The North Sea House: a gothic romance

by Camille Oster

  Mrs. Sims returned with a bucket of steaming hot water and poured it in. Then a bucket of cold. It would take some time to fill.

  "Perhaps best to sit in the tub as it's being filled," Vivienne said, because it would take an age to fill it and the longer she was cold the greater the risk she would develop a fever.

  They helped the shaking woman step into the bath, which was only partially full, and scooped the water onto her arms and shoulders. She looked bedraggled and miserable. Mrs. Dartmoor placed a towel over her body, which soaked in the warm water for longer. It was a clever trick and Vivienne would remember it.

  Mrs. Bollingworth looked small in the tub, just sitting there and warming. "Are they doing a bath for Gabriel too?"

  "I am sure they are," Mrs. Dartmoor answered. "And a nice portion of whiskey too, I should say."

  "Gabriel doesn't normally drink much. Such a brave man. Carried me all the way. We could have broken our necks, both of us. I don't even know where the horse went."

  "I am sure it will turn up. They have a knack for finding their way back into their stables."

  "Clive will take care of him when he does."

  "That stupid boy," Mrs. Bolligworth said bitterly. "Wouldn't trust him to take care of my trunk let alone a living creature."

  Vivienne and Mrs. Dartmoor exchanged looks. Besides her husband and Miss Trubright, there seemed to be few people she had a good opinion of.

  "Something is trying to hurt us," the woman said, her mouth drawn tight.

  "I'm sure it was simply a trick of the light. That can happen."

  "Horses aren't stupid. They don't get spooked by a trick of the light."

  That wasn't true. Vivienne's family had once had a horse that was sent into sheer panic by an escaped ribbon. The silly thing was also terrified of mice, although she never supposed what it thought the mice would do to it.

  But Mrs. Bollingworth was absolutely assured a specter had appeared in the road and there would be no telling her differently. "Have you seen specters before?" Vivienne asked.

  Mrs. Bollingworth threw her a terse look and ignored the question.

  Chapter 12

  MRS. BOLLINGWORTH TOOK her supper in her room and Vivienne was relieved to leave her to rest after her bath, because she found the woman trying. And she had entirely missed presenting her brother with his birthday cake.

  The woman’s husband was in the parlor, sipping from a large glass of what she assumed was whiskey. Either the shock of the day made him imbibe more heavily than she had seen him do before, or the absence of his wife giving him chiding looks.

  "It was the most curious thing. The horse spooked. Terrified for its life," he said as he replaced the drink to the armrest. "Silly, of course, but it did look like a figure. Light more than anything substantial."

  "A trick of the light," Lewis said dismissively.

  "More than likely," Mr. Bollingworth agreed brusquely. His gaze was distant for a moment and he frowned. "Broke the axel, though, which is a right pain."

  "There must be someone in the village that can help fix it," Archie said.

  "What would they know about repairing a carriage? Never stepped foot on anything more than a simple farm cart," Sophie interjected.

  "They repair boats. I am sure they can work out how to repair an axel," Lewis added.

  "It must be repaired, or we cannot return home."

  Probably not an outcome anyone wanted. Vivienne felt ungenerous thinking so, but the Bollingworths had come here to challenge and harangue.

  "Damned curious," John said. "It was in the woods, you said?"

  "Yes, the wooded area some miles back."

  "Quite a feat carrying your wife all that way," Brynnell said, who had sat quietly in the corner.

  "One does what one must," Bollingworth said, a note of pride in his voice.

  Jenkins appeared at the door. "Supper is ready to be served," he announced to appreciative reception, and they slowly moved from the parlor to the dining room. Miss Trubright's portrait stood where it always did, looking down on them disapprovingly. Vivienne always felt a small chill up her spine whenever she looked at it, but couldn't really determine why the woman had taken form in her conscious enough to appear in her dream the other night when she'd been sleepwalking. That episode still embarrassed her, but no one had mentioned it since—which she appreciated.

  She ended up sitting next to Horace and Mrs. Dartmoor, while Lewis and Brynnell sat across from her. Archie was at the head of the table as was his due. No one claimed the other end tonight. Perhaps Mr. Bollingworth didn't approve of the direct manner in which his wife made her objection known.

  "I think we must head to the site of the accident tomorrow and try to retrieve the curricle," Archie said to Mr. Bollingworth. "We were considering going sailing if the weather was nice, but this incident must obviously take precedent."

  "Well, I appreciate the assistance," Mr. Bollingworth said.

  "I'll have Mr. Jenkins inquire if there is anyone around who can perform repairs. Else we might have to call someone from Middlesbrough, which would likely take days."

  Mrs. Bollingworth's statement about not liking this house returned to Vivienne. She was going to have to spend time here whether she wanted it or not. Why would she have said there was always something wrong with the house? What had she meant? There wasn't anyone to ask. Perhaps she had told her husband.

  "Does your wife believe in specters?" Brynnell asked. He appeared to be thinking along the same lines, although he wasn't aware of what Mrs. Bollingworth had said upstairs shortly prior.

  "No, of course not," Mr. Bollingworth said, seemingly contradicting what his wife had claimed as they'd returned to the house in such distress. "She can just be a bit temperamental." But earlier he'd mentioned himself that he'd seen a shape made of light. Clearly he didn't believe it was a specter, or he wouldn't allow himself to voice it. His wife certainly did, having said so again and again.

  "I suppose in a remote house like this," Vivienne said, "where the wind seems to whisper around the windows, it is not hard to believe such things."

  There was silence around the table for a moment, as if no one wanted to either argue or agree. Primarily she wanted to see how Mr. Bollingworth would respond—if he would indicate more of his wife's beliefs.

  "One's imagination could run away with one," she continued.

  "My wife's imagination doesn't run away with her," Mr. Bollingworth said, clearly peeved at the suggestion. "If she said she saw something, then she did."

  "I wasn't suggesting—"

  "What were you suggesting, Miss Harcourt?" Mr. Bollingworth demanded. Vivienne didn't really know how to respond to such a direct and blatant challenge, but she didn't have to because Brynnell did.

  "Merely that this is a place that fires the imagination," he said.

  "My wife does not have imagination."

  "Clearly," Lewis said tartly.

  "Oh finally, the soup course," Archie said with relief as Jenkins and a maid appeared, carrying a large porcelain tureen. The diners were all silent while they served. "The most spectacular food all week. You will have to send Mrs. Sims our compliments, Mr. Jenkins."

  All agreed. Spectacular might be a bit strong, but she cooked very well. Dinner continued and they spoke half-heartedly about changing fashions for a while, then moved to the parlor when dessert was finished.

  Mr. Bollingworth didn't seem to want to retire early to spend time with his wife, instead returned to imbibing whiskey quite liberally. Mrs. Dartmoor retired immediately, clearly exhausted from the dramatics of the day. As for herself, Vivienne felt too disturbed to retire just yet.

  Sophie. John, Horace and Lewis decided to play whist and sat down at the cards table.

  Accepting a small sherry, Vivienne stood closer to the fire, feeling as though she needed some warmth. Perhaps it had been seeing Mrs. Bollingworth so frozen that made her feel more sensitive tonight.

  "I trust Mrs. Bollingworth is recovering
from her ordeal," Brynnell said as he approached.

  Nerves fluttered in her stomach. It was rare that he spoke to her directly—or rather that he spoke much. He seemed a practical man, only really voicing his thoughts with things that mattered. She cleared her throat, hoping it would settle her voice. "She was quite distressed. Unlike what Mr. Bollingworth said, she very much believes she saw a specter. In fact, she seemed to have a curious opinion about this house."

  Silently, he considered her words and it made her nerves flutter again. It was strange that he made her so nervous. There was really no accounting why. "As you said, perhaps it is the dramatic location that fires the imagination. It seems to have fired yours."

  "Not fired exactly. I'm not seeing specters. I suppose I am just curious as to the fate of Jonathan Fitzgerald."

  "So you are not embracing the concept of specters in the woods scaring horses?"

  "Horses scare at the drop of a hat. Such large and powerful creatures, but they terrify easily."

  "That is true. I take it you are too sensible for such things."

  "I'd like to think so." The sleepwalking dream returned to her. That hadn't been strictly sensible. Even remembering it sent a chill down her spine.

  "There are horrors in this world, but it isn't in the empty halls of an old houses." The statement had conviction behind it and he spoke from personal experience. From what she'd been told, he'd been a soldier in the Afghan war. The war was still ongoing, but he'd returned with the death of his brother. Lewis' words from the other night echoed through her, saying how the war had fundamentally changed the man he was. Compounded with the death of a beloved brother, she was sure. She couldn't even conceive of losing her brother.

  "You are right, of course," she said. There were true horrors in the world and they were squabbling about small things when they were so very fortunate to have the lives they did.

  "I apologize. I had not intended to make you uncomfortable."

  "You have not. Everything you say is true and I count myself lucky that I have never seen anything of the sort."

  "Yes," he said absently. "You are lucky indeed. We should all be so lucky, but I fear it is not in our natures."

  "You have such low opinion of us as a species, then?"

  "I believe we are capable of untold depravity."

  A shiver rose up her spine, knowing she had no concept of what he spoke, but she could see the echoes of it in his eyes.

  "But then there are always secrets in families," he said. "Things they keep hidden, and it always leaves a stain."

  There weren't many secrets in her family, except her cousin who ran off with a blacksmith. It was something they didn't speak of, an embarrassment to the family. A truth even more firmly ignored was that their cousin was still very happy with her choice, and her life with her husband in much-reduced circumstances. Personally, Vivienne saw it as a victory of love. Her parents saw it as an utter travesty.

  This was hardly the kind of secret he was referring to. Instead, he was implying something very different. "I'm afraid I don't have much experience with such things either," she admitted.

  "Then you are a lucky creature indeed. For some, I think such things manifest themselves, as they have done for Mrs. Bollingworth. One perhaps sees things when one fears one will."

  It was an interesting notion, that it was her guilt that made her interpret something sinister and malevolent out of a natural trick of the light. That one perceived what one feared one would see. But what would drive Mrs. Bollingworth to see specters? By her own words, she had said this house was never right. There had to be a reason why she believed so.

  Chapter 13

  DARKNESS SURROUNDED VIVIENNE. Cold, austere walls with faded portraits. She was going somewhere, but she didn't know where. It was important that she get there though. Very important. Lives were depending on it, but she didn't know whose.

  There was a potency in the house. It flowed through the walls and along the floorboards. Somewhere ahead of her was noise. Someone was moving.

  It wasn't that she was frightened. She was a part of the house, had as much right to be there as anyone else. More even. She was supposed to be there and there were intruders in the house. That must be the noise ahead.

  Wind gusted down the corridor. There had to be an open window somewhere. It must have been how they got in.

  Reaching the main hall, she looked out, but saw nothing. The main doors were open and there was darkness outside. They needed to be closed. Anyone could walk in with them open like that. Carefully, she took the stairs down, listening. There were voices speaking, but she couldn't make out what or who it was, or what they were saying.

  A dark landscape existed outside the door, seemingly endless. The house was the only thing around. There was nothing out there but earth. No trees or buildings, just dirt.

  The doors were heavy when she pushed them closed. First one, and then the other. They were almost too heavy to move, and finally closed with an echoing boom.

  The noise didn't seem to disturb whoever was chatting and Vivienne turned her attention, trying to follow the sound. It led to the dining room, where she found Miss Trubright, wearing austere black and her hair tightly drawn back. She walked around the room, around the table and Mrs. Bollingworth sat at the table, looking down into her lap.

  Both of them ignored her and Miss Trubright walked right past her without acknowledgment. So tall. So very tall. Her presence seemed the focus of the room.

  There was a blaze in the fireplace, but it wasn't right. The color was too pale and she knew it had no heat. There was no heat in the house at all. The same temperature inside as out.

  She didn't want to be there, didn't want to see them. Something about all this was very wrong. The portrait of her above the fireplace was there, and she looked exactly the same walking around. The same dress and the same hair. Although her face was possibly more somber, with deep grooves where she frowned and down the sides of her mouth. A lifetime of disapproval was etched on her face. A grey pallor to her skin and dark, hooded eyes.

  Miss Trubright's pacing stopped and she turned to Vivienne, that frown even deeper. Mrs. Bollingworth looked over too. "You shouldn't be here," the older woman said. "Leave."

  "I…" Vivienne started, trying to defend herself.

  "Leave!" the woman said more sharply, and Vivienne tried to make her legs move, but they barely budged, as if she was stuck trying to move through molasses.

  Miss Trubright was walking around the table toward her, a smooth flowing movement, and anger distorting her features.

  What had she done so wrong, she wondered as she desperately tried to get her legs to move. The woman was getting closer and Vivienne had only managed two steps. She could feel the malicious energy behind her, but her body was too slow to turn her head and look. It was only a few more steps and she strained every muscle.

  Finally she reached the doorway and emerged into the silent hall, a completely different energy. Looking back, no one came through the doorway, or even appeared in it. The pressure on her limbs had lifted and there wasn't a sound now.

  Turning her head, she looked around, but there was no one around. The doors, unfortunately, had slipped open again and bare landscape could be seen as before.

  The whispers returned. Not distressed like they had been when Miss Trubright had seen her, but reset as if nothing had happened, as though she hadn't just been chased out of the room. They didn't want her in there, and she certainly didn't want to go back.

  Turning, she found herself in a greenhouse. Elegant and tall, with glass panels protecting the space from the winds outside. It was light enough to see, but she couldn't see where the light came from.

  Nothing grew there. There were pots and trays, but all the plants lay lifeless and shriveled.

  How had she gotten there? She couldn't remember. The brick floor was cold under her feet. Everything was cold. It emanated from everything—the very air. Why was she here? What was she supposed to do
?

  With a jerk, she woke, the violence of it leaving her with an urge to run or to defend herself, but there was no one there. There was some light in the window. Dusk was on its way.

  With ragged breath, she sat up in her bed. Her thoughts were too disturbed from the dream to sleep again. An ill ease had followed her from the dream and proved hard to shake. Her stomach felt queasy and her head hurt.

  Then she saw that her bedroom door was completely open and that anyone could walk in. The key sat in the lock, but the door was wide open. A chill spread up along her spine. How was it that her door was both unlocked and open?

  Had someone been in her room while she slept? Nausea clenched her stomach at the thought and fear invaded her mind. But in her heart, she knew it wasn't true. No one had come in, but she had gone out. Asleep and unconscious, she had wandered again. There had been dreams, uncomfortable ones, but she didn't remember. A vague notion of Miss Trubright and the main doors refusing to close, but not so she could remember the context. And she had wandered.

  Pulling back her blankets, she saw the dirt on her hem and feet. If she needed proof that she had wandered last night, it was right there. No wonder she felt a little frozen that morning.

  How long had she wandered, and what had she been looking for? And why had this affliction come back now? It wasn't something she'd done since being a child. And the worst was that she'd had the wherewithal to unlock the door to get out.

  Had she left the house? Was that why she had a vague recollection of open doors from her sleep? Had she wandered the cliffs outside, high above the churning sea? A real fear steeled into her now. That would be dangerous. She could lose her life from unconsciously wandering around at night. This couldn't happen again, but she had no idea how to stop it. Locks obviously didn't work.

  Darting out of bed, she closed the door and moved over to the fire. Her body shook with cold as she lay wood and kindling on the grate, struggled with frozen fingers to light a match. The kindling set alight, but it had no heat. An image of a pale fire returned to her mind, one giving no heat.