by Bianca Bloom
But I was not in luck, for he did not appear to have attained the wine he was searching for. I recalled that the servants’ quarters were locked to him, and that they were probably told not to give in to any of his demands.
And then I heard his footsteps on the stair. They were slow, and when I looked out I could see that he was clutching the railing with one hand and a candle in the other.
I knew enough of elderly people to be sure that their ability to see in the dark was generally severely curtailed by old age. In fact, one of the reasons I had been able to get rid of the old man the night before was that he stood no hope of finding me in the darkness.
So I clutched a shawl about me, opened my door as quietly as I could, and set off down the hall.
There must have been too much moonlight, because the old man could tell that something was amiss.
“Oi!” he cried. “You there! What are you doing?”
For a moment, I froze, but I forced my feet to keep moving. When I was young, I used to get scared, but my older friend Victoria told me that I was lucky to be afraid.
“It’s how you know when something isn’t right,” she would tell me, after we had run off from a scary-looking tradesman or a neighbor with an odd ring in her voice. “If we weren’t afraid, we’d all be in danger all the time.”
So I tried to remember that I was fortunate. After all, I somehow knew that I should be wandering down a dark hall in the cold, clutching my shawl to me, not waiting in my bed for an attack. But it was hard to think of myself as a fortunate woman.
I had already passed all of the Barlow bedrooms when I reached the end of the hallway. Miss Courtenay’s bedroom was in a different wing of the house, ostensibly so that she could “enjoy the best light.” In actuality, I realized, Miss Courtenay must have been put in the North Wing because it was somehow possible to block the old man’s access, or perhaps because someone could be installed to guard the only staircase that went to those rooms.
Not so in the East Wing, but I was determined to find some escape. The old man was now out of sight, so I opened a door that was blessedly unlocked and found myself in the smallest bedroom that I had yet seen in the house.
It suited my purposes perfectly. There was only a cover on the bed, no blankets or pillows, but I found some linens in the chest and began to see how I should make it up.
Then I heard the singing. “Oh, the bonnie lassies,” it warbled. “And the pretty valleys!”
I closed my eyes in terror. Nobody was trying to keep the old man in check, and at night he only grew more crazed. I was going to require something more than an alternative room to be safe from him.
The bed was quite high, so I could tell that this at least was not a sickroom. And it was the height of the bed that finally gave me my best idea.
Placing a cloth over my nose for the dust, I burrowed down under the bed, on the cold floor. Using most of the blankets I had found in the chest, I endeavored to make my hiding place suitable for sleeping. Since the only possible weapon I could find in the room was the poker, I kept it by my side, hoping that if the old man happened to force his way into that room he would not find me.
It was not easy to sleep underneath a bed, rather than on it, but the fear that had crept into my bones gradually left as I began to listen to the wind and the rain on the roof, which soothed me. When I did finally sleep, my dreams were vivid. Mama always told me that too many dreams were a sign that a body needed to find more rest, and I certainly found that to be true. After a dream in which I was nearly crushed alive by an enormous carriage with a hundred people and twice as many horses, I had one about my father.
I didn’t recognize him at first, but eventually I saw that he had a long neck like mine, something that I knew I had not gotten from my mother. It had not occurred to me that my father must also have had a rather long neck, though that was only logical.
When I finally realized where I was, I went to sit across from him. He was setting up a chessboard.
“Papa,” I said to him, vaguely aware that I had never met him, and wondering why he wanted to play a game with me. But he hushed me.
“This game is important, my dear,” he said. “I’m sorry that I never taught you before.”
I looked down at it. “Please, papa,” I told him. “I want to speak with you. I have no interest in this.”
It was as if he could not hear me. “Now, this side is all set up,” he said. “So these pieces are out. What will be your first move?”
I did not respond, and he smiled. “Can’t make one without your pieces, can you?”
I shook my head. My side of the board was empty, and I knew just enough about chess to be sure that this was not the optimal arrangement.
“Now,” said my father, pulling me a chair. “You’re going to need an army. See, we will put these pawns out. They can’t move far, but they are best for the foot soldiers out in front. And here is our queen, the most powerful, and the king, the most vulnerable.”
7
I missed out on the rest of my father’s master plan for our chess game, as something roused me fro my restless sleep. I woke with the opposite problem that I had faced the day before. Instead of being exhausted, I was wide awake, and the sun had only started to come up. I tried to remember why the dream had been about my papa and chess, and what this was meant to say about my present troubles, but I could not think straight.
At the very least, I could be sure that my sanctuary had not been violated. I could tell by the wax that the old man had dripped down the hall that he had come, tried the door, found it locked, and erroneously concluded that the room was unoccupied.
I knew that my first step had to be to wash my face, and so I went back to the room that had been assigned to me and did so.
That room was quite different. There was wax all about. Clearly, the old man had been there, fumbling about in the room with his candle. And, I reasoned, probably with an organ that greatly resembled a candlestick, all primed for invasion. Even if he could not remember the names of anyone in his family, he appeared to be very well able to remember where the young women of the household were sleeping. And that was rather alarming.
I sank back into my own bed, or rather the bed that I had been given when I first arrived, and drew a hand over my face.
The defenses that I was using were not going to work forever. Surprisingly enough, the man was strong enough to break down doors. And eventually, he would break down the door to the spare bedroom and look for me in there. If I tried to choose another room, I would risk exposing myself to the whole household, and I would almost certainly be forced to make a bed in a room that did not have a locking door.
One of the best steps to take would have been to ask for help. And yet I had already asked for help and gotten nowhere. Mrs. Barlow, though she was willing to great lengths to protect her daughter and to shield her future daughter-in-law from any discomfort, had already said that she would not protect me. Miss Barlow was concerned, but could offer nothing. And Mr. Luke Barlow seemed to feel that his grandfather was simply old, and that the family was doing nothing wrong.
I tried to think of another way out of my difficulties that did not involve leaving the family, probably without a reference. Or would Mrs. Barlow give me a reference? She would not want me exposing anything that I had seen, of course, but I was not in a position to blackmail her. And she did sincerely wish that Miss Barlow have more formal tutelage before she came out. Probably she was just waiting about for the old man to die, so that she would have more money and everyone could abandon Woodshire. After all, waiting for the “right” person to die seemed to be one of the primary activities of rich families.
I rubbed at my eyes. Perhaps I was also waiting for the old man to die. Did that mean I was starting to think like a member of a rich family, with all of the greed and lack of decency that went along with that status?
I did not answer my own question. I could not, as without warning, I fell asleep on the bed.
When I awoke, I was both starving and late to breakfast. It seemed most expedient to solve one of those problems, so after a hasty attempt at a respectable toilette, I arrived at the breakfast table. All of the women were already seated and beginning to eat, though both the old Mr. Barlow and young Mr. Luke Barlow were notably absent.
Miss Courtenay, of course, was dressed in an impeccably crafted light green day dress and her hair framed her face beautifully. I wondered why it was that she seemed completely protected from the old granddad while I was left to fend for myself. If the house was a primitive jungle, I wondered how the Barlows had managed to give Miss Courtenay the sturdiest little hut while not even bothering to worry that their governess might fall prey to the same man.
“It is quite late, Miss Quinton,” said Miss Courtenay. “I hope that you are well?”
She hoped no such thing, and we both knew it. I had no answer for her question, for spending an entire night trying to stay safe from a predator does not do wonders either for one’s complexion or for one’s peace of mind.
“I am quite well, thank you,” I told her, helping myself to a slice of toast.
“Well, if you are well, you might think of coming to breakfast a little earlier,” she simpered, taking a sip of her tea.
“If you are quite well in your mind, you might think of extending a little more courtesy,” I said, unable to keep biting my tongue for the woman.
I saw Miss Barlow suppress a smile. Her mother, however, did not seem quite so amused.
“Miss Quinton,” said Mrs. Barlow, “I am sure Miss Courtenay only means to put you on your guard. I am quite sure that you shall be able to solve this trouble with punctuality if you only apply yourself to the problem.”
“I am to fix the problem myself, then?” I asked her, genuinely amazed and almost unable to be angry. “Why should I even be on my guard?”
I was on my guard about the nighttime attacks, of course, but that was a different matter entirely.
“Because you want to keep your position,” said Miss Courtenay. “And so would any young woman in your place. I am quite sure that employment at Woodshire is most coveted.”
I only gaped at her. “You feel that I should not come late to breakfast, or I might be sacked?”
Mrs. Barlow cringed at this, but did not disagree.
“Why yes, my dear,” broke in Miss Courtenay, who could not have been more than two years my senior but apparently had decided that she was allowed to prematurely take on a matronly role in view of her upcoming marriage. “After all, the best way to start the day is with the discipline of early waking and exercise. I have already been out for a turn this morning, and I can assure you that such a habit does wonders for my figure.”
I knew that my only two choices at that point were to attack Miss Courtenay with my fists or to run away from the ladies at the table. Miss Courtenay was despicable, but Mrs. Barlow should have known better, as she knew that I was having to fend off the old man at night. She was probably trying to keep this from Miss Courtenay, true, but she could at least have acknowledged that I was not sleeping in for my own amusement. But instead she sat there simpering, saying stupid things about punctuality. I felt at once that everyone wished me ill for different reasons, though even through my tears I knew that Miss Lillian Barlow was horrified by the whole scene.
And as I rushed out into the garden, I realized with a sinking feeling that it was my birthday. I was twenty one, scared, exhausted, and absolutely sick of my new position.
Perhaps it did not bode well for the year to come.
8
After what must have been half an hour spent weeping on a cold garden bench, I managed to stop my tears. And it was only then that I realized there was someone else outdoors with me, someone who apparently had not felt at ease voicing his concerns while I was still sobbing into my hands.
“Miss Quinton,” said Mr. Luke Barlow, his voice filled with concern and confusion. “What has happened? Are you well?”
The worst thing in the world is to speak to an employer in a voice choked with tears. So I said nothing to Mr. Barlow, attempting to breathe through the worst of the pain and compose some sort of witty reply.
For a moment, nothing came to me, and the man only continued his interrogation.
“Did mama say something to offend you?”
I covered my face, took a deep breath, and put my handkerchief back in my pocket. Perhaps if it were impossible for me to wipe my tears, I should be forced to stop crying. “Only that she might sack me, because in trying to escape your dear old grandad I have gotten hardly a wink of sleep these two nights together.”
“I’ll speak to mama,” he said, but I interrupted him.
“If you will speak to anyone, let it be that horrid fiancee of yours. She’s already trying to run things, you know, and has apparently decided that I am not worth the expense.”
He drew in a breath. “And has thus forced you out here, sitting on a bench in the damp.”
All I could do was nod. “It’s not how I had intended to spend my birthday.”
“No, I imagine not,” he said, and for a moment I thought he was not going to say anything else.
“I’m sorry that we have not protected you,” he said. “It seems that mama wanted to keep Miss Courtenay in the dark, and for her sake we have foregone some of the precautions that we should have taken.”
“Miss Courtenay is in the dark about many things,” I told him. “She does not know the first thing about modesty, humility, or good breeding. However, I am afraid she saw your grandfather make a definite pass at my bosom, so on that point at least she must be enlightened.”
He flinched, and I wondered if I had gone too far. For a moment, I hoped that the man would be so offended that he would leave me alone with the little peace that the stone bench offered.
But first, apparently, he had to defend his fiancee.
“Miss Quinton,” he said, his voice strained. “Please do not say anything else about Miss Courtenay. She and I are to be married soon.”
“How soon?” I asked, the bitterness in my voice probably apparent to anyone within a ten-mile radius.
Mr. Barlow shifted. “I’m going now, in fact. I thought that if I just beg our vicar a bit, he might give in and do it. He’s been refusing for some days now.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Why, money doesn’t talk to him?”
“He’s still angry at the way Miss Courtenay blamed old Mrs. Hampton for her lot in life. I suppose nobody would have told you about it, but it happened weeks ago, and half the village is still up in arms. Vicar Mosley says Miss Courtenay’s manner was unchristian.”
A tiny hint of a smile crept across my face. I was not the only person in the world displeased with Miss Courtenay, then. “He says it was unchristian? You speak as if you disagree with it. What did she say, then?”
“Well, she said that Mrs. Hampton ought to find herself someone to take care of the doctor’s fees, not go bothering her landlord. Mama was angry about it, too. Mrs. Hampton used to have many sons, but they’re all dead and gone now. If we didn’t pay, there aren’t many in the village who would be able to help her.”
In surprise, I looked up at him. “You sound as if you completely agree with the vicar.”
He nodded, his tone contrite. “Well, of course I do. Miss Courtenay ought to apologize.”
“And yet you’re still going to marry her? Good lord, you sound as if you’re fairly champing at the bit.”
And perhaps he was. Miss Courtenay, in spite of her lack of conscience, was not bad looking. And, as I had rather rudely pointed out the night before, she had the sort of siren’s voice that could seduce even a monk.
And Luke Barlow was most likely not a monk. In fact, I even caught him looking rather too long and admiringly at me. Or so I thought. When I met his eyes, he looked down at the mud. Though his shoes were sinking in it, he was no longer attempting to clean them off.
“I can’t inherit unl
ess I marry,” he said. “I wanted to go to town for a season, and I knew that I could meet someone. But mama said no.”
“No to finding a bride?”
He sat down next to me, sitting awkwardly at the edge of the bench. We were not touching at all, but I knew that if I moved my fingers half an inch I would be able to feel the hem of his cloak, and even that was more comfort than anyone else had offered me.
He cleared his throat. “I needed to find someone immediately, and mother needed a man in the house to control my grandfather.”
With a glance at me, he seemed to acknowledge the possibility that I would find this requirement odd. But I stayed silent, eager to hear how anyone had been talked into a match with my tormentor.
“Miss Courtenay is the daughter of one of mama’s friends, some friends who used to visit every summer before grandfather fell ill. So she was one of the only young women I knew, and we thought that if she were willing she might get here in time. But even now, it may be too late.”
I looked directly at him this time. “Too late to avoid marrying a woman with whom you share very little?”
He did not meet my gaze. “I’m afraid I was thinking of more prosaic concerns, Miss Quinton. If my grandfather dies, my family will be paupers unless I marry before his passing.”
I looked away into the distance again. There were clouds forming over the hills at the edge of the estate that looked even darker than the ones currently gathered above us, and I knew the storm would soon grow worse, but I made no move to leave the little bench. “Then why didn’t you marry before now? Unless I’m much mistaken, the elder Mr. Barlow has been ‘ill’ for some time.”
He sighed. “Yes, but before now I always had to seek his blessing. At last, that is no longer the case. I turned twenty one a fortnight ago.”
This made me bitter once again. At least his celebration had probably included some special treat. I was twenty one and had nothing to show for it. For me the passage of the years was to be marked only with reminders of the many ways in which I had to be strong, clever, and willfully ignorant if I were to keep any employment.