by Emma Beaven
“Thank you for coming,” Mrs. McCann said, moving toward the dark green embroidered sofa against the wall across from the door. “I’m so sorry Henry isn’t here. He had to go into the city today.”
A small, nasty thrill ran through Rose as she watched Maggie sag in her chair. Mrs. McCann smiled toothily at her and untied the ribbon to her bonnet, having just returned home herself. “I’ll certainly let him know you were here.”
Her father spoke casually with Mrs. McCann, and Rose faded out. The heat was creeping up on her again, and she had no interest in being here if Henry wasn’t. Rose peered at Maggie and saw she was clearly disinterested as well. She was toying with something in her hands, and Rose strained to see what it could be. She wound something yellowish around her fingers, and Rose thought it looked suspiciously like a braided watch chain. Could she really have been planning on bringing him a trinket? They barely knew him.
At last the conversation ended. Rose realized she hadn’t said a word. Suppose Mrs. McCann told her son? Rose plastered a smile on her face and nodded as if she’d been a part of the conversation. Her grin expanded with her nervousness, and she self- consciously tried to turn it down. Maggie was shooting her a wry grin, which Rose tried to ignore. Rose shot forward and placed her hands on Mrs. McCann’s. “What a lovely visit. Please come visit us soon.”
She quickly looked away, hoping desperately that no one had noticed her daydreaming. She scurried toward the door followed immediately by her sister. The muggy air felt unusually pleasant to her.
Maggie breathed in deeply, allowing the scents of the garden to waft through her nostrils. “Have fun?”
Rose twisted toward Maggie. “What have you got in your hand?”
Maggie threw her open hands up. “What? I haven’t got anything.”
“Liar,” Rose said softly. “I saw you inside. That’s awfully presumptuous of you. Quite immodest, if you ask me. You barely know him.”
“You’re just going to lose anyway.” Maggie sniffed, then pranced off the path and disappeared through the wall of camellia bushes.
Rose sighed and turned to wait for her father, who was carefully straightening his hat. “Where’s Maggie?”
Rose lifted a finger toward the camellias.
“Fine.” He began walking quickly down the path, leaving Rose to scurry behind him, trying to catch up. It made her angry that he was deliberately leaving her behind, as if he was unwilling to walk with her the way he had walked with Maggie. Rose slowed her pace and glared angrily as her father pushed ahead.
After a few more paces, he turned and looked back at her. “Come on.” He flicked his hand beside him.
Rose raced up and looped her arm in her father’s. “I thought it was a nice visit.”
“You didn’t say very much.”
She smiled tightly. “I was listening.”
“You might have been perceived as rude,” he replied. They finally made it to the end of the path and turned the corner. Rose watched as a carriage rattled by on the street. She turned her head as it continued past in case it might have been Henry returning from the city. The carriage sped on, however, leaving a thin trail of dust to float behind it. Rose sighed and leaned heavily on her father’s arm. The day was ruined, of course; she knew it would be.
Twenty-Eight
The night was cool with a soft breeze that twirled around Rose like falling silk. She had brought no light with her onto the porch, only a wineglass which she clutched close, allowing the darkness to conceal her in its gentle cloak.
She had been bored and listless the remainder of that day after the terribly disappointing visit. It had been her intent to let the day depress her until she faded out in sleep, but a spark inside her continued to burn, and her desire for some excitement would not let her rest.
Rose edged toward the steps and leaned casually against the rail, searching the dark by the thick wall of bushes, hoping to catch sight of a light.
Her heart pounding giddily within her chest, she felt something would happen tonight—from when she woke that morning—and the feeling persisted, alive in the balmy air. Somehow the night demanded it.
Rose knew it was daring, but she slipped softly across the grass toward the bushes, the ground squishing beneath her feet.
The cicadas picked up their song as Rose glided soundlessly through the grass, listening intently, waiting for some sign that her premonition was correct. That her neighbor lingered just beyond the border of the yards.
Rose hesitated just a minute at the bushes and the massive wall of foliage just beyond, her nightmares vying for control of her mind. Certainly it would be easy to hide, waiting patiently for someone to stumble upon her.
Henry was indeed quite handsome, and Rose envisioned his sculpted face, his physique, strong after working on boats and whatever else he did during his travels. Definitely a worthy suitor, someone Rose would never have imagined might take an interest in her. She thought of the way his eyes had met hers in the parlor, and she had caught him looking at her in the mirror.
A warm blush rose at her thoughts of what it might be like as his wife.
Then another image assailed her hapless mind. Pale and spindly mouth and crooked smile, set in a lifeless body, its fingers picking their way along the fringe of deep grass, searching ...
Rose pushed it from her head, her breathing heavy. “Not now,” she muttered, shaking her head as if to fling the vision from her brain.
Suddenly she heard a shuffle come from somewhere nearby, bristling leaves, and Rose saw an animal emerge from one of the bushes close to her. Was it a rabbit? The creature gazed in Rose’s direction before taking a slow step away with trepidation. It was a cat!
Rose pushed her way through the wall of bushes and snaked past the woody branches with their waxy leaves.
Nothing. The yard was empty, and Rose sighed. It was a stupid fantasy, that was all; it would never come true, never.
Rose was about to pull back when she saw a light flare. Her heart leapt and began to pound. The scent of tobacco wafted in her direction, and Rose suddenly realized now she was here, she had no idea what to do. What excuse could she possibly have for sneaking about the bushes like a criminal? Suppose he thought she was a lunatic?
Or she was much too forward.
Something rattled loudly near the house, and Rose yanked herself out of the bushes, embarrassment flooding her body, when she heard his voice.
“Awfully late for walking, isn’t it?”
Rose swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat. “I’m not very tired tonight, I guess.” Her voice sounded cracked and choked to her ears.
The small flicker of illumination moved closer to her, and she briefly panicked, unsure which way to move.
A soft rustling sounded in her own yard caused her to rush automatically to the neighbor’s side of the bushes. Henry stood just near her, a black silhouette, his head cocked slightly.
“Picking flowers?”
Rose flushed and was grateful for the darkness. Her mind scrambled wildly for a reasonable response, as she wished desperately she could somehow become invisible. “I thought I saw a cat,” she said, nearly choking as she tried to find some excuse for lurking in the bushes, already regretting the words as they came out of her mouth.
Henry raised an eyebrow. “And you were following it?”
“I guess,” Rose said, feeling more and more flustered. “I… it was hot inside. I couldn’t sleep.”
“This is the coolest night I’ve had here.” He smiled and came closer, lifting his hat from his head as he did so. “Do you want to come out of the bushes?”
A faint high-pitched cry emerged from the underbrush. Rose’s skin prickled. “What was that?”
Henry cocked his head, a slow smile spreading across his pale lips. “I believe that is a cat.” He motioned just slightly with his head. “Would you like to find it?”
“Uh, no, I’d better run home.” Rose was beside herself with embarrassment and an
ger that she’d done something so stupid.
“Please, allow me to escort you.” Henry offered his arm. “Perhaps we could take the drive?”
The wind picked up, blowing the leaves hard, and Rose softly took the proffered arm. “Thank you.”
They walked silently toward the house, a myriad of insects sang and chirped, keeping them company. Rose’s arm brushed against Henry’s jacket and goose bumps formed, not only from his touch. She shivered and slowed her step slightly.
“Have you heard the foxes?” he asked suddenly.
“Foxes?”
“Yes,” he said, pointing toward the tree line that surrounded his estate. “Their screams sound like the cries of the damned. Demons, witches, ghosts.”
“Oh.” Rose shuddered and drew away from him.
“Can you imagine when the settlers first came here? Outside in the dark, in this vast wilderness. The screams of creatures unknown echoing across their tiny, fragile settlements. It is understandable that they would fear the night.”
“I suppose so,” Rose said, feeling strangely uncomfortable.
“But it was a good thing also,” Rose ventured. “The darkness, the unknown, they supported their religious beliefs.”
“You mean in God?”
“I mean in Hell.”
Henry paused, slowing his step. “I am rambling. Forgive me.”
“It’s nothing,” Rose said, feeling she somehow offended him.
“No, it was… inappropriate.”
“Well, such topics may tend to arise more in the depths of night,” Rose offered, letting him know their conversation did not upset her. Rather, Rose found him even more intriguing. Though she could see how Maggie would be utterly taken aback at such ponderings.
They arrived at the front porch, and the moonlight all but died. A strong wind gusted, and the smell of rain permeated the air.
Rose’s skin prickled as she gazed at the house, carefully examining the numerous dark windows lining the front.
“I’d better go in the back,” Rose said, and she uncurled her arm from Henry’s. “Thank you for escorting me home.”
“It was my pleasure, and please, allow me to walk you to the back.”
Rose took his arm again, and the flowers and trees shivered collectively as they drifted past. Reaching the side porch, Rose stopped and said, “I’ll just go in here.”
“Of course.” Henry bowed slightly. “I hope you are able to sleep well.”
“Thank you,” Rose said, and she sensed his gaze on her as she ascended the stairs. She self-consciously tucked back a few strands of hair and opened the door without turning back.
Upon stepping into the back hallway, Rose instantly regretted not bringing a lamp. The air was surprisingly cool in the house despite the downstairs windows having been shut for the night.
A soft glow fell outside the crack of her father’s sitting room. Rose vaguely considered knocking, slightly hoping for another drink, but she didn’t dare let Father know she’d been traipsing about in the night.
Passing the door silently as softly as she could, Rose made her way up the staircase. She could feel her heart beating harder with every step.
The hallway was draped in darkness, and she couldn’t make out whether the door to the right was closed. The servants usually left it open, and during the daylight, she would usually pull the door shut, trying her best not to look into the room as she passed. It was imperative to maintain that small barrier, with the wardrobe crouching like some foul beast in the corner.
The door, however, was closed, just as it should. She rounded the corner quickly and noticed with satisfaction the light that spilled out from the bottom of her bedroom door. Maggie was up, at least.
At that moment, her bedroom door opened a crack. Rose could feel the cold, paralyzing chill that had become almost normal to her spread to her extremities, turning her blood to ice. It couldn’t be in her room now. Not without the wardrobe.
As panic threaded its way through her, the familiar sensation that she could no longer scream took hold of her.
“Rose?”
Maggie, Rose’s breath hissed out of her rigid body, and she felt near collapse. “What are you doing?”
“Waiting for you, of course,” Maggie said. “Where have you been?”
Rose opened her mouth just as the grandfather clock in the front parlor chimed. Why wouldn’t Maggie either come out into the hall or go back into the room?
Her head poked out of the room and cocked at an angle that made Rose feel more and more uncomfortable with each chime of the clock. Rose dug her nails into her palms, the sting of cut flesh following. “Can you shine the light out here?”
Maggie ducked her head back in, leaving the door open with that infuriating crack, though Maggie returned seconds later and stepped into the hallway with a lamp. “Well, come on.” The lamp flickered beside her face eerily, and suddenly the hallway seemed blacker than ever.
Rose glanced over her shoulder and appraised the door down the hallway once more before shuffling forward.
Rose rushed to the bed. “Give me the lamp,” she whispered.
Maggie’s brow creased, and she moved the light further from Rose. “What happened?”
Rose felt itchy again but couldn’t quite find words to explain her discomfort.
Maggie turned back toward her and frowned. “Well?”
“Please just come to bed. And close the door.”
Maggie sighed and shut the door after glancing into the hallway once more. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”
“You know I don’t like the dark.”
“Rose, come on. You know it’s more than that.”
“I want to go to sleep now.” Rose looked imploringly at Maggie.
Maggie set the lamp down and crossed her arms as a strong gust of wind whipped the curtains into a brief frenzy. Both girls stared at the window for a moment, almost expecting something more to come through. “Tell me what’s going on first.”
An inexplicable giggle bubbled out of Rose’s throat as she realized. “You’re scared now too, aren’t you?”
“I’m not scared!” Maggie yelled. “I want to know what secret you and Daddy are keeping from me.”
Rose’s jaw snapped shut of its own accord. “Secret? Are you mad?”
Maggie sidled closer to her sister and shoved Rose’s chest lightly, fury rising, darkening Maggie’s eyes. “You know what I’m talking about,” she hissed.
Rose shoved Maggie’s hand away from her. Her head pounded again deep in its center. A loud rumbling in the night followed by a sharp crack of lightning finally distracted Maggie, and Rose lifted a shaking finger toward the window as the rain fell. She watched Maggie move toward the window, her body stiff and rigid with agitation.
Rose tried to appear as fragile as possible. She contemplated sighing plaintively to force Maggie to acknowledge her pain and care for her, then thought better of it when she saw the look on her sister’s face.
Maggie’s jaw was stretched tight, and her lip curled ever so slightly at the corner like a snarling dog.
Rose shut her eyes, wishing she could melt into the bed, trying to concentrate on her throbbing head, letting pain encompass her.
The storm grew in pitch, the heavy wind-blown rain sounding like a roar beyond the glass. Lightning flashed brightly, whipping shadows away for a moment.
Maggie sat down on the bed and turned the light down, leaving most of the room in shadows. “I want to know,” she whispered.
Rose shuddered and turned her head painfully. “Do you want to be afraid of the dark?”
Twenty-Nine
The dust in the parlor that floated through the air as the heavy curtains were pulled glittered in the bright morning sunlight. The air smelled sweet and fresh after the storm, as if the grounds had been recently scrubbed. The parlor, in contrast, remained dim and stuffy. Rose lay on the hard sofa, covered by a thin blanket. Her head still pounded, but the clean morning a
ir was slowly rejuvenating her. A teacup full of cooling liquid sat untouched on the desk to the right of the sofa, just out of her reach.
The clock sounded loudly, startling Rose so that she sat up straight. She laboriously shifted herself toward the edge of the sofa. It was time to get up anyway. She stretched languidly and propelled herself up onto the carpet. She hoped that soon, if she got her wish, her much dreamed about courtship would commence. When she was finally out of this place, she could rest and enjoy her life, free of the terror that was her perpetual companion.
Despite the sunshine, Rose was sure it would rain again today. She could smell it in the air. The rain would make the house dark and depressing again, and she could hardly risk running out in it with Maggie watching her so closely. At the very least, it had never happened outside, as far as Rose could remember. The terror lay within the house, stalking the rooms and hallway and stairwells. But outside she was free. And here, as well, with her mother’s empty eyes staring down at her.
Rose brushed her fingers idly at the teacup and finally picked it up to carry it back to the kitchen. The wind was already starting to pick up, and the sunlight was being infested with threads of dirty gray clouds. There was a certain urgency to the storm as it rushed on the house, whipping the gardens into a frenzy. Rose stopped a moment on her journey to the kitchen to feel the power of the storm, letting the winds caress her overheated skin.
It was possible the weather would prevent anyone from visiting, and Rose would have no choice but to sit inside all day, probably with little to do other than read a novel where some young woman died of a broken heart. She exhaled loudly at the thought. Today, in the thick atmosphere, she was bound to be miserable.
The wind picked up as she wandered into the kitchen, and thick, heavy darkness descended outside the windows. The kitchen was empty, so she set the teacup on the counter and walked back out into the hallway and over to the sitting room.