“Yes, Reginald told me about you. My name is Miranda Perry. Forgive me for acting like such an idiot!”
“Well, well, well, I finally get to meet the Mister’s daughter, do I? My, my, my, let’s get a good look at ya. Yes, you are a beauty, just like people say. I’m very honored to have finally made your acquaintance, Miss Perry.”
“You’re very kind to say that. I must have looked quite the spectacle tripping over myself that way.”
“No harm done, Miss,” Willie consoled bending down and righting the screen. “There! Ya see? Good as new! These things were built to withstand more than a thin, little bit like you knockin’ them about!”
Miranda ran her hand through her hair nervously. She liked the old man and understood why her father had entrusted him to look after these antiques. It was quite a responsibility, but if anyone could be depended upon, it would be Mr. William Figgs. She often found herself in agreement with her father’s decisions, and the hiring of Willie Figgs was no exception.
“How long have you worked for my father?”
“You mean, in this present capacity, Miss?”
“Yes, here … at Weatherly Manor,” she replied. She walked towards a grouping of pictures on the walls. They weren’t part of her father’s collection. She had noticed them immediately, but had put off asking Reginald.
“Well, it would be right around three years – rounded to the nearest fraction, of course.”
“I see,” Miranda said suppressing a smile. Figgs was a character – no doubt about that. She looked over her shoulder at him. He had begun following her around like a stray dog wanting attention. They crossed in front of the window. The light allowed her to see the dark circles beneath his eyes. She wondered if he’d always had them or if he’d been ill. It would be rude to say anything. Some people were predisposed to them – for genetic reasons. Miranda left the subject of the dark pouches under Figgs’ eyes unspoken. Besides she had more pressing matters to attend to. She had heard Reginald’s gentle assurances, but she wanted to know the truth of Weatherly Manor’s history.
“William, do you know anything about this place?”
“What do you mean, Miss?”
“Oh, nothing. I’d just heard that it was once used by Henry the VIII as a hunting lodge.”
“What? Now who would go and tell you a thing like that?” Figgs questioned, putting one hand on his hip and using the other to scratch the top of his head.
“No one in particular. Just small talk at a party.”
“Well, they was pullin’ your leg for sure, Miss. This place ain’t hardly old enough to be visited by Henry the VIII or Miss Anne Boleyn or any of his unfortunate wives. Henry the VIII visiting Weatherly,” Figgs mumbled, chuckling to himself. “That’s a good one. I’ll have to remember that one, I will.”
Miranda felt better. She had confirmed Reginald was lying about that part of the story. She hoped that Figgs could confirm the rest was untrue.”
“Then the foundation for the structure isn’t 12th century?”
“The foundation for this manor was built when the house was – in the 18th century. Right around the 1720s or 30s. You can tell from the look of it that it ain’t been built in the 12th century.”
“And that was by someone named Weatherly?
“Yes, Miss. Cornelius Weatherly it was. He and his family. You’ve been looking at them right there,” he said pointing to the pictures on the wall.
“You mean that this is Cornelius Weatherly?” Miranda pointed to a stern looking man in an elaborate gold frame.
“Yes, that’s Cornelius … and that’s his wife, Sarah and those are his children, Katherine, Cyrus, Petunia, Chloe, and Benjamin.” Figgs rattled off their names as he identified each of the five oil portraits. Figgs moved towards the entranceway. “And right over here, Miss, are his grandchildren. The family was quite prodigious if you know what I mean.”
Miranda stood beside Figgs looking up the long stairway. She counted at least 14 portraits.
“I see what you mean!” Miranda exclaimed. “Then he and his family didn’t die from a mysterious plague?”
“Would this story be from the same person that told you Henry the VIII was here?”
“’Fraid so.”
“Well, I’m not one for giving advice, but I’d give that joker a wide berth, I would. And to answer your question, he and his wife lived to ripe old ages – as did all of their children and grandchildren. No curses, no plagues, and no dying under mysterious circumstances. Is that why you were so worked up with me coming up behind you?”
“I suppose it is. Once you hear a place is haunted …”
“Haunted?”
“You make it sound so stupid. I do feel like an idiot for giving it any credence at all, but I do have to ask about Beaterly and that actress …”
“Lillian Wilds?”
“Yes.”
“Beaterly married into the family and the place was mortgaged to him. He did love the ponies and a little bit of the fast life. That’s his picture over there,” he said moving to a rakishly handsome man.
“Oh, my, he is quite a looker. And who is this besides him?”
“That’s his wife, Chloe, all grown-up.”
“Well, they make quite the pair! They could top any wedding cake.”
“They was quite happy together … in spite of his failings,” he pointed to the last three portraits on the stairwell. “That’s their family right there, Miss.”
“I should have guessed. They do favor him. And …”
“Mrs. Wild. She bought the place and lived out her years. Took up with some very wealthy titled gentleman from what I hear. She was well near 80 at the time. They say he was her junior by a few decades. As legend has it, she was still a beauty that could charm and tame any man.”
“So she lived here for …”
“Twelve years. Twelve very happy years.”
“And then died and was flown home to be buried?”
Figgs hit his thigh with an open hand.
“It was that person again, wasn’t it? You don’t have to even tell me, but you’ve simply got to stop listening to him! He’s got it all wrong. She flew home to tend to a sick child. Her only child. When she died, her mother passed on right after. Some said it was the strain of seeing her child dying before her. Others say it was just her time. I don’t know which way it was, but she didn’t die in this house, Miss. That I do know.”
“Thank you, William. Is it alright if I call you William?”
“Miss, you can call me anything you like. I had the utmost respect for your father. I’d like to offer you my deepest condolences to you and yours. A man like your dad don’t come around more than once in a long while and I’m sorry I won’t be seeing him no more. I hope you don’t mind me sayin’ that, Miss. Didn’t mean to overcross my bounds in getting personal.”
“I can assure you I don’t mind and very much appreciate you sharing your feelings.
“Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to have a word with Mr. Charles. He is still here, isn’t he? I saw his car out front.”
“Yes, he’s just in the kitchen fixing us some lunch. He said you put something in the fridge for us.”
“I did indeed. Last night. It’s the Missus fixin’s and she’s quite the cook. All ya have to do is heat it up – she took care of the rest. Very nice meeting you, Miss.”
Figgs bowed a bit and then took his leave. Miranda straightened up and watched him leave. She was happy she ran into Willie Figgs for a number of reasons. For one, it meant the house was being left in good hands, and for another, he had filled in the blanks. She felt so much better knowing the truth. Of course, it meant she had a bone to pick with Reginald. She would get that old scoundrel back for what he’d done.
She smiled racing back into the living room and the comforting warmth of the fire.
CHAPTER 3
Figgs could smell his wife’s stew from outside the kitchen. He knew Mr. Charles and Mr. Perry’s daughter
were in for a treat, but he had other things on his mind. He’d needed to talk to Mr. Charles for quite some time, but kept putting it off. He didn’t want to leave Weatherly, but he had no choice. The circles under his eyes were one indication that the discussion couldn’t be delayed any longer.
Reginald Charles was bent over the stove with a huge wooden spoon raised to his lips. He was sampling his wife’s fare. Reginald nodded approvingly and replaced the spoon on the small ceramic holder.
“Mr. Charles, sir, I need to talk to you, if you have a moment.”
Reginald turned around and saw Figgs.
“Figgs! Yes, come right in here and have a seat. I wanted to have a word with you also. I have a little something for you,” he hinted wondering how Figgs would take the news of getting an unasked for raise in salary. He smiled as he turned down the flame. Figgs sat at the table in one of the high-backed wooden chairs. Reginald washed off his hands and dried them with a small, striped kitchen towel. He replaced it on the towel rack and walked over to join Figgs.
He pulled out the chair finally getting his first clear look at the affable caretaker. Figgs’ appearance shocked him. He looked ill – or tired. Figgs’ weight didn’t seem to be affected so perhaps it wasn’t his health that was the problem. Maybe it was a member of his family that was suffering. Tending to a family member’s health takes its toll – more so than looking after a big, drafty mansion. Reginald hoped it wasn’t his wife.
“What is it, sir?” Figgs asked solemnly. “Have I done something wrong?”
It was so like Figgs to be concerned about his job performance. Figgs was one of those people that had a work ethic a mile wide.
“When have you ever disappointed anyone on that front? You do a perfectly marvelous job of maintaining this place and that’s why I’m giving you this.”
Reginald withdrew a letter-sized envelope and attempted to hand it to Figgs. Figgs seemed reluctant to touch it. He figured he’d help him along, and placed it in his hand. Figgs’ fingers grasped the envelope in the same manner a Venus fly-trap secures a meal. He stared at it unsure of what it contained. He opened the flap and looked inside. When he saw the check, he shook his head from side-to-side. His shoulders drooped – his hands fell heavily into his lap.
“I don’t deserve this, sir. I don’t!”
Figgs’ hands started to tremble. Reginald was startled – he hadn’t been expecting this reaction. What was upsetting him? Maybe it the same reason that Figgs hadn’t been sleeping? It was obviously a problem that overshadowed everything.
Figgs pushed the envelope back towards Reginald.
“I can’t, sir! I can’t under the circumstances … ”
Suddenly, he collapsed forward on the table – his head resting on his forearms. From the way his body was shaking, it appeared he was crying, but about what? Reginald thought he had it. Arthur’s death. That must be what was troubling him.
Reginald pushed the envelope back under Figgs hand. He skootched his chair forward – dragging it over the tiled floor. He patted Figgs on his back, in an attempt to calm him down. He knew Figgs had deeply respected Arthur Perry, but had never expected this kind of emotion. And why now? When Reginald had last seen him, he’d been fine.
“There, there, William. Losing Arthur Perry was a shock to us all. I quite understand your attachment to him. There’ll never be another like him.”
Figgs took his head off his arm and looked up at him. “You think this is about Mr. Perry? Well, maybe it is … maybe it is,” he muttered with a far-off look in his eyes glistening with tears. ” He wiped at his eyes with his sleeve. “I’ve failed him.”
Reginald studied his face trying to discern the answer to the riddle of how Figgs could possibly have failed Arthur. After a moment, he decided that the quickest way to find out was to simply ask.
“I don’t understand. What do you mean failed him?”
“It means I quit. I can no longer do the job that Mr. Perry hired me to do. This is the first time in my life that I ever quit anything, but …” Figgs said reaching out and putting the open palm of one hand on Reginald’s forearm. “I have no choice. No choice at all, sir.”
“William, is something wrong? Did something happen? Don’t be shy, man. If you need help, tell me what you need.”
“Do I really have to explain what’s wrong?” Figgs asked nervously, taking his hand away and waving it over his face, “Look at me. Don’t this tell you what you need to know?
“You mean the circles? Is someone sick? Your wife? You? Do you need money? I could arrange a loan or …”
“It’s not money, sir. I wish it were. And no one is sick.” Figgs started laughing. “Well, maybe up here,” he added tapping his temple. He stopped – his face growing serious and resolute. “I have to leave because this place has changed. When I come here, I want to leave and, when I leave …” he paused, taking his eyes away from Reginald. His voice dropped to a whisper, “… it calls me back.”
His body twitched as he looked about nervously. He was afraid of being ridiculed, but he knew what was in his heart. He was committed to telling the truth – no matter how crazy it sounded.
Reginald drew back his hand from Figgs’ arm. He understood what he meant about Weatherly changing. It wasn’t only the unnatural cold. The very atmosphere was different. An unwholesomeness had taken hold. Weatherly no longer welcomed visitors – it scared them away. Even in the kitchen, he’d kept looking around over his shoulder – almost expecting someone to be standing behind him, ready to attack. That had never happened before. And here was someone that had practically lived here for three years validating and trying to put into words what Reginald had been experiencing. While Reginald might have dismissed what Figgs was attempting to say a month or even a week ago, he now couldn’t. Instead, he grasped the importance of what was transpiring. This was an opportunity to learn what had caused the transformation. Whatever occurred must have been drastic to compel someone like Figgs to quit a job he loved – and needed.
“William, you must explain to me how have things changed. What’s happened?”
“Don’t you feel it, sir?”
Reginald wondered if he should admit the truth. He realized it was his only chance to find out what he needed to know. If he pushed Figgs away by keeping silent, he’d never get him to open up. It was hard enough for Figgs to confide what was going on inside him without Reginald making it more difficult by choosing not to reveal his personal feelings. It would be the bonding that Figgs needed to continue.
“Yes, I do, William. I knew it the minute I entered. There’s a cold – a presence. I thought it was because of that story I told Miranda.”
“The one about Henry the VIII and people dying here?”
“Yes, it would take too long to explain, but … wait! How did you know that? Did she talk to you? She must have,” Reginald paused a moment, “William, you didn’t tell her about this … this … place changing, did you?
“Yes, sir, she talked to me, and, no, sir, I didn’t say nothing about the evil here in Weatherly. No reason to involve her now, is there, sir?” Figgs asked flatly, meekly propped up on his elbows. He rubbed his eyes with his thumbs.
Evil. He’d said the word that Reginald had shied away from using. It was an accurate description. It did feel like an evil resided here. From the bone-numbing cold to that ominous foreboding to those unwise enough not to heed the warning.
“Good thinking, William. She’s had enough heartache for right now. Now please continue – whatever happened here? And when did it happen? Do you remember?”
“I don’t know, sir. I’d place it right around the time of Mr. Perry, God Bless His Soul, dying, sir. It seems right after that unfortunate accident that I came here and found the place like it is now – cold. I lit one fire and then another – and I just couldn’t shake it off. It never happened before – never! My wife accuses me of being Jack Frost at times ‘cause I love winter and could sleep with the windows wide open if she’d le
t me. For me to be cold is more than unusual, but it was more than the cold. There were these other things …” Figgs’ voice trailed off. He again rubbed his tired eyes and stared straight down at the table.
“What other things? Please continue, William. I need to know what’s going on. Arthur’s not here any longer and I need to take care of these things.”
“I understand, sir. And I don’t want to stop, I just don’t have the words to explain.” Figgs swallowed hard and wetting his lips with his tongue. “It’s like every time I was here, I felt I wasn’t alone. I shouldn’t say this and don’t mean any disrespect towards my Misses, but I used to come here more than necessary for the peace and quiet. I set-up the telly that Mr. Perry bought in one of the parlours. On nights I could get away, I’d just sit and watch it almost all the way through the night. It’s not because I don’t love my wife, sir, I do, but she does get to chatting and sometimes a man likes to be alone with his thoughts.”
Adduné (The Vampire's Game) Page 4