by G. R. Thomas
Margaret’s dainty shoe tips entered the periphery of Eliza’s vision. One shoe flicked forward, and the contents of the pot spilled onto both the carpet and Eliza. It was still warm as it seeped through to Eliza’s skin.
“You’ll want to clean that up before Mother finds out. She had that carpet imported at great expense, you know. I’m sure I won’t have to tell on you if you promise to bring more tartlets today, you know, for our adventure into the forest. Oh, and of course you will get the key from what’s his name…Mr Blythe, I think? You’re the help, you know, the butler? He has the only one that will open the gate.” Her head tilted to the side, awaiting a response.
The voices roared. Eliza’s ears burned as they took over her thoughts. Her cheeks prickled as she imagined pushing Margaret’s face into the pot, making her drown in her own excrement. The voices scoured through Eliza’s veins, fluttered through each beat of her heart, slapped down fear. Eliza’s knuckles whitened around the handle.
Footsteps pounded outside. The door swung open, the letter lifted on its breeze and fluttered across the room to land upon the urine-soaked rug. “Ugh!” Margaret snatched it up by a corner; the words bled away. She stomped over to the door. “Sybilla! Where are you? I know that was you!” She slammed the door shut and came back to Eliza; her face flustered as she let the letter fall on the moist patch of carpet.
“Get rid of that too. Now hurry up and get out; I wish to be alone.” Margaret snapped.
The voices laughed, and Eliza felt less alone than she ever had. The rise of anger’s intensity stomped on fear. She yanked a cleaning rag from her apron pocket, scrunched it so tight the bones in her hand cracked. She began to sop up the mess.
Margaret pointed the toe of her shoe, directing Eliza’s cloth. “You missed a spot.” She hovered too close; Eliza scrubbed a little quicker, her teeth ground until her jaw ached.
Margaret sighed. “I know you don’t like to speak.” Eliza glanced up. “Keep going.” She flicked a hand at Eliza. “Are you mute or just plain stupid? Actually, I don’t really care, nor do I know why I bother giving a thought to you.” Eliza kept scrubbing. The whispers scratched more intensely in the back of her mind. She had the urge to reach out and yank Margaret’s feet from under her. A hidden smile released the tension in Eliza's face.
“Are you listening to me?” Margaret stamped her foot down on the edge of Eliza’s cloth. “Answer me, you stupid girl!”
Eliza froze. Filthy moisture squelched up between her knuckles. The murmurings were louder than Margaret’s insufferable snapping. Eliza reached into her thoughts and welcomed their comfort. What was real or not real was of no consequence. She needed solace, and Eliza thanked her insanity for the reprieve.
Margaret’s shoe tapped the pot completely over. “Woops!”
Eliza dipped the rag back into her bucket of water and squeezed out the putrid waste. She returned to sopping up the brown stain, wishing she could hush Margaret by stuffing the rag down her throat. The whispers laughed again.
“I can’t stand this stink a moment longer.” Margaret’s shoes clicked on the floorboards as she made her way back to the mirror. “I’ll expect you ready with the key and tartlets when the clock strikes one.” She smiled at her own reflection again. “Mother will be sewing by then, and Father is off to see the magistrate in town. Her heels squeaked as she spun around. Eliza watched her through her lashes; the voices prodded for her attention whilst Margaret demanded it.
“Father will be gone all afternoon.” Margaret’s shoes silenced over the carpet and were once more near the stinking stain. “Someone is to be hanged, and he’s a witness!” She giggled. “Wouldn’t Annabelle just love it?”
The sounds of her infant brother’s cries seeped through the walls, halting Margaret’s laughter. “Ugh!” she stamped her foot. Margaret screeched towards the wall. “Calm that thing down, or I’ll smother it myself!” She stomped away. The door slammed, and Eliza let out a sigh of relief. She finished as quickly as possible, dashed to the laundry to clean herself up and change her dress.
All too quickly, Eliza stood outside Annabelle’s room. The dark wooden door was knotted with whorls under a perfect varnish, much like Annabelle. Eliza closed her eyes, took a deep breath and twisted the shiny handle. The door creaked; she thought of ponies and cakes and all things pleasant, then entered.
Annabelle’s room was charged with an energy that set Eliza’s nerves on edge. Eliza held onto the murmuring thread in her mind, clinging for succour as she stepped through the ungodly mess.
Just three years younger than Margaret, Annabelle retained furnishings more suited to that of a small child. A delicate white bed canopied with soft fabrics dominated the centre of a grand space. Childish playthings littered the room, but none were that which Eliza would ever have desired.
Heavy window drapes were strung with porcelain dolls hanging by their necks with the prettiest of ribbons. All dismembered in various states of torment. Eliza’s skin crawled every single day that she traversed this den of horror. Her boot knocked a loose head. It rolled away, cracking in two against the far wall. Eliza shuddered. She held her bucket a little closer to her body and turned away only to come face to face with a new doll that hung from the bed canopy. A blue-ribbon around its neck, its face scorched, a crack split the forehead. Another lay naked and spread-eagled in a doll bed with its eyes plucked out. Its mouth was stuffed with dried mud. Eliza quickly threw a spare cloth across its face.
Others were intact, lined up in their pretty dresses against the wall under the window, yet to meet Annabelle’s deranged attention. Eliza felt compelled to hide them, as though the dolls could feel the hatred that was dealt them. She refrained for the sake of her own well-being, only picking up their bits and pieces to take out to the garbage.
Eliza put her bucket down and picked up one of the newer dolls. She held it gently in her arms. She wound her little finger through the soft brown ringlets, brushed her fingers across the cool porcelain cheeks. It wore a pink dress trimmed with lace. Eliza brought the doll up to her chest, her head cuddled into it. It smelled of fresh paint and teacups. She held a secret wish it could have been hers. Just one pretty thing, one part of her not broken. A screech outside spoiled the moment, and she swapped the doll for her cleaning bucket once more. Eliza wandered to the window and pulled the curtains aside, careful to stay concealed as she squinted through the morning sunlight.
Eliza dropped her bucket noisily on the floor, its clean water sloshed onto the floorboards. Annabelle chased Agnes with a large stick. The cat bound under a clutch of bushes, then through the rose garden. Annabelle screamed with delight; a rainbow of hangman’s ribbons dangled from her other hand. Eliza’s fingers clenched the drapes, catching in the lace curtains behind. Her skin felt too hot. The voices screamed. She clutched her ears as tears weighed in her lashes. Eliza watched helplessly as Agnes ran for her life from Annabelle, along a path and finally up a magnolia tree to safety. Eliza sighed with relief.
Annabelle’s shoulders slumped in disappointment. Eliza wiped away her tears and imagined it was Annabelle hanging from the tree. She shook her head, clearing the thought and her private chorus of encouragement.
Her fingers clutched tighter to the drapes as she spied on Annabelle waiting under the tree for Agnes. The girl dropped the stick and twisted a strangling ribbon between her hands and shouted something up into the foliage before kicking the trunk and walking away. As Annabelle calmly tied a ribbon through her hair, Eliza’s grip relinquished the drapes, blood seeped back into her fingers. Backing away from the window, tension eased from Eliza’s limbs as she retrieved her bucket and mopped up the spill. Her attention was once more caught by all the little bodies swinging here and there. She quickly pulled the bed linens into order, leaving the dusting for another day, and left.
Eliza crossed the hallway and entered Sybilla’s room, closing the door behind her. Her shoulders slumped; she leaned against the door and breathe
d deep. Despite the cruelty of Sybilla, Eliza found this room the least offensive. Sybilla was rarely present, which was a small blessing.
Eliza plucked up the linens twisted into a nest by the hearth. Sybilla insisted upon sleeping on the floor, despite her mother’s protestations. Eliza shook everything out and smoothed the bed back to a state of orderliness, and as usual, ignored the expressionless stare of the cherubic faces carved into the bed head as she fluffed the pillows.
Eliza then retrieved the books, writing quill and a new tapestry that Sybilla had dumped into a corner of the room. The writing bureau was closed, its ornate black and giltwood scratched; a broken ink well stained the floor underneath. A chair lay upside down by the washstand. Eliza couldn’t imagine what would become of Sybilla in a year or two when the Lady and Lord looked to marry her off. She pitied the poor gentleman.
Eliza dusted the window, wiped down the washstand and bowl, all devoid of a frill or flower. Even the floors she swept were bare wood, for Sybilla insisted she hated carpets. The room felt empty, exactly the way Sybilla’s dark eyes looked each time she punched Eliza in the gut.
As Eliza packed up her supplies, she remembered the spilled ink and rushed back to the bureau. The hard bristles of her scrubbing brush circled quickly over the black fluid, but it was stubborn and a dark stain remained, so she positioned the chair over it and replaced the inkwell into its niche. Fatigue forced a sigh from her chest and she knelt, the prior evening's lack of rest already upon her. Eliza wondered how long she could just sit there, avoiding the rest of the day?
The clock in the room next door began to strike; she had no time to hide and retreat from reality. As she pushed up, Eliza heard the door creak. Fearing Sybilla had snuck up on her, she jumped to her feet, backed into the wall, bucket and stinking chamber pot protective in front of her. The door was shut, the room empty.
Eliza shook her head; she was clearly exhausted. She leaned a moment longer against the wall, a headache creeping up the base of her skull. She pressed her fingers on either side of her temples and massaged little circles.
With the clock still chiming midday, she made her way back to the door when she spied an errant cleaning cloth she had dropped by the bed. Her knees clicked as she knelt to pick it up. She wasn’t sure if it was her own weary groans, but she thought she heard the same creaking sound again. She scrambled back to her feet, face to face with one of the cherubs on the headboard, its face broad with a static smile. Moss bristled between the lips where teeth should have been. Mouth agape, Eliza rubbed her eyes and looked again. The cherub was once more expressionless. She reached for her crucifix, which was no longer around her neck. Instead, she quickly crossed herself and hesitantly reached for the cherub. The wood was smooth, cool, and fit snug in her palm. Something moved against her skin. She pulled her hand away and yelped. The cherubic face stared at her in a petrified scream, green bearded its mouth once more. She fell backwards, spread-eagled on the floor. Eliza slipped in panic, knocked over the contents of the chamber pot. She scrambled through the mess, pulled herself up and ran. She hit the door but couldn’t work the handle. She peered back, assured that Satan himself was behind her. The cherubic face was again expressionless, clean and glossy, as it always was. Something creaked again, the room unchanged. She turned back to the door, reached for the handle. It was hot, she jerked back. The handle glowed as red as a farrier’s iron. The windows rattled; wind rushed through the unopened panes. The drapes fluttered like spectres. Eliza spun; her mind giddy. The floor creaked behind her, in front of her, the cherubs glared on, emotionless. Eliza pressed her hands to her head and screamed into her thoughts Stop! And all went still. The door clicked open. She ran.
Eliza hid in the laundry. She rocked herself in a corner, near the purrs of Agnes, who had found solace in there as well. She rubbed the ache in the base of her neck, squeezed her eyes shut to rid the cherubs, creaks and burning things from her thoughts. It had to be exhaustion. She mulled the thought over and over until her belly growled. She felt the rumblings, the pops and gurgles under her hand and nodded to herself. Her mind eased a little. She was clearly deranged from lack of sleep and breakfast. Yet, as she leaned closer to the boiling copper, no heat or steam could warm away the chill in her bones. She hugged her body still, trying to calm herself as the reverberations of the grandfather clock struck the luncheon hour.
Eliza changed her soiled clothes once more. An ill-fitting dress was conveniently hanging in the back of the laundry. She left Agnes purring upon the linens, wishing she could curl up and do the same. Margaret’s threats and demands invaded Eliza’s thoughts. Eliza had no choice but to go and fetch the tartlets and key to the gate of the hedgerow; she dared not think of the consequences of not doing so. The voices whispered distantly, daring her to do as she pleased. Temptation to disobey begged her to listen; fear hurried her footsteps along the path away from the laundry’s solace and back to the house.
She curled her fists and shook her head to rid unwelcome thoughts. A fiery heat enveloped her. A high-pitched screech burdened her ears; louder every moment that she urged the voices to hush. She stopped outside the kitchen door and pumped a little water to quench her dry mouth as well as to splash sense into herself. Every mouthful of water, however, seemed harder to swallow than the last. Water dribbled from the corners of her mouth, and when she wiped it away, her lips felt a little numb. Her tongue swept over them to find them rougher than before. Eliza hastened back through the kitchen, prodding at the strange sensation. Her face tingled with unabated heat; her thoughts chaotic. The voices had died away. She felt feverish; her body shivered every few seconds. Her hand pressed against a hollow loneliness in the pit of her stomach. This house, the hedgerow, the Norlane family, they all seeped under her skin, and she was sure it would kill her.
Eliza crossed the kitchen and tiptoed upstairs. She peered out into the main hall. Nanny hobbled up and down the parquetry, trying to calm the whimpers of the son. Eliza headed back down through the kitchen and found Mrs Embrey waddling in with the silverware to polish for the evening meal. “Well, get on with you then. Help an old lady out.” She inclined her head towards a board of sandwiches that needed plating.
Setting out luncheon took the focus of the strange feelings scraping under her skin. Eliza busied herself, one eye on the corridor towards the butler’s office, the other on the fresh tartlets Mrs Embrey had just pulled from the cooker. Their jammy sweetness made Eliza’s mouth water. Mrs Embrey covered them with a clean linen cloth and set them to cool by the window.
“What are you gawking at? Hurry up with you,” Mrs Embrey waved Eliza on. The cook, in a constant state of fluster, stopped and turned back to Eliza. “Where in the Lord’s name is your cap?” Her eyes narrowed. “And what on earth are you wearing, girl? That looks fit to drape my ample backside!” Mrs Embrey pursed her mouth, shook her head, and turned away before she could see Eliza bloom with embarrassment.
While Mrs Embrey was tinkering in the larder, Eliza quickly wrapped three warm tartlets into a fresh linen cloth and slotted them into her pocket just as Mrs Embrey wandered back in. “Here then,” she fluffed out a spare cap and pulled it down over Eliza’s bare head, wandered back to the counter and pulled a warm tartlet out. “Come then, you missed breakfast, eat up.” Eliza didn’t need to be asked twice. The sticky tartlet was in her mouth, rolling over her tongue. She sighed with a moment of contentment then carefully dabbed the crumbs from her pained lips.
Mrs Embrey had watched her closely as she ate, her arms crossed and her face pinched in concentration. “Hmm…what is this then?” Mrs Embrey ran her thumb across Eliza’s mouth, her face scrunched with worry. She held Eliza’s face between thumb and forefinger. She huffed and wandered back into the larder, emerging soon after with a small pot. She pulled the cork lid away and scrapped an unguent onto her fingers. She held Eliza’s face still and smoothed it across Eliza’s lips. Mrs Embrey then pushed Eliza’s sleeves back and dabbed the wounds on her wr
ists. Shame tinted the pallor of Eliza’s face.
“You must stop this, Eliza. Those girls are not worth such pain. Don’t indulge them, my dear.” Mrs Embrey gently pulled the sleeves back into place and held Eliza by the shoulders. She tilted Eliza’s chin up to see her face. The cook’s watery eyes stared deep into Eliza’s. Eliza dropped her head again, unable to meet them. They stood for a moment before Mrs Embrey squeezed Eliza’s shoulders then picked up the laden platter.
“Well, get on with you then, girl! Ring the luncheon bell!” Mrs Embrey said impatiently, her cheeks red, the sweat of hard work yellowed her cap. “Once luncheon is underway, you can sit yourself in the scullery and polish the Lord’s shoes before we get started with the silverware. That should keep you away from those dreaded girls for a while.” This was most convenient for Eliza as the scullery was only a hair’s breadth away from Mr Blythe’s office. If she was to find this gate key, it would surely be there.
Eliza pulled the brass chain; it chimed upstairs and initiated a rush of activity around the kitchen. As the other servants came and went, Eliza kept herself occupied passing out platters to the servers, one eye towards Mr Blythe’s office, her mind otherwise worried about spectres, dark forests and death.
Waiting for the hustle and bustle to settle, she scrubbed a pot, wrapped a cooled loaf of bread and placed it in the larder whilst she waited for Mrs Embrey to predictably lose her patience with the slow pace of the servers at the base of the main staircase. Eliza smiled whilst Mrs Embrey snapped impatiently about the horror of a hot meal gone cold.
Lord Norlane’s gruff voice carried downstairs as he yelled for more brandy. Eliza stopped wiping down the workbench and wandered to the window. Despite its grandeur, Norlane Hall had thin walls; little was a secret. Lady Norlane knew very well of the Lord’s unwelcome visitations to Eliza’s room at night. He was fat and loud, a disgusting smelly beast who took no measure to hide his vile behaviour. Eliza’s nails dug into her wrist.