Elysia stared at her clothes with disgust. They hung limply like the rags they were; the elbows mended time and again, the cuffs frayed and color worn. It pained her to think of the sachet-scented closet full of brightly-colored satin and velvet dresses she had once worn; the matching shoes peeking out saucily beneath the row of dresses. Elysia turned away, her heavily-clad feet in their wooden clogs noisily raking the floor; practical shoes that carried one through the sodden fields and muddy lanes, repulsing the wetness as thinly-soled. satin and leather slippers never would.
Elysia shivered in her damp dress, which now felt clammy against her chilled skin. She was beginning to unbutton her bodice when a knock sounded on the door. She watched silently as the doorknob was turned experimentally but the look that she had placed on the door held the unannounced visitor at bay. The knocking came again, but more impatiently this time.
"'Ere, answer up. Oi knows ye be in ther. Oi've a message fer ye from the Mistress."
Elysia opened the door reluctantly, dreading the scene that would follow as she faced the burly footman standing insolently before her, a sneering smile on his thick lips. .
"Well now, that be better," he said as his eyes roved over her rosy cheeks and disarrayed red-gold curls.
"What is the message?" Elysia asked coldly.
"'Ere now that's not whats Oi calls friendly. Ye knows Oi could make yer lot a bit easier if ye was te be a bit more friendly with me." He put out his big calloused hand, the nails dirty and broken, to touch a button that Elysia had missed re-fastening in her haste.
She slapped his hand away, glaring at him in warning. "Don't you dare touch me!"
He only laughed, but his eyes were as cold and deadly as a snake's watching its prey squirm before it pounces.
"The fine lady, eh? Thought that'd have been worked out of ye by now—but no, ye still be te good fer the likes o' me. Well, we'll see, my fine 'un." He grinned unpleasantly, leering into Elysia's face. "Oi'll have ye yet, my pretty, and ask any o' the maids if Oi don't treats 'em good—real good."
He flicked the latch on the door with a contemptuous finger. "And don't be thinkin' that little bit o' metal's going to keep me out."
"You ought to be flogged, and if you continue with these insults, l'll—"
"Ye'll what?" he said in an ugly voice. "Go tells yer auntie. Ha! That be a good 'un, If she be so interested in yer well-being then why are ye up here and working more than a scullery maid? No, Oi'll not be ascared o' the Mistress on that account." He smiled triumphantly, knowing Elysia could not deny his accusations.
"No, maybe she would not interfere," Elysia agreed softly, "but I'll put a hole through that thick skull of yours if you ever dare to lay a hand on me." Elysia narrowed her eyes, smiling slightly as she continued quietly, "I am a very keen shot—in fact, I rarely miss when I take aim between some vermin's eyes."
She made no idle threat, for she had her father's pistol neatly. tucked away under her mattress; originally kept as a memento, it was now used for a very different purpose.
The footman's grin faded, and he eyed the young girl who stood before him—threatening him—with a new and guarded look in his shifty eyes.
"Reckon ye just might at that. Quality does strange things, heard tell. Why ye should wanta shoot me when Oi was just offering ye a little bit o'fun," he whined placatingly, shrugging his heavy shoulders, but watching her with a sly, cunning look.
"What is the message from my aunt?" Elysia asked once more, feeling more sure of herself.
"Wants ye downstairs in the Salon," he told her sullenly. Then he stomped down the wooden steps with ill-contained anger.
Elysia followed him down, wondering what her aunt would want of her this time—to complain that the floors were not scrubbed clean enough; or the windows needed washing; or the linen needed airing? There was inevitably some small detail that Elysia had missed, but which had not escaped her aunt's critical eye.
She crossed the entrance hall, forever in shadow, the dark wood-paneling absorbing whatever light seeped in through the two narrow windows. Elysia knocked, and then entered the Salon to stand in seemingly respectful silence before the cold stare of her aunt.
“I see you have been out." She looked at Elysia disapprovingly. "I suppose you forgot the acorns? I did ask you to fetch me some, but you always think of your own pleasures first. You did go to the North field to look, didn't you?" Aunt Agatha's colorless eyes brightened as she anticipated the answer.
Elysia bit her lip, trying to control the anger and hatred she felt surging within her against this cruel woman.
“I am sorry that I forgot the acorns," Elysia finally replied shortly. She knew what her aunt expected to hear, but she would say nothing to satisfy her twisted curiosity.
"Forgot! Ha! From the looks of you, it was the furthest thing from your mind," Agatha hissed, noticing the dirt and stains on Elysia's dress. "Thought you'd sneak into my house like some common scullery maid after a night of roiling in the hay. Well, miss? Maybe you weren't out 'picking flowers' all of the time," Agatha said meaningfully, looking at the late-blooming wildflowers Elysia had tucked into the pocket of her half-apron. "Maybe you got deflowered yourself? Did some stable-boy steal a few sweet kisses from you down under the trees?" she added crudely, a look of malice in her eyes.
Her cruel remarks made Elysia flinch, and her shoulders slumped almost unconsciously with defeat. She had suffered humiliation and indignity, and she was chilled to the bone, and so tired of all of this that she did not know how much longer she could endure it. She assumed her aunt had finished with her, having called her in only to assess the damage her malicious errand might have caused. All Elysia wanted now was to warm herself before the fire in the big kitchen, and pour a cup of strong, hot tea. But Agatha put a detaining hand on Elysia's wrist as she turned to leave.
"I want to speak with you."
"Yes, Aunt Agatha, but I would like to change first and get a cup of—"
"Later," Agatha interrupted rudely, "You can just stay in those damp things until I am finished. It is what you deserve for flouting my wishes."
And punishment for returning unscathed, Elysia thought dryly as she glanced about the drab Salon with its green and gray-patterned wallpaper, olive-green, striped, satin sofa and chairs and brownish green carpet. The cold-looking marble-topped tables, and stem-visaged family portraits were all reflected over and over again in the ornately carved gilt mirror above the fireplace, where a small fire was burning, sending out an aura of warmth to which Elysia automatically moved.
"Sit over there," her aunt said imperiously, indicating one of the hard-backed chairs near the window. Elysia sat down slowly, trying to get comfortable on the hard cushion. She shivered, feeling a cold draft seeping in through the window frame.
Aunt Agatha settled herself carefully on the striped satin cushions of the sofa which sat greedily before the fire, swallowing up all of the warmth put out by the struggling Hames. Agatha smoothed back an imaginary piece of loose hair. Elysia had never seen a piece escape yet from the tight little bun at the nape of her aunt's neck. Never had Elysia seen her aunt's face alight with joy, humor, or love. Her whole appearance was severe.
During the two years that Elysia had lived at Graystone Manor she had never heard Agatha speak a kind word to her-or to anyone-but she seemed to be the butt of her aunt's enmity more than the others. Agatha had not acquired a niece when she had taken Elysia into her home, but a maid-of-all-work, with the added advantage of not having to pay her wages in return for her labors.
Elysia had left the Salon confused and bewildered. She had been raised as a lady; the protected and sheltered daughter of aristocratic parents who had provided for her every need, and had been fully educated by tutors to use her intellect. To find that she had been reduced to the lowest of menials, and in her own aunt's household had been a severe blow. It was not that she was lazy, for she had always been anxious to help and athletic, despite it being
not proper behavior for a girl of her class.
Had her family been poor, she would gladly have helped her parents in any way that she could have; even if it meant getting down on her hands and knees to scrub the floors, It would have been a sacrifice she would have borne proudly to help her family. She would never have felt any degradation or humiliation.
But here at Graystone Manor, Agatha had no need to subject her to this position. Her own aunt had forced her to become a scullery maid, not even allowed the freedom of the lowliest of servants, with no standing in the household, existing in a barren no-man's-land cut off from everything and everyone. The other servants, knowing her to be Quality, and the niece of their Mistress, kept to themselves, ostracizing her from their circle. They knew Agatha would not raise a hand to help Elysia, so they delegated her more work than three maids could manage. Elysia felt as if she were in the workhouse. She never seemed to have an idle moment—no thought or time to call her own. She was constantly busy cleaning the manor, rubbing beeswax into the aged wood, scrubbing floors until immaculate, airing the bedrooms, mending linen, until her brow dripped beads of perspiration, and sweat drenched her dress.
And Agatha was always behind her watching, directing, ordering, yet never lifting a finger herself. She sometimes thought Agatha would have enjoyed having a whip to crack over her head as she bent doing some endless chore.
Elysia remembered bitterly how she had hated the idea of becoming a burden and inconvenience to her aunt, but she knew now how incorrect an assumption that had been. Aunt Agatha's household was run frugally, with no excess in any form, and Elysia's small share of food, in comparison to the back-breaking work she did in the house, more than compensated for any possible strain she had put on the household budget—or debt that she owed Agatha.
All this at a time in Elysia's life when she needed love and understanding more than ever before; when she had been left an orphan, and cut off from all that she had loved and known. Hungry, with only memories to fill the ache within her when she thought she would starve for a friendly smile or kind word. She received only hate and abuse from those around her.
Elysia constantly felt Agatha's colorless eyes watching her. She antagonized Elysia; goaded her into doing something foolish, and then seemed to derive some personal satisfaction out of punishing her for it. She knew Aunt Agatha was waiting patiently for her to break down—but she wouldn't. She would fight her—if not outwardly in a verbal battle, then silently in her mind and heart. She still had some small vestige of pride left in her.
At the end of the day when Agatha's taunting became unendurable, and her body ached with fatigue, Elysia would climb the flights of stairs to her attic bedchamber-a cold and bare room up under the eaves. How many times had she stood looking out of the dormer windows at the distant horizon, wishing so many things that could never be, remembering distant times when she had been innocent of cruelty and malice, loneliness and grief!
Her dreams were her only comfort when she went to bed at night. She would put on a thin nightdress, slip between the cold sheets of the bed, shivering. Then she would fall asleep listening to the mice scurrying in the walls.
Once in awhile she could escape outside when Agatha had some errand for her to run, sending her to the village or nearby farms for numerous items her aunt suddenly found she needed. Elysia had to hide the excitement and pleasure in her eyes as she pretended to wearily accept another chore. Had Agatha but known how eagerly she looked forward to these excursions she would have forbidden her to set foot out of doors; so intent was she on denying Elysia any pleasures.
Elysia would rush outside, beyond the stifling walls of Graystone Manor, down through the trees to the little babbling brook of clear sparkling water. She would lie there enjoying the lazy summer days under the trees, staring up through their green leafy branches at odd shaped portions of blue sky, sometimes dappled with fluffy white clouds. But even on cold winter days she would rejoice in her small flight of freedom; forgetting the circumstances that had thrown her to the mercy of Aunt Agatha, and remembering the smiling faces that were now as insubstantial as ghosts. .
How could she not compare the silent and grim Graystone Manor with the smaller house of her parents; echoing with laughter, gaiety, and love. Her parents were so full of love and the breath of life. Charles Demarice, tall and straight, lean as a younger man of twenty, silver threading through his once raven-black hair; his strangely green eyes still as bright and deep with color as ever, despite his fifty years-the sweet memory of her mother's graceful figure, crowned by her glorious red-gold hair, shining with the sun's rays above her twinkling blue eyes, as she picked flowers in the garden.
If only they were still here with her, Elysia thought despondently; but they were gone—as well at Ian.
Elysia looked out of the window of the Salon, not listening to Agatha's words, wondering how she had managed to survive these last two years of living—no, existing—under Agatha's roof. Why Agatha felt animosity towards her was still an unanswered question. She felt that Aunt Agatha had hated her before they'd ever met, so it couldn't have been something she had personally done. The only possible explanation was that something had occurred to cause a rift between Agatha and her own family, back when, her mother had lived at Graystone Manor with Agatha. Her mother's reluctance to discuss that time of her life, and her father's similar silence led her to believe that something unpleasant had happened; but she had no idea as to what, nor I' would she probably ever know,
Elysia's straying thoughts came back to the present, the chilly Salon and Agatha's harshly grating voice as cold as the draft seeping in from the window.
“. . . and so, naturally I was surprised when I met Squire Masters this afternoon on my way to the village, and what he had to relate to me” her aunt was saying,
Squire Masters. The mere thought of him made Elysia shudder. She had never met a more repulsive man than the squire, and she fervently hoped that she would never meet him again. She had been introduced to the middle-aged' widower and his three daughters for the first time a fortnight ago when they had been invited over to dine one evening at Graystone Manor.
It had come as a shock, when Agatha told her they would be having guests to dine that evening and that she, Elysia, was to join in the festivities.
Elysia usually ate in solitude in a corner of the kitchen, or as she preferred, on a tray in the privacy of her room, away from the servants' curious eyes and gossip. Not that mealtimes were to be looked forward to with delicious hot dishes to entice one's appetite; what they served was only to keep your body going one more endless day. Agatha had lectured her one evening when she had been a few minutes late, warning Elysia that if she continued to be tardy for meals, then she would have to learn to go without. Elysia had refrained from telling her aunt that missing a meal was no real hardship, her thoughts on the unappetizing and poorly prepared food, and the small amount allowed as her portion. The thin slice of coarse, brown bread—white flour being too expensive to serve the servants-and mushy, overcooked vegetables with occasional meat or fish ended up in pies over and over again until gone. Breakfast consisted of even less—tea and tasteless gruel, usually lumpy and cold. Bread and cheese served as luncheon. But in summer, when the fruit from the orchard was ripe and sweet, Elysia would secretly pick handfuls of the sun-ripened fruit to hide away in her room. When hunger rumbled in her stomach ill the middle of the night, keeping her from sleep, she would feast on the delicious stolen fruit.
Agatha seemed uncommonly excited about the Masters' visit. She ordered the cook to prepare a variety of assorted savories and pastries. Pork, lamb, and beef were sent from a nearby farm along with fancy vegetables and fruits which far surpassed the . meager results from Agatha's own garden.
The best china and silver was polished until it shone and sparkled among the beautiful crystal. Fragrant mouth-watering aromas drifted throughout the house, bringing back memories of delicacies wh
ich Elysia had not tasted in years.
But there was a feeling of unease throughout the house, as if something were not quite right.
Elysia puzzled over the invitation as she soaked in a tub of warm water, washing away the dirt and grime of her day's work. She had heated and carried her own bath water up the long flights of stairs; but it was worth the effort to relax in the soapy water, her tense muscles soothed by the heat.
Her surprise at being included in the party was only exceeded by her amazement at finding a beautifully-made, brand-new, evening gown hanging on the rod in the comer of her room. It made the other dresses look like poor relations, in contrast.
Only Agatha could have purchased such a gown. But why? What motive could her aunt have this time? Agatha was not the type to do something without a purpose. Why should she suddenly include Elysia as a guest at a dinner party she was hostessing? Was this another sadistic plot of hers, or was she planning to embarrass her, subject her to ridicule?
All of these questions repeated themselves in Elysia's mind as she made her way downstairs, aware of the curious stares of the servants. She could well imagine their curiosity. Hadn't she been one of them just that afternoon?
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