House of Silence

by Sarah Barthel

  Her words brought those last moments back to the forefront of my mind. I nodded and tried not to look away from her. Despite my desire to bring out the truth, I was ashamed. I could’ve—should’ve—stopped Gregory. “Yes,” I whispered. “I remember.”

  Abigail sat beside me as she demanded, “Who? Who killed whom?”

  My mouth went dry. I looked down at the diamond ring I wore as a symbol of Gregory’s devotion, and dread flushed my face.

  Before I could answer, Abigail whispered, “Was it Gregory?”

  I inhaled so quickly that I coughed. Abigail jumped from my bed and paced the floor. “Forgive me, Isabelle. I don’t mean to offend. It’s just I’d gone to fetch Dr. Carson for you when I came upon Gregory carrying Katerina’s body to town, and your words wouldn’t let me think otherwise.”

  I raised my hand to stop her. “No . . . you are right.” I paused, took a deep breath, and pushed the words out. “It was Gregory. I saw him . . . saw him kill Katerina.” On the last word my voice cracked, and a lump swelled in my throat.

  Abigail knelt beside my bed and pushed the hair from my face. “I thought as much. Isabelle, you must listen to me. Gregory brought her body to Dr. Carson’s office claiming he found her disheveled, as if attacked, and gasping for air near our side of town. He claimed he tried to revive her once she went unconscious, but couldn’t and so he rushed her to Dr. Carson, hoping she’d live. Dr. Carson was so moved that he’s hailed Gregory as a hero for trying to rescue a poor servant.” She paused and gripped my hand.

  I sat up, but was again overcome with a wave of nausea.

  “Isabelle, Dr. Carson believes you were attacked by the same man who killed Katerina, since you were in the same part of town visiting me. Nothing I’ve said has corrected his impression. He believes a man took advantage of you and left you to die before finding his next victim.”

  My mind reeled with this news, but I couldn’t let it deter me from my path. It would be hard, but Gregory’s tale must be discounted. My stomach rolled at the thought of him, but I steeled myself to my task. I was safe. In Dr. Carson’s eyes, my words carried more weight than Abigail’s. Before I could open my mouth, Abigail patted my hand.

  “I’ll get them for you. See for yourself what they believe.”

  “Thank you, Abigail,” I said. “For your protection and your trust.”

  Abigail paused. “Before you speak with them, may I say one more thing?” I nodded. “Gregory killed Katerina. We don’t know why. Don’t give him another target.” She slipped from the room.

  My hand shook as I reached up to dry my eyes. Abigail pointed to the very thing I had tried to avoid. This was more than a horrific attack. This was my Gregory. My smart, handsome, and charismatic fiancé, whom I’d trusted my future to . . . and now that future was gone. The tears spilled over and down my face. Abigail was right. Forget about trusting him. If he knew I was witness to this, he’d surely kill me as well. I’d seen the fear in his eyes. Whatever happened between them went deeper than I understood.

  The tears subsided to a burning threat and I dried my face with the edge of my nightgown. I struggled to elevate myself on the mountain of pillows around me.

  Just as I managed to settle against the cushions, I heard Mother’s distinct clip-clop stride approach my room. She flung the door open and entered, her dramatic lily scent accompanying her.

  “Isabelle, you’re awake!” she exclaimed. She flew across the room and perched on the edge of my bed. “We’ve been so worried, my darling.”

  I matched my smile to hers, wondering what she’d say if we were alone. With Dr. Carson following at her heels, propriety was above all else. Knowing that would be on Mother’s mind, I reached my hand out and gripped hers, showing our solidarity. Such an image might give me credibility with the good doctor. He took my other hand and pressed his fingers to my wrist.

  “Hmmmm,” he grumbled and rubbed his bald patch. “You seem a bit excited, but that’s to be expected. How do you feel?” He laid the back of his hand upon my forehead gently as if I were a porcelain doll.

  I shook him off. The idea of any man touching me sent shivers throughout my body. “As well as to be expected, thank you.” I allowed him a small smile. Then, sitting as tall as I could muster with my pounding head, I said, “But I must explain. I went to see Abigail. But after, I heard voices and they were shouting and . . . I mean, I saw . . . I saw Gregory with Katerina in her home this afternoon.”

  The two looked down at me with blank expressions. Then Dr. Carson cleared his voice and turned away from me.

  “Confusion is a symptom of such attacks,” Dr. Carson explained to Mother. Then to me, he clarified, “You saw him discover her, you mean?”

  “No.” I struggled to find the words. “I saw him . . . I saw him . . .” Words failed me as the tears clogged my throat. “H-he strangled her.”

  Mother dropped my hand and backed away, the look on her face horrible enough to silence anyone. “What is the meaning of this? Isabelle, do you realize what you are saying?”

  Dr. Carson busied himself with his bag of bottles.

  “Yes, Mother.” Of course I knew what I was saying. “I saw Gregory kill that servant girl, as you call her. I know it sounds impossible, but I saw it happen. I stood beside her and looked into her dead eyes. We must call the sheriff. I need to tell him what I remember before I forget any detail.”

  Mother was silent for a moment, staring at me as if I were a confusing stain she wanted bleached away. “No. You are wrong, child. Gregory is the one who brought her to the doctor. Why would someone do that if they were guilty?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know.” So that was what Gregory was after by taking Katerina from the house.

  Slowly Gregory’s words made sense. Katerina did not die in vain, for he had turned his horror into an advantage for himself. He’d gain countless connections for trying to save someone so beneath his station. My stomach churned.

  I cleared my voice. “Don’t you see what he’s done? By bringing her to town himself he’s blinded you to the truth. He wants you to believe that he is the hero when he is really the villain. It’s a brilliant lie.” My head pounded and I had to stop talking.

  Dr. Carson cleared his throat. “He was, and remains, very distraught over the girl’s death. His suit was not disheveled, nor were there any scratches on his cheeks or hands. You are mistaken.” His voice softened. “Wanting to forget what happened is understandable. You clearly went through an ordeal yourself, but that is no reason to continue with this falsehood.”

  Both looked at me as if I should burst into tears and apologize for my sinful accusations. Instead, I met Dr. Carson’s eyes and repeated, “It was him. I scraped my skirt and legs on the rosebushes outside her house, twisted my ankle running from her house, and loosed my stays when I couldn’t catch my breath. But, I know what I saw. It was him. Gregory killed her.” My voice strengthened as I spoke.

  I waited for Dr. Carson to pale and for Mother to exhale and crumple with the weight of my insistence, promising me we’d find a way out of this together. Isn’t that what mothers are supposed to do, protect and love their children? Instead she gestured to Dr. Carson and said, “Could I have a moment alone with my daughter, Doctor?”

  “Of course,” he replied, shutting his bag and slipping from the room.

  Mother waited until the door clicked shut before turning her red face to me. “Perhaps this falsehood is easier to believe than the truth, but no good will come from lying to yourself. Tell me what happened, and I’ll do my best to see your attacker punished.”

  I fixed my eyes on her. “You think I concocted this whole story? What could be worse than believing my fiancé a murderer?”

  “Oh, my dear. You have been robbed of so many things. You’re afraid this man stole your honor? Perhaps some would turn their backs on a woman after such an attack, but not Gregory. I assure you, Gregory will love you no matter what you tell us. He wants to build a life with you. Don’
t let your fear of rejection make you a liar.” Mother rubbed her forehead as she sat beside me. “If this is about your wedding night, I assure you, it will be fine, perhaps even enjoyable. . . .”

  “Mother!” My voice cracked in shock. How could she be so ridiculous? As if I cared about sex at a time like this. “I saw him kill her. His hands pressed against her throat until she turned blue and died.”

  “I don’t believe you.” Mother’s voice was flat. “Gregory is not capable of doing such an awful thing. You are mistaken.”

  Afternoon sunlight cascaded through my bedroom window, reflecting off my bedspread, and forced a cheeriness into the room. Yet, Mother stood still as a cat, waiting for me to admit I’d been lying.

  “Mother, I am quite certain of what I saw. I will not yield.” I spoke with a voice that was stronger than I felt. The soft pile of pillows on which I rested threatened to engulf me.

  “Isabelle, this is nonsense. What possible reason could he have had to do that girl harm?” She didn’t wait for an answer before she shook her head. “No, you are mistaken. A man of Gregory Gallagher’s character wouldn’t stoop to even associate with such a girl, let alone have reason to kill her.”

  The throbbing of my ankle radiated up my leg. “You raised me. If you truly believe that I am capable of such a lie, then you are a fool.” With my good leg I adjusted myself in such a way that I sat straight and glared at her as she so often did me. “Fetch the sheriff. Perhaps he will be able to find proof of what I saw.”

  Mother’s face pinched with rage. “And have you destroy your reputation by accusing your fiancé of such an atrocity? I think not. Gregory Gallagher is the best match you’ll ever make, and I’ll not stand by and let you ruin it due to some servant’s unfortunate death.”

  “No, you’d have me marry a man I believe a murderer!” My hands shook. I forced myself to gain control. I would not cry and show Mother any weakness. That was not the way to gain her trust.

  “I’d have you marry the best man for you. I’d have you marry the man you’ve pledged yourself to by accepting his hand. No one pushed you into this match, Isabelle, and I won’t have you ruining it because your brain is addled. You’ll stay in this room until you’ve recovered yourself.”

  No sooner had the words left her mouth than she walked out the door, shutting it without a sound behind her.

  CHAPTER 5

  Abigail brushed through a rough net of snarls in my hair. She yanked so hard that I nearly fell off my chair, but I held firm. From the strange and frightening nightmares I had, I knew I’d been drugged after my conversation with Mother and Dr. Carson. Not only that, but my drug-induced slumber hadn’t been restful. I felt as if I’d walked to Chicago and back.

  “It isn’t right,” I spat. Abigail paused her brushing for a moment while I fidgeted, then she resumed her work.

  Cocking her head to one side and meeting my eyes in the mirror, she said, “Perhaps if you tried to see it from their perspective?”

  I rubbed my forehead and sighed. “Abigail . . . never mind.” My voice felt limp. Never before had I ever felt so alone. Did Mother really not believe me at all? Could she reject me so carelessly?

  Abigail did not get a chance to reply, for at that moment Mother burst into the room, a large box with a card attached in her hands. She placed the box on my bed and opened the card. Holding it high in the air as if posing for a portrait, she read, “‘My dear Isabelle. Please enjoy the roses this morning, and feel better knowing my affection is with you. Love, Gregory.’”

  I flinched as Mother read his name. When I said nothing, Mother held the card out to me. “Darling, is there another such man in the world?”

  Abigail yanked the brush harder through my hair as a small, astonished cry escaped my lips. “You can’t be serious, Mother,” I exclaimed. “You expect me to rejoice in this gift? He is not the man we thought he was!”

  Mother came behind me and snatched the brush from Abigail’s hand. “Not this nonsense again. I thought we’d finished with that yesterday. Your own attack has confused your mind.”

  “What attack? I have already explained that no one did me harm.” Abigail backed away from us and began making my bed. It seemed that she was determined to stay in the room but out of the conversation. Still, her presence gave me hope. “I know what I saw.”

  Mother raked the brush through my hair over and over until the strands shown with clarity and my scalp burned in pain. “I want no more of this foolishness, Isabelle. If you cannot control your mind, then say nothing at all. I will not drag that man through the coals. I won’t do it. You will come to your senses soon and thank me. I am sure of that.”

  “I’ll never thank you for this,” I insisted and grabbed the brush from her before she could attack my hair again.

  Mother, attempting to ignore me, picked up the roses and turned toward the door, then stopped. “Gregory is the man you chose, Isabelle. You will marry him and I shall dance at your wedding.” She slipped out the door and pulled it closed behind her.

  Abigail plucked the brush out of my hands, stepped behind me, and asked, “Shall we braid your hair today, or simply tie it back?”

  “Braid,” I whispered and then let her turn me into a proper lady.

  * * *

  I waited until Mother left to pay calls to her acquaintances before slipping out of my room. My boots clomped against the hard floor, the sound echoing off the walls. With every step I took, I was sure I’d be discovered, but no one came. The clock in the hall chimed ten o’clock, and I exhaled in relief. There was no one here. It was Tuesday. Our cook would be running errands and Abigail most likely was walking the wash down to the laundrywoman.

  Despite my swollen ankle, I was determined to see the sheriff. Perhaps he would believe me enough to investigate my story. My hand was on the front door handle when someone cleared her throat behind me. I turned.

  “Good morning, Abigail,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant.

  “I can’t let you leave, Miss Isabelle.”

  “Pardon?” Had I really heard her right?

  “Your mother charged me with keeping you home. The windows and doors are all locked. Dr. Carson warned the sheriff of your condition already, so talking to him won’t have any effect.”

  Instead of replying, I turned back to the door and started to unlock the lock. Immediately, Abigail grasped my wrist and spun me so that I was pressed against the wall. Losing that control sped my heart into such fear that I nearly passed out again.

  “Abigail?” I asked softly.

  “I’m sorry, Isabelle. I care for you and your situation, but I need this job.”

  A long moment passed before I wrenched myself out of her grasp and limped down the hallway. There was nothing left to say. If I couldn’t leave, I could at least rest my ankle so that when I was free I had two legs to stand on. My stomach growled.

  “Isabelle,” Abigail called behind me.

  I raised my hand without looking behind me. “I’m going to find a meal. I hope you are all right with that.”

  She didn’t reply and I didn’t look to see if she followed.

  The kitchen table was covered in a pale pink tablecloth and devoid of any breakfast remnants. My stomach growled in disapproval. Mother had only permitted me plain toast and broth since the incident. I scanned the counters and shelves, but found only fruit. I sighed and resigned myself to an apple when I noticed that the door to the pantry was cracked open. Nudging it open further, I was met with the most delicious smell of cinnamon scones and strawberry jam.

  With a full plate, I left the kitchen and walked down the hallway and into the front room. Mother would have a fit if she knew I had food in her precious parlor, but for once I didn’t care. I placed my meal on a side table beside Papa’s bookshelf. Claiming they were an assault to the eyes, Mother had gotten rid of all the books in the house except for these. Secretly, I thought it was because she’d been jealous over how much time he spent reading on topics in which she ha
d no interest. However, she knew if I were to make a good marital connection, we’d have to appear to be well read. So Papa’s collection had remained where it was after he died. I was grateful for that, for each time I opened one of his books, I felt him beside me, reading as he’d done when I was a young child.

  I knelt to the floor, reached to the back corner of the bottom shelf, and pulled my old friend Jane Eyre out of her hiding place. Papa had bought the novel for me a few months before he became ill. Despite it being a woman’s novel, he had read it on one of his travels and admired Jane’s spirit. He handed it to me and said, “She’s a plucky one. Read it and learn from her.” I needed her spirit now more than ever.

  Settling back onto the pink sofa, which neatly matched the rose patterned rug and Grecian wall tableau, I took a bite of the scone and reentered Jane’s world. A few crumbs fell onto my blouse, and I brushed them away. As a young child, Jane was trapped as I was by misinformation. I felt her situation more keenly than ever before.

  Enthralled in her world as I was, I didn’t see Abigail enter the room.

  “Miss Isabelle!” She put a tall vase of roses on the center table. “You should not be eating in here. What would your mother say?”

  “I truly don’t care,” I replied.

  Abigail looked at me with a pained expression before placing a card on the receiving plate beside the vase and walking out of the room. I tried to return to my novel, but the flowers continued to distract me. The ones Gregory had sent earlier were red, and these were pink, probably chosen to match the parlor. Mother was annoying like that. And yet, if Mother had ordered them, she would’ve ordered tulips, for their shape better highlighted the curvature of the furniture. Mother would never have chosen roses for this room.

  Stuffing the rest of the scone into my mouth, I dusted myself off, not caring where the crumbs lay, and walked to the table. Upon closer inspection, I noticed how the tips of the roses were a darker pink than the insides. Someone had put a lot of thought into this. I snatched the card from the plate, pulled the envelope open, and read the inscription: