by Emma Beaven
“Wait!” Maggie hissed, grabbing her sister’s arm hard enough to leave a bruise. “Let’s go listen at the door.”
“Get off me!” Rose shouted, trying to shrug Maggie off.
“It’ll be the last time, I promise.”
“Maggie—”
But before Rose knew it, she was being dragged down the hallway while Maggie slipped along the floor as if it were made of ice. They barreled toward the door, and Maggie put a finger to her lips as she bent down, pulling Rose along with her.
Mariotta was pleading again, her voice rising to a horrible shrill as she whined to her empty room. “Please don’t! You can’t!”
Rose and Maggie waited with bated breath through a pause.
“Why? I’ll die here, you know.”
Another pause.
“I don’t see why you have to go.”
Rose shuddered. It couldn’t be. Mariotta was doing this on purpose, trying to drive her mad.
She got up, ripping Maggie’s tightly closed fist off her forearm as she pounded on the locked door. “You shut up, you horrible old witch! Stop it! Just stop it!”
“Rose!” Maggie whispered loudly.
There was one more brief pause before the wind rushed from beneath the door, causing it to shake in its frame as someone pounded from the inside.
Sixty-Two
Delicious chills raced up and down Rose’s skin as she boarded the carriage. Behind her, a servant was loading her trunks. Maggie stood on the porch, her shawl clutched tightly around her, watching.
Rose leaned out and stuck out a hand; however, Maggie ignored it. The house seemed crooked, almost as if it were leaning over Maggie, the wings of the porch ready to enclose her at any second. Rose shuddered, her giddiness slowly draining out of her as she watched Maggie lift a hand, opening it to expose a small white cloth. She waved it briefly at Rose, her lips pursed tight.
Rose held her white silk reticule close and adjusted her hat. She leaned back against the seat cushion but couldn’t shake the feeling of Maggie’s eyes piercing her skull. Her red wool flannel was overly warm for the day, but it was too late for her to change. She waited anxiously as a brief silence ensued, hoping desperately that the carriage would start and she’d be carried away from the house and Maggie’s disapproving gaze.
Unable to help herself, Rose glanced back once more. Maggie was still watching, and when she saw Rose turn, she flicked open a fan and lazily waved it back and forth. She turned briefly, as if she’d heard something in the house, but quickly redirected her gaze to her sister. Suddenly Maggie yanked her shawl around her shoulders and strode boldly to the carriage. Rose leaned back against the seat, slightly nauseous.
A resounding thud on the door forced her to turn and face Maggie. Rose hesitantly opened the door and waved her sister in, but Maggie remained immobile.
“You can stay, you know,” Maggie said, her eyes searching her sister’s.
“Why would I do that?”
“Don’t you think this whole thing is odd? I mean, why should he leave before you?” Maggie gestured down the road. “He didn’t even tell you he had a home elsewhere.”
Rose shrugged. “I know this is hard for you, Maggie.”
“Hard for me?” Maggie stomped her foot on the gravel. “I’m worried about you! I admit that at first I was jealous, but the more I saw of him, the more… well, the more his manners disturbed me.”
“He’s a perfect gentleman.”
“He’s odd.” Maggie sighed. “Rose, I’m afraid. I’m afraid something bad will happen.”
“Oh, but when I said things like that before, I was practically a lunatic.” Rose scoffed.
“I know,” Maggie said, shivering slightly as a breeze passed through the trees. “It’s just… things have changed. I don’t know what exactly, but things have been wrong for a while now. And I’m worried. And I don’t want you to go.”
Rose reached out to her sister, who instantly recoiled. Anger surged through Rose at the insult. “Just go, Maggie. I’ll write to you. Send you letters about the Chesapeake. It’ll be beautiful, I imagine. You can come visit sometime.”
Maggie backed up, her gaze still locked on her sister. “I’ll pray for you.”
“Pray all you want. It doesn’t do anything anyway.”
Rose settled back into her seat as an inexplicable chill filled her blood.
During the long ride, Rose reflected on her courtship. For some reason, she couldn’t remember Henry ever expressing his love to her. In fact, she could remember little but sitting in the parlor or dining only to see Henry and her father disappear to his study, leaving her to sit alone or chat with her sister.
And she’d really not had to show off any of the talents school had taught her; she’d had no opportunity to speak French or play an instrument, skills which, she’d been assured, as had the rest of the girls, were necessary to be appealing to the opposite sex.
The conversation she’d had with Maggie, which she’d dismissed at the time, preyed on her mind. Certainly there must have been some reason he’d chosen her rather than her bubblier, more flirtatious sister. Perhaps he’d thought her mannerisms more appropriate? She’d practiced hard to show the proper amount of interest in the matter without overdoing it, something Maggie would have had a much harder time accomplishing. Still, Henry didn’t strike her as someone unduly interested in women’s moral values.
Rose opened her reticule and slipped out a piece of pound cake wrapped carefully in a linen napkin. The ride was taking longer than she’d expected, and she was beginning to wish she’d brought a novel. It would be nice to have something to distract her from the thoughts swirling in her head. She tried hard to shove the most stressful thoughts out of her mind, to clear it of the unreasonable thoughts. Henry was a member of the gentry; his mannerisms and body language spoke of perfect control. He was an ideal match for her. There was no reason at all for it to be suspect.
Eventually, Rose lay back and pressed her head against her muff. Maggie had giggled when she saw Rose pulling it out, considering the season, but Rose had been keenly worried about her discomfort on the ride and, despite forgetting a book, had been well prepared. Her muff was made of swan’s down and felt better than a normal pillow.
She drifted off in the soft rocking motion of the carriage and didn’t awake until the carriage jumped wildly, its wheels clattering loudly in the loose stone leading up the drive to her new home.
Sixty-Three
The country house did not tower menacingly the way her old home had, but it produced a strange fluttery feeling in her stomach as Rose caught her first glimpse of it. The house had a large central portion, similar to a farmhouse, with two large wings, one of which formed an L-shape on the west side. Towering oak trees cluttered the yard, one growing so close to the house that it appeared to be completely blocking a window on the eastern wing. Scattered dying bushes pressed themselves irregularly around the jutting corners, and Rose could see no evidence of a garden anywhere other than flowerbeds surrounding the main entrance.
The carriage stopped abruptly in front of the porch. She gathered her shawl and muff and, without waiting for the driver, pushed open the door. The cooler air suffused her clothes, causing her to shiver as she stood in front of the house, contemplating its odd shape. A scrabbling of stones jerked her attention back behind her. She watched as the driver approached the house, laden with her trunks.
He hesitated for just a split second before taking a breath and mounting the stairs. He knocked loudly on the door, glancing behind himself nervously. The door opened after a moment or two to reveal a servant with white gloves and brass buttons. He bowed slightly and reached for the bags.
The driver handed them over quickly and, doffing his hat, turned and fled back to the carriage. The servant stared at Rose expectantly as the familiar cold ran through her blood, her skin beginning to sweat. She gazed back at the drive, but the carriage was already clattering noisily away, the horses kicking up loose
stones as it wheeled out of the driveway and onto the larger road.
She turned back and saw the servant had moved into the shadows of the entrance hallway, leaving the door gaping wide. Rose realized she had little choice at that point and forced her sluggish legs to pull her inside the house. The entrance hall was largely empty, with only a striped bench pressed against one wall. A stairway flanked by columns curved upward to the second floor.
Rose stood gaping at the barren surroundings, her mind reeling. Perhaps it was simply because Henry spent little time here that the house looked so unlived in. She wondered what it would be like to spend the night here, whether it would really be better than at her home. Her old home, she reminded herself. This was her home now.
“I’m Marge, miss.”
Rose whirled around to see another servant standing behind her. She had dark hair tied in a tight bun and dark, frightened-looking eyes. She looked to Rose’s left and right as if searching out the dark corners of the house.
“I just started here, miss, honestly. I can take you to the dining room for dinner.”
Rose nodded, her discomfort growing. As she followed Marge, a small black cat came bounding out of the corner. Delighted, Rose reached down and patted it before continuing on.
The dining room was cold and dark since no fire had been set in the hearth. An elaborately carved dining table big enough to seat twelve dominated the room. A mirror hung on the east wall, and to the left, a large window faced out onto the porch. Rose glanced at Marge, but she had turned toward the hearth and was staring at it strangely, as if she expected it to be lit. She smiled shakily and pulled out one of the heavy chairs for Rose, and she seated herself on the blue embroidered cushion, but the cat jumped on her lap before Marge had a chance to push the chair in.
“Are you hungry, miss?” Marge asked suddenly. “I can get something for you, but you see, we’re in a bit of a bind right now. Our cook has run off, I’m afraid.” Marge shrugged. “Mr. Moffatt said she probably left to meet some young man.” She clapped her hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to speak out of turn.”
“How long has she been gone?” Rose asked.
“I haven’t seen her since this morning,” Marge said, lowering her voice slightly.
“Do you know who I am?”
Marge twisted her skirt uncomfortably. “I was told a lady would be coming, guest of the master. I haven’t seen him yet.”
“I’m his wife,” Rose said, the words feeling somehow inappropriate coming out of her mouth.
“Oh my,” Marge said, flustered. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. McCann. I didn’t know he had a wife.”
“We’ve just been married.”
Marge flushed and shook her head. “Perhaps I should get Mr. Moffatt.”
“Who is Mr. Moffatt?” Rose asked, beginning to tire of the back-and-forth she was having with the servant.
“Mr. Moffatt is in charge of the household.”
“I see,” Rose said, wondering how and why the servants hadn’t been told who she was. “Maybe I should just go lie down instead. I can eat later.”
“Of course, Mrs. McCann.” Marge paused. “I can get you some cake for now, though. It’s already baked.”
Rose thought of the smashed pound cake in her reticule, which was all she’d had to eat that day. “All right.” She collapsed back into her seat and watched Marge scurry off to retrieve the food. The dining room was cold and drafty, but despite the conditions, exhaustion settled over her.
After a few minutes, Marge returned, bringing with her more dank and musty air from the hallway. She carefully set a plate of apple-walnut cakes in front of Rose, as well as an empty teacup.
“The tea will be ready soon.” Marge nodded hard as if agreeing with her own statement. “Do you want some wine?”
Rose was about to respond when she realized she was still wearing her coat. She struggled anxiously, trying to peel it off.
“Oh my, I’m so sorry.” Marge stepped behind her and tugged at her coat. Rose yanked her arms back hard, and the coat popped off into Marge’s hands, the hem swinging wildly enough to knock into the plate.
Both Rose and Marge stood for a moment, slightly bewildered. “It’s quite drafty in here, isn’t it?” Rose said, pulling at her striped taffeta dress. “I think I will have some wine.”
After the small repast, Marge led Rose into the south wing, where the hallway was bedecked with friezes resembling the Roman style. She stopped at a black oak door and pushed hard, the door squealing wildly as it was forced out of its niche. Rose peered into the room, noticing it was smaller than she’d expected. A bed was pushed into a corner next to a desk and chair. Framed drawings of birds dotted the wall behind the bed, which was opposite a marble fireplace.
Rose looked curiously at Marge. “This looks like a guest room.”
“I don’t know, Mrs. McCann, really. I was told to bring you here.”
“I suppose you don’t have any idea when Mr. McCann will return?”
Marge frowned. “No, none, Mrs. McCann. Shall I bring you anything else?”
Rose shook her head. “I think I’ll take a little rest.”
Marge nodded and backed out of the room, shutting the door behind her.
Rose lay back uncomfortably on the bed, wondering when Henry planned on returning to his home. For all the time she’d spent dreaming about him and their life together, it had never occurred to her that things might not be as romantic as she’d imagined. Now she couldn’t even conjure those intense feelings she’d been sure were love.
Someone had brought her trunks to the room while she’d sat listening to Marge in the dining room, and they were propped against the desk. Rose unfastened the clasps and sorted through the remaining bits of her old home and life. She pulled out one of her lighter Indian muslins and changed clothes before settling back on the bed.
She pulled the blankets down and carefully situated herself under them. The hearth looked shadowy and cold, and Rose briefly considered summoning Marge and asking for a fire before deciding she didn’t feel like involving herself in another long conversation about the lack of food and speculations about the cook. Instead, she pulled up the gold-colored blanket at the foot of the bed over the thin summer blanket and waited for her body to warm up.
Finally, Rose fell into a restless sleep, images of her home and family filtering through her mind before being blown away by the empty hallways of the new house. Her mind carried her through the corridors as if she were walking them, turning corners quickly as she tore past closed doors.
Before her dreamy walk ended and she fell completely asleep, a door to her right opened to reveal, in an otherwise empty room, the edge of a large white wardrobe.
Sixty-Four
Marge stood in the corner of the dining room with her arms crossed while Rose finished her pear flan, the only bit of food Marge had seen fit to attempt to prepare. Though Rose could easily continue to ignore her, Marge’s staring was beginning to make her feel uncomfortable. She glanced at Marge several times, each time eliciting a brief expression of hope from the servant.
“Do you think you can send Mr. Moffatt here so I can ask him a few things?”
“Oh, I can’t really send him,” Marge said, concern etched on her face. “You see he’s—”
“Please tell him I would like to speak with him,” Rose countered before Marge could go on.
“All right, Mrs. McCann.”
Rose sighed and picked up her wineglass. She wasn’t sure who had thought it appropriate to bring Marge into the household and let her run about unsupervised, but she imagined whoever had done it had no business selecting the servants. Still, Marge’s voice did dispel a bit of the overwhelming silence that pervaded the house.
Mr. Moffatt, a man of about sixty, eventually made his way into the dining room. Marge attempted to follow him, but he quickly shooed her away with an angry flick of his wrist. He wore a dark-colored overcoat and breeches with ivory buttons.
“Mrs. McCann?”
“Do you know when my husband will return?”
“No, Mrs. McCann, I do not. He may have taken ill again. Is there anything else I can get for you? I expect Marge explained the problem with the meals.”
“So no one knows when he’ll return?” Rose pressed. She had a strange feeling deep in her chest, one of great anxiety and unease. Surely this wasn’t right.
“No, Mrs. McCann. He does not inform us of such things.” He paused. “Will you be needing anything else this evening?”
Rose sighed. “Maybe some wine.”
“I’ll send Marge right in, Mrs. McCann.”
Mr. Moffatt disappeared quickly, leaving Rose once more to wallow in the emptiness of the large room. This evening, however, someone had made up a fire, the flames bouncing cheerfully in the dreariness. Rose scooted her chair ever so slightly nearer, less so for warmth than for the comfort of the crackling blaze.
The door popped open after a few minutes, and Marge burst in, a fresh glass in her hand. “Here you are,” she said brightly, sloshing the wine as she placed the new glass too close to the old one, bumping the rims. “Sorry! Oh, I’m so sorry!” she exclaimed, whipping her head around as if she thought Mr. Moffatt was hiding somewhere in the room, waiting to scold her.
“You should try to move a bit more slowly, Marge,” Rose said, sitting up straighter and trying to move her chair back to its original place inconspicuously.
“I know, I know. Mr. Moffatt is already upset at me for my manners.” Marge put her head down. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but can you tell me… is Mr. McCann a… a—”
“Is he human? As far as I know.” Rose couldn’t help giggling. “At least, I haven’t seen him be otherwise.”
Marge smiled. “You can ring the bell when you’re ready to go to bed.”
Rose turned to see a bell perched on the sideboard next to the silver. She nodded and watched as Marge exited the room, leaving her alone yet again.