by Wendy Reakes
I gave one final tug of the rope and the dumb waiter stopped abruptly as if it had crashed into a brick wall above my head. I took a single breath and then slowly opened the double doors. I stepped out into a long dark corridor with a dozen or more doors going off it, all closed with no noises within the rooms to frighten me back into the dumbwaiter where I might freefall to my death.
Hopping out of the hole in the wall at the top level, I cast my dirty feet onto the clean wooden floor. I inched along the corridor that turned and went down two steps. The landing shifted in another direction but in the corner, was another small set of stairs.
I walked on the tips of my toes towards the wooden balustrade at the side of the staircase and as I looked upwards in the dim light, at the top, in the gloom, I saw a door.
My penchant for trespassing was not an endearing quality but despite thinking all my life I had been a good girl, now, in my fifteenth year, I was breaking all the laws of the land. Rightly ashamed, I pinned myself to the wall, and I saw a tiny mouse scarpering along the other side of the corridor. Like me, the midget vermin was searching for a place to hide, having a better chance than I. As it ran under a door nearby, I decided that was the door I should try too. Then I thought, fancy taking advice from a mouse! Perhaps I wasn’t so canny after all.
I crossed the landing as if I were traversing a river via a bridge about to crumble and fall, as my hand went straight for the brass knob on the door leading to goodness knows where. It could have been a closet but I was praying for something else. Without making a sound, I turned the handle and pushed it open, squeezing my head inside the jamb. The room was void of life, as I’d hoped, so I slipped over the threshold and closed the door behind me.
Inside were two small beds, not made up, but with white linen sheets in a pile at the end atop a bare striped mattress and a pillow. Between the two cots stood a small table with an oil lamp, and along the side wall, an eight-drawer dresser displayed a white bowl and pitcher. Above it on the wall, a small wooden crucifix hung, reverently.
Praying the floorboards wouldn’t creak, I crept up to the window where short, brown muslin curtains hung. I moved them aside to peer out as I pinned myself against the wall.
The morning light was up now. The air was clearing from a foggy mist and birds were flying down from the trees to the grass, searching for the early worm. It had suddenly occurred to me, with sincere remorse and culpability, I was looking down upon the gravelled drive to the fountain situated at the front of the house. Despite the emptiness in my belly, I felt like spilling the contents of my stomach, however empty it was. What was I doing? What had I done? What nerve of me! What brazenness!
It was time to give myself up. I should go down to the groundsman and confess how I had broken in without invitation and that I had intruded the grand house, going above my station and trespassing just because I was afraid of my lot at home. Yes, it was time.
Before I let go of the drapes protecting me from being discovered by anyone who happened to look up, I heard the wheels of a cart grating upon the cobbled drive. I gasped when I saw uncle and our Brent, and my stomach lurched so badly I ran to the pitcher on the dresser and removed it from the bowl. I stopped myself in time. I couldn’t vomit in the bowl. I would surely be discovered, if not by the sound of my retching, but the calamity of where I would dispose of the contents?
So, I held it in.
With my stomach still churning like it was making cheese from old milk, I went back to the window. The cart had turned about and the groundsman was walking out from behind a cluster of trees with his dog behind him, barking as if he’d never stop. The man roared his name. “Ace! Quiet.” The sound of his voice floated on the lingering mist, drifting all the way up to the top of the house.
I saw my uncle tie the reins and suddenly I was filled with disgust and fear. He was looking for me, that was obvious, and at his side was my brother, who had no knowledge of what had occurred the night before.
the sound of uncle’s voice calling my name made me remember with sincere loathing his dirty dealings with that black-haired lout.
“Marley!”
The air I was about to breathe got caught in my throat, so surprised was I at the sound of someone calling me from down below in front of the fountain, at the front of the big house. Then I heard it again, as if I were dreaming, the sound of my brother shouting, “Marley, Marley.”
I wondered for a moment if uncle and our Brent could see through the walls, with my back flat up against it at the side of the window. If they had, would they have even recognised me from the back? I was still covered in mud from the storm last night where the thorns of bramble bushes had torn my flesh and my dress. It had been a pretty dress, one I had sewn together out of one of Mrs. Franklin’s old frocks.
She’d given it to me when she’d seen me bulging out of my old one and said I couldn’t go to the fair dressed like that. “Why doesn’t that uncle of yours buy you something new? You’re a young lady now, Marley. You need clothes for a young lady, not that other thing you’ve been wearing for two years or more.” I told her my uncle wouldn’t see fit to buy me a new dress and that he said clothes were a waste of money. “Yes, shoes too, I notice,” Mrs. Franklin had said when she looked at my old worn slippers; the ones I’d tossed into the river last night. “Well, that uncle of yours needs a word in ‘is ear he does. And I’m the one to do it,” she finished.
Uncle had refused even Mrs. Franklin, so that’s when she gave me one of her old frocks. “It might be a bit old fashioned for a young girl like you, Marley,” she’d said. “But I reckon you could do something with it if you’ve got a needle and cotton.”
The dress I’d finished up with was long enough to cover my old shoes, so since no one could see them, I’d felt good and proud when I’d gone off to the fair yesterday to sell my jams and compote.
“Marley, Marley …”
I edged towards the curtain and took every ounce of courage I could muster to peer out through the window. I could see our Brent pulling the horses around to lead them to the other side of the house, and uncle was standing talking to the groundsman whose dog had already run off somewhere else. The groundsman held his shotgun under one arm, broken and pointing towards the gravel on the drive. The sight of that gun made me shiver even more and I wrapped my arms around myself, rubbing my skin to fend off the chill. Uncle had his arms akimbo and he was looking at his feet as he spoke with vehemence with the groundsman. I could only guess what they were talking about. Perhaps that his ungrateful and sorry niece had run away from home and that the big house was the place she would be heading, since he knew I had a friend here. A friend!
I had so needed a friend last night.
Chapter 3
Hiding under the bedin Wilbury house like the snivelling wretch I’d become, I lost sight of uncle and Brent and the groundsman and his dog. They had probably walked around the outbuildings at the back of the house, searching for a stowaway.
I had no other choice but to wait to be discovered or to bide my time until I thought of a plan that would get me as far away from there as I could get. I’d crawled under the bed only an hour ago. I would have liked to have lain down on that comfortable looking mattress, but if they searched all the rooms, I would have been discovered in a heartbeat. Instead, I sneaked under it, and with the curling springs above my head, I devised a plan just before I’d dropped off.
I awoke to hear not a sound from the house below or from the grounds outside. Could it be possible I’d dodged the search and now they had given up and gone home?
I slipped out from under the bed and went to the small window where I once more pulled aside the brown curtains. There, down below, I watched Brent and uncle riding away on the cart with their backs to me, towards the end of the drive and beyond. They were gone! My heart ached to see Brent searching. He must surely be wondering what on earth had happened to make his little sister run away like that, but I knew if he found out, he might have killed t
hat darn rogue and uncle too, I reckon.
I felt ravenous, but it wasn’t the time to ponder the contents of my stomach. I needed to put my plan into action and think about food later. I had a plan for that too. Wretch that I was!
Listening at the door, I could hear no sound when I opened it slowly and searched the landing. No one. Not a soul. I’d been unlucky not to have Celia to turn to in my time of trouble, but I knew she’d help me on her return, and in the meantime, if I bided my time, I could wait for that day to come.
It was with much trepidation I went from the safety of the small room to the end of the corridor where that small set of stairs I’d seen earlier led up to another level above the servant’s quarters. By the looks of it, the stairs were hardly used. They looked weathered and chipped and the dust that settled on them hadn’t seen a mop for a long time. That suited me. The less it was used, the easier it was for me to hide and not be discovered.
I crept up the stairs, keeping to the side, careful not to leave footprints in the dust. When I came to the top, I turned the handle and opened the door. I closed it behind me and found myself in a small space surrounded by wooden balustrade with three more wooden steps running upwards to the main level. It was dark up there, but I’d expected that. A trickle of sunlight came from two or three slatted vents on the far wall, allowing a small light to guide me.
When my eyes adjusted to the dark, I was staggered by the vastness of the attic. I could see the space separated into three sections, each one as large as the next. I could tell how big it was only by the expanse of the roof, since the floor was packed full of old furniture and crates of bric-a-brac, broken paintings and dusty blankets, sheets draped over fabric covered chairs, all clearly discarded and turned out by the house in past decades, shoved away out of sight.
Forcing my way through the furniture of wardrobes, chairs, tables and dressers, I made my way to the next section after stepping over a beam running along the floor. Old packing cases and trunks were piled high next to a child’s broken rocking horse and various forgotten toys, a cradle and an old pram, old dusty books, a dressmaker’s mannequin and bolts of fabric, rolled up carpets, chipped china and empty bottles. Dust had settled into every angle, crease and fold. The attic was an oasis of messiness. A perfect place to hide.
I climbed over an old brass bed, disassembled, with a headboard and a footboard and a spring base, leaning up against the wall. The final section of the attic, with its triangular pitched roof, was, more or less empty, apart from a few boxes in the corner. It got me wondering why… whoever started storing things up there…why they hadn’t started there, at the back, thus utilising all the space. Surely then it wouldn’t be so crowded up front near the entrance. Then it occurred to me, that whoever started storing the forgotten items wouldn’t have cared and judging by the age of everything, that person was long dead by now.
I regarded the end wall, pitching to a point in the ceiling. It was covered in planks of wood, but rays of light protrude through the slats, making thin white lines on the floor. I could see hinges within the structure, which gave me the notion it was perhaps a door. A small circle of rope dangled from a hole inviting me to pull it. When it opened outwards, a hundred or more pigeons scattered into the sky as I stepped out onto a flat terrace with the sun beating down on my face like a welcome ray of yellow energy.
The lead slate surface was bordered by high walls where below them, gullies allowed rainwater to drain out of holes in the floor. I went to the side and peered through a turret where the backs of gargoyles looked down to the grounds below. I could only imagine the water spurting from their ugly mouths when it rained. I turned and looked back at the door I’d exited from. At the side was a massive chimney stack but the rest of the triangular side wall of the attic was made of small square panes, filthy, with years of dirt, weathered with black and white bird muck streaked all over it and sheets of moss blanketing one side.
I went back inside the attic and closed the door behind me. God help me for intruding that way, I thought. I had no right being there among the possessions of the people who owned that great house. What a miserable little trollop I was. But despite my guilt, I admitted to being pleased I had found a place to hide until Celia came back. In the meantime, I needed to eat.
Yes, I was a miserable trollop because now I needed to steal food.
I left my place of refuge reluctantly, but the desire to fill my empty stomach motivated me to sneak down to the house like a thief in the night.
Outside the attic door, I crept down to the servant’s quarters as if my feet were covered in glass slippers unable to put all my weight into them for fear of shattering them. On pointed toes, I rushed to the end of the corridor and placed my back flat against the wall, peering around the corner to stairs leading downwards. I took them tentatively with my heart beating so badly it must surely have sounded like the ticking of a grandfather clock. My hands shook like quivering tree branches and the sound of my own pulse pounded my ears.
At the bottom was a door. I listened to detect any noise behind it as I turned the handle slowly. Quiet. I stepped out onto another landing. Compared to the one upstairs on the servant’s floor, the décor there held such beauty, I thought I’d stepped into another world. Fine furniture lined the hall with tall elegant doors going off it from a precious dark green and gold patterned carpet running up its middle to the end.
Suddenly I realised my mouth was as dry as an empty water barrel. It was one thing to intrude on the servant’s quarters and the downstairs, but to be sneaking around the main house filled with untold riches was something else entirely. My instincts told me to turn back, but the emptiness of my belly got the better of me. So, I carried on. If I got caught, it would be my own fault and I deserved to be hanged for such a crime. Wretch that I was!
Along the corridor I padded. I felt like an orphaned waif as I regarded my filthy feet against the beauty and richness of that soft rug. I was ashamed and I wanted more than anything to roll into a ball and cry out, to dispel the self-pity I felt in my heart. But I didn’t. It wasn’t strength of mind; it was just an aching belly that spurred me on.
Reaching the end of the landing, creeping along it like a pensive doe in the wilderness, I decided there and then to accept my fate and be done with the drama. It was time to show what I was made of and that any position I had been put into by that cowardly black-haired lout would not dictate the rest of my life. No! One day when I’m free, I shall return to the house and confess my crimes and repay every penny I had taken without consent. Yes! I decided resolute. That is what I shall do.
Turning a corner, I came to a grand staircase. To say I was struck dumb when I saw that circular flight of stairs was a big understatement. The walls were lined with paintings of great nobles and in the centre of the landing was a chandelier with dripping crystals hanging above a hall where a floor of parquetry detailed the shape of a pentagon.
I shouldn’t have come that way! Miserable fool that I was!
I fumbled my way to a door that led to a back stairwell. I left the grand hall then, thanking God for my find, because I could never, in all conscience, have taken that grand staircase in the main house.
Surrounded by plain décor now, I continued my trek down to the kitchens in the basement.
Quietly, as if I wasn’t there at all, I opened the glass case, running my eyes quickly along the labels and the keys hanging there. Pantry, one said, and that was the one I snatched.
The door to the pantry was near the entrance I had entered the night before when I had felt so lost and desolate. I knew it was the pantry because it had a mesh panel on the front to allow ventilation. We had the same sort of thing in uncle’s house, but our pantry was just a small bolt hole.
Stepping into the room played havoc with my stomach.
Inside, slatted shelves offered an array of packed cheeses, pates and cooked meats with dried herring and hams and large sausages hanging from hooks above. Jars of pickles and jams, sauc
es in bottles, sacks of flour and sugar and salt, and large jars of stewed fruit of every combination. Onions and garlic and dried herbs hung from racks and bottles of oils and vinegars and cereals and pulses stood proud. At the far end amid two crates stamped on the side with coffee and tea respectively and next to a sack of potatoes and another of dirt covered carrots, stood a large rack holding bottles of wine for cooking.
I had hoped to scavenge a piece of pie or something similar, just so I could quickly stuff it down my throat and settle it in my stomach, but everything I saw was packaged in big sizes and that any small piece cut from a block of cheese or pate and suchlike, would easily be detected and missed. I wondered if I could eat raw potatoes. The sack was open at the top and one or two pilfered would surely go unnoticed. I found a cloth bag and put four large spuds inside while I looked around for something else. The salami sausages looked tempting. Maybe taking one would be okay if I arranged the others into the space it left. I picked up an empty jar and scooped some tea into it. It was only an ounce, but I so desired a nice cuppa right then. I found some brown paper bags hanging from string and hooked over the corner of a shelf, just like the ones they had in shops. I tore one off and used my hand to scoop up some sugar. Rolling up the bag from two corners, just like they did in the local grocery shop, I placed it inside my sack. In a far corner, I saw a dusty jar of pickled onions…my favourite! In front were larger jars that looked newer, so I calculated the little one had been missed somehow and that maybe it was meant for me. I gathered four apples and filled a bag with dried beans. Finally, I took a jar of plum jam. Let that be the last, I thought when I realised I’d been enjoying myself and that I should be ashamed for feeling like that. After I gathered up my sack, I grabbed a small cheese knife left abandoned on the counter. I figured it would come in handy and that I could easily return it at some point in time.