um, a great room. It’s a pleasantly great room, but the entire mansion is beautiful, really, Mrs. Prelude.”

  I can’t help but laugh. “Oh, come now, Maddie. Speak your mind, it’s perfectly fine. Everyone must have their favorite and not everyone the same, mind you.”

  “It’s a marvelous room, just the same.” She smiles before taking another bite of her sandwich as I have just started on mine. The afternoon wind blows the branches next to the window. They flutter in the air and a few clouds, puffy and white, are hoisted high into the sky, eager to set sail.

  I wonder where Robert is and if the day is treating him well. “Do you enjoy reading?”

  “Yes, when I have time.”

  “You shall pick out a book today and spend time reading with me.”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t.” She shakes her head. “I have work to do.”

  “Like what?”

  “Cleaning the bathrooms today, shampooing the carpet in the bedrooms downstairs, dusting, laundry.”

  “Let me help you.”

  She shakes her head so violently I’m afraid it might come unscrewed. “That would never be allowed.”

  “Oh, come off it. I’m good for something. I have two arms, haven’t I?”

  “Yes.”

  “And two legs?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then I can do the same as you.” Can do the same as you indeed. The troubling truth ventures from the dense thicket and into the open for the first time, morphing from deep thought to breath, seeping through my lips with authenticity. If I had really been in a coma, rehab would take months or longer, yet when Mr. Reynolds found me on the stairs, he lifted me to my feet like hoisting a chain and my legs didn’t give way. Muscle atrophy in coma victims takes months, possibly years to overcome. I would have never made it past my knees, would have been dead weight and if this is true, then everyone is lying to me.

  “You can, but it isn’t—" she stammers, not wanting to spill her thoughts.

  “Come out with it. You can say it.”

  She shakes her head again.

  “Proper? Is that it?”

  “It is, madame, but I’d never go about correcting you. It’s just how I see it is all.”

  “Proper is something I control in my own house, isn’t it?”

  “Well,” she looks down at the table as if trying to figure out an algebra equation, “yes I suppose, to a certain degree.”

  “Every degree. In fact, I want you to sit with me for a spell and read each day. We’ll both enjoy a good book.”

  She stares at me as if I’ve just sentenced her to a cruel end. “You mustn’t.”

  “But I have,” I smile, then I plop the last bite of sandwich in my mouth for emphasis. I chug a bit of water and then rise from the table. “Now, let’s see that library.”

  I follow her into the conservatory again. Oddly, something twitches in my memory bank as I stare at the old sofa in the middle of the room. I halt, unable to look away, as the memory tickles my subconscious, trying to break the surface.

  “What is it?” Maddie asks.

  “Shh!” I shake my head trying to concentrate and explore my mind. The thought is gone, vanished into realms I don’t understand how to prod. It is an encouraging experience, nevertheless. Secrets are locked away in my mind. If I bring about the right connotations, I might wriggle them free.

  Maddie isn’t joki
ng about the library. It is a grand sight to behold. The columns and walls are painted a peach color. Books are separated by sections with every genre one could imagine. Romance, suspense, mysteries, with more authors and volumes than I ever remembered owning.

  “Have I read all of these books?” I ask Maddie, then remember she wouldn’t know of my previous life. There are a plethora of categories to choose from: cookbooks, skill books, math books, collections covering medicine, physics, and chemistry. Choosing several from the shelf, I check the published dates. I’m stunned to see they are late nineteenth-century.

  I wander to the fiction aisles, perusing the shelves as I go. Many of the paperback volumes look worn with cracked spines and feeble corners. Each book I inspect is an undiscovered treasure, full of sparkling metaphors and adjectives with golden hue. My eyes rest on a copy of A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens. I can’t recall if I’ve ever read Dickens, but I’m intrigued by the description just the same. Cradling the book against my side, I track down Maddie. She is in the mystery section trying to decide between two.

  “No need to concern yourself, take both. I hear there aren’t any late fees here.”

  She laughs, but takes my advice. “I can’t believe I will be reading here.”

  “Yes, and there’s plenty more where that came from.”

  We come back to the conservatory. I can imagine laying on the couch, looking up through the glass ceiling every so often to watch a cloud cross the sky. A lovely thought, except the place spooks me. “Perhaps the sitting room where my husband is plastered on the wall would be preferred today.”

  “As long as we don’t spend too long here. I must get back to my duties.”

  “An hour won’t be too much time. We can accomplish a lot by then.”

  I am enjoying my book, making my way with each page and casting an eye every so often toward Maddie. At times, she seems engrossed, but her observant eyes, hinted with worry, always climb to the clock on the wall and then to my observant husband, beaming with displeasure at her folly.

  I’m being patient. The reading is merely a ruse. Maddie knows secrets about this place, but I must be coy to discover them myself. “What other rooms do you like here, Maddie?”