by Cross, Amy
“As you see fit,” I tell him. “There is -”
Before I can finish, I spot a hint of movement in the distance. I turn just in time to see the dead man's son watching proceedings from a nearby alley, although his terrified face slips from view as soon as he realizes that I have noticed him. I open my mouth to call attention to his presence, but I suppose there is no need. So long as he leaves the area and never comes back, I don't see why I should bother too much.
“I am truly sorry,” Mr. Pollock tells me, “that your family has suffered such a devastating trauma. If there is anything that I, or any of my men, can do to help you...”
His voice trails off.
“Thank you,” I say calmly, forcing a smile, “but I rather feel that you have done more than enough. The killer is dead, and the matter is therefore settled. Now if you'll excuse me, I must return home. I still have a great deal of work to do ahead of the wedding.”
With that, I turn and make my way back across the town square. There are still a few stragglers around, and I can tell that they're watching me, but I don't return their gazes. No doubt they are marveling at my beauty and composure, and at my strength of mind. I shall undoubtedly become accustomed to such esteem once I am married to Charles, but for now the feeling is somewhat new.
This is all that I ever wanted. I am respected. And soon, Ashbyrn House shall be revered as the greatest home in the entire county.
Behind me, the hanging post still creaks in the wind.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Owen - Today
“I don't like this place. It feels wrong. Come on, Owen, admit it, you feel it too. Don't you?”
As she continues to make dinner, I limp across the kitchen and stop at the counter. Vanessa has spent the past hour insinuating that somehow Ashbyrn House was a bad purchase, but so far I haven't taken the bait. Now she's becoming less subtle by the moment.
“I don't feel anything about the house,” I mutter, already annoyed by the fact that she's looking after me. “It's just a house. Bricks. Wood. Nothing more.”
“But it has an atmosphere. There's something in the air.”
“The only thing in the air is the smell of your cooking,” I reply, before looking over at the table. Vanessa spent several hours cleaning the place, and Bob's body has long since been hauled out of here. We buried him in the garden earlier, but I can't help thinking back to the poor dog's final moments. Somebody broke his neck, but I was the only one here. And no matter how ravaged I might be right now, I know I would never have hurt the poor animal.
“I think there's been something evil here,” Vanessa continues after a moment.
I turn to her.
“If you weren't so closed-off and obstinate,” she adds, “you'd feel it too. Are you seriously telling me that in all the time you've been here, you haven't noticed any kind of presence?”
I stare at her for a moment, as she continues to stir the pan, and after a few seconds I start to realize that she's trying to steer the conversation to a certain point.
“Who have you been talking to?” I ask finally.
“I'm sorry?”
“About the house. You know something. Or you think you do.”
“I...” She hesitates. “Listen, when I went to town earlier, I got talking to someone at the butcher's, and when I mentioned Ashbyrn House -”
“You've been listening to their superstitious bullshit,” I mutter. “Great. I guess I shouldn't be surprised. You were always a sucker for dumb ghost stories.”
“This house kind of has a history, Owen,” she continues. “The bride, the family, the wedding, the bells...”
“The bells are nothing,” I tell her. “Someone's just been pranking me with the bells.”
“You've heard them?”
Damn. It's too late to take that admission back now.
“Someone was tricking me,” I continue. “It only takes one idiot from the village to rig up a sound system, and suddenly bells are ringing out at all times of the day and night.”
“You have heard them!”
I can't help but sigh.
“What about the bride?” she asks. “Have you seen her?”
“Vanessa...”
“Have you seen her, Owen?”
“I'm sure you'd love that,” I mutter under my breath. I don't want to directly lie to Vanessa, but at least I can sidestep her questions where possible.
“The story's so tragic,” she continues, heading over to the cupboard and grabbing some jars. “That Katinka Ashbyrn woman sounds like she was a real psycho. I mean, if even half the stories about her are true, she was out of her mind. And that's before you even take into account the fact that her sister died in such mysterious circumstances, while her mother lost her mind and ended up dying in a sanitarium. Talk about a grand gothic horror story. And you moved right into the middle of it. I know you don't believe in ghosts, Owen, but seriously... How can you stand to be alone here?”
“I wasn't alone,” I reply, feeling another flash of sadness. “I had Bob.”
“Katinka Ashbyrn was insane,” she says, shutting the cupboard door, “and -”
Suddenly the door flies open, slamming against her shoulder with enough force to send her stepping back. At the same time, she drops the jars, sending them smashing to the floor.
“What the hell was that?” she stammers, as the cupboard door slowly swings shut again.
“Maybe the ghost of Katinka Ashbyrn doesn't like it when you call her an insane psycho,” I point out, before realizing that Vanessa might actually believe something so stupid. “I don't know,” I add. “There's probably just a faulty spring. Leave it, I'll take a look in the morning.”
I watch as she tests the door a couple of times. She seems unconvinced, but after a moment she gets on with cleaning up the mess on the floor.
“If you're so against the house,” I continue, “maybe you'd prefer to get a room at the pub in town. Please don't feel you need to stay here for my benefit.”
“Are you kidding? Of course I'm staying.”
“I'm fine!”
“Do you want to let me take a look at that leg, then?”
I hesitate, before realizing that if she actually saw the extent of the damage, she'd insist on calling an ambulance.
“I'll make up a room for you,” I tell her. “Just for one night, though. Tomorrow, I have to get back to work. And I'm sure there are things you need to be doing in London.”
She heads back over to the pan and gives the vegetables a stir.
“You know,” she says after a moment, “I never got a refund for the cakes we ordered for the wedding. Do you have any idea how many cakes I had to give away to our friends? After a while, I think people were actually dreading bumping into me, in case I foisted another cake on them. It was getting so bad, I even -”
“I don't need to know that,” I say firmly, interrupting her.
“Sorry.”
“The wedding is in the past,” I continue. “It didn't happen.”
“I know.”
“So there's no point talking about it.”
She sires the sauce for a moment.
“The cakes happened,” she says finally. “The invitations happened. The playlists happened. The -”
“I get it!” I mutter, not wanting to be reminded. “It was close, but...”
My voice trails off. I still remember the tears in her eyes when I told her the wedding was off. Two days before we were due to be married, I canceled everything. I was still in shock because of what had happened to Charlie, and the last thing I wanted was to drag Vanessa down with me. I thought she'd be better off finding someone else, and I still think that. She just needs to stay away from me for a while first.
“We had a lucky escape,” I add, forcing a smile that I really don't feel. “If we'd tied the knot, it would've been a disaster.”
This time, she doesn't reply. She simply continues to stir the vegetables, before putting the noodles on to boil. Wherea
s she's barely stopped chattering so far today, now she seems a little subdued, almost as if talking about the abandoned wedding has upset her a little. My instinct is to go over and hug her, to tell her everything will be okay, but I force myself to stay right where I am. The last thing I can afford is to let old feelings bubble back up to the surface. Breaking up with her was hard enough the first time, and I don't want to have to do it all over again.
“So you never struck me as the type to get a dog,” she says finally, as she starts dishing up the stir-fry. “What happened there?”
“I sort of picked him up along the way.”
“I'm sorry he died.”
“Me too.”
“If you don't mind the question... What happened to him?”
“It's complicated.”
“But -”
“And I'd rather not talk about it,” I add. “He was here, and now he's not, and it's sad but life goes on.” I pause for a moment. “Thank you for helping me bury him, though. You were right, that was the decent thing to do. He was a good dog, even if he was always barking at thin air around this place.”
“He was?”
“Not that it means anything,” I continue, watching as she carries our plates to the table. Turning, I hobble over to join her. “The dog was just jumpy. That's all. I don't really know much about his life before he came here, maybe he wasn't right in the head.”
Even as those words leave my lips, however, I know that I shouldn't have said them. There was nothing wrong with Bob. He was a good dog, and he was loyal to me, and I miss him. He just reacted to something in the house, and I'm starting to think that maybe I should have paid more attention. In fact, as Vanessa sets the plates down, I suddenly become aware of a figure standing in the doorway, watching us. I watch Vanessa for a moment longer, before turning to look directly at the figure.
It's gone.
It was there a moment ago, standing in the shadows, but it's gone now. If -
“Owen?”
I turn and see that Vanessa is waiting for me.
“Hungry?”
Once I've sat down, I look across the table and see Vanessa on the other side. For a moment we're both speechless, as if neither of us can quite believe that we're back in this situation. We must have eaten thousands of meals together over the years, but those days were supposed to be long behind us. After the accident that killed Charlie, I canceled the wedding and pushed her away, and eventually I ended our engagement entirely. Frankly, I thought I'd never even be able to see her again, and now here we are eating dinner together.
We used to joke about this. About being a married couple. Man and wife. Together.
“I hope you like it,” she says nervously. “It's just thrown together, really.”
“I'm sure it's great,” I mutter, picking up my knife and fork even though I don't have much of an appetite. I glance at the doorway, but the figure hasn't returned.
“I bought a lot of supplies,” she adds. “For once I'm gone, I mean. Just in case you...”
Her voice trails off.
“That's very kind of you,” I reply, before eating a mouthful of the stir-fry. “This is really good. I'll give you some money for the shopping you did.”
“There's no need.”
“I'd rather.”
She pauses. “Okay. Whatever.”
The awkwardness persists as we continue to eat. I don't know what worries me more: the idea that Vanessa might think this is some kind of reconciliation, or the idea that I might think the same thing. I know I just have to focus on staying strong, and on sticking to my plan to be alone. Vanessa's presence tonight is an extra temptation, but I know I can beat that temptation if I just focus on my original goal. I'm not good with people, I'm better off alone. When people are around me, they get hurt. I'm not just making this decision for my own sake. I'm making it for Vanessa's, too. She'll be better off, and happier, without me.
Still, I can't help glancing at the doorway every few minutes. I can't see the figure, but I feel as if we're being watched. I turn and look back toward the far side of the kitchen, but there's still no sign of anyone. There's a presence, though, and finally I look at the windows, half expecting to see the reflection of a dark and twisted face.
A face wearing a veil...
Suddenly Vanessa lets out a gasp of pain.
Looking across the table, I see she's got a hand to her mouth, and a moment later she spits out a glistening, bloody piece of glass.
“Are you okay?” I ask, getting to my feet and hobbling over to her.
She mumbles something as she hurries to the sink, where more blood starts dribbling from her mouth and splattering against the plughole.
“What the hell was glass doing in your food?” I ask.
“It cut my gum!” she splutters, as I hand her some kitchen roll. She wipes her lips, but fresh blood is running freely and I watch as she holds up the shard that caused the damage. “At least I didn't swallow any of it.”
She continues to dab at her mouth, as I turn and limp back to the table. Sure enough, there are several more glass pieces in her food, far more than could have been caused by a simple accident.
After a moment, I turn and look along the corridor. The door to the study is open, and I can see the painting of the bride reflected in the window.
***
“I'm sorry it's not the Ritz,” I mutter, stepping back from the bed I've made up for Vanessa in one of the spare rooms. “I wasn't exactly expecting visitors.” I pause for a moment, before turning to her. “Ever.”
She offers a faint smile, as she continues to dab at her damaged gum.
“You have some blood on your chin,” I tell her.
She tries to wipe it away, but she misses.
“A little further down,” I add.
Again, she doesn't quite get the right spot.
“Here.” I take the piece of tissue paper and wipe the blood for her.
“Thanks,” she replies as I hand the paper back to her. “It's not hurting so much now.”
This feels so wrong. I want to kiss her, to tell her that I made a terrible mistake and that we have to try again, but I know I can't do any of those things. Instead, I have to leave her here to sleep in this bare, drafty room while I go to sleep in a room at the far end of the corridor. And in the morning, I have to wave her off and hope she never comes back.
“You should sleep okay in here,” I continue, feeling awkward but not really knowing what else to say. I turn and look into the room, and I can't help feeling that it's wholly inadequate. Still, it's only for one night. “There's an extra blanket on the chair, in case you get cold.”
“Owen -”
“And you've got your own bathroom. Down the corridor, at the far end.”
“Owen, I want you to come with me tomorrow.”
I hesitate, shocked by her suggestion but also – for a fraction of a second – imagining what it would be like if I gave in and went back to London with her. Back to my old life.
“I can't drive away and leave you here,” she continues. “I know you won't admit it, but deep down you have to realize that there's something in this house. Do you even know the story of Katinka Ashbyrn, or have you really put your head in the sand and refused to learn about your own home?”
“There's nothing here,” I tell her.
“Then who put the glass in my food?”
“No-one put it there. There must have been an accident.”
“And who killed your dog?”
I want to tell her that she's wrong, but Bob's death is still on my mind and I can't help thinking back to the sound of him whimpering. He didn't break his own neck, and I feel as if he spent his final hours trying to guard me against something that was drawing closer and closer.
“You loved him, didn't you?” she asks, with tears in her eyes.
“He was just a dog.”
“But you loved him.”
I hesitate for a moment, before heading to the door. It fee
ls so strange to be leaving Vanessa alone at night, after we spent so long living together and planning our wedding, but I know it would be a terrible mistake if I gave in to my baser urges. That period of my life is over now, and this is probably the last time I'll ever see Vanessa. Turning to her, I can't help but notice that she looks lost, as if she won't know what to do once I shut the door.
“Even if you don't want to try to make things work between us,” she continues, “will you at least come back to London with me? Just as a friend? I can't leave you here.”
“Goodnight,” I tell her, pulling the door closed and then limping along the corridor.
There.
I did it.
I held firm.
Now I just have to get through tomorrow morning, and she'll be out of here for good.
When I get to my room, however, I pause for a moment as I realize that I'm not remotely tired. Besides, the bed looks so empty without Bob curled at the bottom, and I think maybe I could do with typing a few more words before I try to sleep. Trying to keep from making much noise, I head to the stairs and start limping down to the hallway.
The boards creak beneath my feet, but otherwise the house is completely quiet. I'm just going to work for a half hour or so. Just to tire myself out.
Chapter Thirty
Katinka - 1859
“Where is it, you foolish whore?” I scream, grabbing Mother by the collar and starting to haul her off the floor, only to slam her back down. She's lucky I don't break her infernal neck. “What did you do with my painting!”
She gasps and splutters, but she seems too shocked to speak. Her face is red and her eyes are wide with horror, and her general air of pathetic defeat is utterly infuriating. She doesn't even try to defend herself, or to argue against me. It's truly hard to believe that I, a strong and firm-minded woman, could have grown in the womb of such a weak sack of flesh. I am most certainly more my father's daughter, than my mother's.
I take a step back, resolving to let her regather her composure so she can reply to me, but suddenly a fresh wave of anger surges through my chest. I am breathless, but also furious. I have held back for so long, I have shown greater patience than any other woman could possibly muster, but this horrible old woman has pushed me too far.