The Secret of Mirror House

by Jennifer Blake

  In two steps, she was caught from behind and jerked around, then dragged to the side of the road and pulled down into the underbrush. A hard, rough hand covered her mouth and an arm fastened her to the ground while the length of a man's body pressed against her, with part of his weight resting across her chest. She twisted violently, but succeeded only in having her legs pinned to the ground. She struck at his head three, four, times and he accepted her blows without flinching or retaliating as he leaned down and whispered, "Be still," in her ear. She froze abruptly, recognizing Nelville's voice, but unable to see his face. In the quiet that fell, she could feel the steady pumping of his heart where his chest rested against her and could hear the nearby crashing of her pursuers.

  Then, the noise ended suddenly. "Where did she go?" Reba asked laughing. From the sound of it, they were a little down the road from where Amelia and Nelville lay.

  "I don't know," James said. "It's too damn dark to see, and we were making too much noise to hear her."

  "Probably ran like a scared rabbit," Reba said, still in an amused tone. "We'll find her at the house."

  "Suppose she ran into the woods?"

  "Not her, she's not the type," Reba answered.

  Amelia squirmed at that mocking tone, but Nelville pressed down harder and she desisted for lack of breath.

  "Do you think she knew it was us?" James went on worriedly.

  "Of course, what do you think?" Reba asked, her voice dwindling as they walked away together toward home.

  "She may not," James said hopefully. "It might ruin everything if she did."

  "Don't be silly. She may look like a Dresden-china rose, but she's not a complete fool. She needs us."

  James's reply was lost in the distance. Nelville took his hand from her mouth, but didn't move away until Amelia wiggled impatiently, stung by a briar that was biting into her shoulder. Then, he got quickly to his feet and helped her up.

  "Was that strictly necessary?" Amelia asked as she stepped into the road and brushed the trash off her dress.

  "Not absolutely," replied Nelville, likewise engaged with his own clothes.

  "Why did you do it then?" Amelia asked of the dim form beside her in the dark.

  "Because," he replied evenly, in a voice that did not invite a continuation of the subject, "I wanted to."

  Silenced by the forbidding evenness of his tone, Amelia fell silent herself. She was also afraid to question why he had wanted to drag her into the bushes. The answer might not allow her to walk so quietly back down the road beside him. Sternly, she repressed the thought along with her temper and her misgivings. Could it all be dismissed so lightly and easily? She thought he glanced at her curiously as they went along, but in the darkness it was hard to tell and anyway she was tired of trying.

  Shortly, they came out of the woods into the faint moonlight and started the slight climb toward the house on its promontory. Perhaps, it had been a mistake, Amelia thought to herself as they climbed, to think that because Nelville hid her from James and Reba he was on her side. Perhaps, he, too, was playing a game, but a game of his own. To get away from such thoughts, she swung around and asked, "What did they mean, if I knew it might ruin everything?"

  "Seek and you shall find, ask and it shall be made known to you. Biblical, possibly inaccurate, and totally untrue," he said and strode away from her into the house.

  She stared at him in bewilderment mixed with apprehension, and with dragging footsteps, she followed after him, dreading entering the house and facing the rest of them. What would they say? How would they act? She felt so alien and alone out there in the dark.

  She climbed the steps and crossed the porch, entering through the open door. Katherine stood on the stairs holding a lighted lamp that cast dancing shadows on the walls. She was on her way up to bed and looked surprised at Amelia's entrance. She smiled a little wanly at Amelia and looked relieved when she responded. "There you are, dear," she said with unnecessary brightness. "I wondered what had become of you. Reba said they had lost you. So childish of them … but you won't mind them, I know."

  As Amelia looked away, Katherine plunged on. "Well, never mind. You must be as tired as I am. Why don't you come on up to bed. I've put your lamp on the table there. Just fetch it and we'll go on up."

  Obedient because she dreaded meeting the others, Amelia did as Katherine suggested and went down the hall where a burning lamp stood ready on the table. She picked it up, but even as she turned with it, it began to flicker and abruptly went out. An experimental shake told her that it was out of oil.

  "How vexing," Katherine said, leaning over the stair rail. "The things are always running out when you least expect it. Reba and Sylvestor have gone up to bed, but I think James is still in the living room." Lifting her voice, she called loudly, "James!"

  "Oh, but I can do without a lamp," Amelia protested, not wanting to see anybody just then, least of all, James.

  "Nonsense, you must have light to dress by. It will only take a minute to refill your lamp from the can in the kitchen. James won't mind doing it for you at all, I'm sure."

  "I could do it myself," Amelia said quickly. "There is no need to bother anyone, really."

  "No bother," Katherine said, then turned away as James appeared in the door. "James, dear. Amelia needs a little oil for her lamp. Get it for her like a nice boy, won't you?" She smiled on them from her stance high above them; and then she turned and mounted the stairs, carrying her lamp, and leaving them in darkness, except for the faint light spilling from the living room door.

  "Just a minute," James said and stepped back into the room for a light. He came toward her, lighting her way into the kitchen with an expressionless face. Amelia went stiffly before him and stood back in the middle of the room as he took down a sloshing can marked Kerosene and filled the lamp.

  He returned the can to its shelf and took a sulphurous match from a metal container beside the stove. Gently, he struck the match on the stove and held it between two fingers while he picked up the unlighted lamp with his left hand and began to limp toward her. The match burned with a yellow glow that was reflected as two tiny flames in his eyes. A lump of fear grew in Amelia's throat, making her breathe quickly, for there suddenly seemed to be something else in the room with them-a nameless fear, a voiceless dread, an echo of malevolence. As he neared her, James held the refilled lamp out to her, and when she took it, he removed the glass globe, touched the match to the oil soaked wick, and replaced the globe as the lamp began to bum smokily. Then, he passed the match through the air, watching its comet tail of smoke. With each pass, he brought the flame nearer and nearer a ringlet of dark shining hair that fell forward over Amelia's shoulder. Amelia stood perfectly still, holding her breath, ready to scream, run, strike out, yet caught in the enthrallment of the moment, frozen by an acute awareness of danger and an intuitive knowledge that to do anything at all might be disastrous. In that strained moment, as James's blue eyes held her hypnotically, she became vividly aware of her other senses. She could feel the warm velvet of the summer night against her skin and smell the mingled odors of the kitchen-old smoke, old fat, stale dishwater, with an undertone of baked bread, boiled vegetables, and fresh ground coffee. The earthy night smell and sounds came through the open window above the sink, reminding her of the essence of freedom, a mute protest against her immobility.

  Then, the match flickered and went out and James sighed. Unconsciously, Amelia let her breath out also.

  "What did I tell you?" a voice said from the doorway. "Nerves of steel. If she did not have them, she would have screamed the house down last night." Nelville detached himself from the door frame, sauntered into the room with a lazy smile, and took the lamp from Amelia's nerveless fingers.

  Reba, her dark eyes flashing both amusement and animosity and her skirts swishing, followed him in. "You win again," she said to Nelville, "and here is your usual payment." She placed her hand on his arm and standing on tiptoe, kissed him lightly. "I will learn one of thes
e days not to bet with you two." Turning to James, she bestowed a kiss on him also. To Amelia, she said artlessly, "You will forgive us won't you, dearest Amelia, if we frightened you. But, a little wager now and then does liven things up so."

  Nelville stared at the oil swirling in the lamp as he turned it in his hand, and James looked from Amelia to Reba with a rather diffident smile. Reba stared at Amelia in blatant triumph.

  Amelia stared at them in return, and then turned on her heel, angry with herself for being frightened by such a shabby trick and hurt and humiliated and furious at the same time that they had seen fit to do such a thing to her.

  She walked quickly toward the door, her hands clasped tightly before her, her head held high to prevent the tears that hovered in her eyes from spilling over; but, when she reached the bottom of the stairs, she had to look down to see the tread, and the tears began to fall.

  Seeing the light blossom in the hall from where she had come. Amelia began to climb the stairs, but had not gotten far when Nelville called to her, "Your lamp, my lady."

  She turned to see him holding the lamp up to her with its glow falling full on his face, outlining his twisted smile and the fathomless expression in his eyes. "The light of reason," he quoted softly, "in case you meet a phantom panther on the stair, a masked lady in the hall, a lunatic in the attic, or a water sprite in your washbasin."

  She glared at him, ignoring the two tracks of tears on her cheeks. "Thank you so much," she said sarcastically and lifted the lamp from his fingers.

  He put his hands on his hips and smiled up at her in amusement. "Fear is a strange thing," he said, "it feeds on itself."

  "Or on strange things," Amelia answered in an attempt to match his wit.

  "Nothing is strange when you know what it means."

  "Make up your mind," she said quickly. "Is it nothing, or is it something meaningful that I'm supposed to be afraid of?"

  "Neither. Only the familiar in an unfamiliar setting," he answered with a mocking grin. The lamplight gleamed on his planed pirate face and dancing eyes, reflecting on the whiteness of his teeth and the pearly gleam of his shirt buttons. He hardly seemed real, and his words leant another touch of unreality.

  "You enjoy being confusing, don't you," Amelia stated rather than asked.

  He inclined his head in a nod that was almost a bow saying, "With or without the help of amontillado."

  "And, which is it now?" Amelia asked, turning back up the stairs, though it hardly seemed possible that he could be anything but sober.

  Instead of answering the question, Nelville said, "Sleep well, bride of fate, but not so well you do not awake. The Gabriel horn does not blow a waltz of love nor, contrary to popular opinion, a paean everlasting."

  She halted a moment, trying to think of a suitable reply, but hearing in her mind the echo of his words, she shivered and quickly mounted the stairs without looking back.

  As she walked into her bedroom, Amelia saw Katherine just shutting the drawer of the commode. "There you are," Katherine said, turning leisurely to greet her. "I was just checking to see that your water pitcher was full and that you had everything else you need." Then, seeing Amelia's tear-streaked face and high color, she went on quickly, "Why, what's the matter? Is anything wrong?"

  Amelia shook her head with a quick smile.

  Katherine came forward hurriedly and put a gentle hand on her arm. "I'm sure there is," she said softly, "and you must tell me. I insist."

  The friendly sympathy was such a contrast to the mocking derision and animosity she had just been subjected to that Amelia answered slowly, "It was just a bet, a joke of some kind they played on me in the kitchen. I was silly to be so upset." She tried to turn away, embarrassed because putting it into words made it seem so trivial.

  "I'm so sorry, but don't you think anything of it," Katherine said dismissingly. "It is so boring here day in and day out that sometimes the amusement gets out of hand. They didn't mean anything by it, I'm sure. We are all so proud you have come and hope you will stay a long, long time. You just put it out of your head and you'll see that everyone will have forgotten all about it by morning." With what was meant to be a reassuring pat, Katherine walked quickly to the door, "Good night," she said, and smiling again in reassurance, shut the door behind her.

  When the sound of her footsteps had faded away, Amelia went to the commode for her gown. She noticed as she pulled out the drawer that her gowns and handkerchiefs were tumbled, and one corner of her writing portfolio was pulled out at an odd angle. For a moment, the suspicion that Katherine had been going through her things ran through her mind, a suspicion she could not entirely dismiss even as she saw a new pile of clean washed cloths in the corner of the drawer. After thinking about it as she undressed, though, she attributed the plundering to idle curiosity. She smiled wryly as she pulled her gown over her head. Anybody who looked through her things was bound to be sadly disappointed. She had nothing valuable or beautiful or interesting. Even the portfolio was filled with nothing, but a childish letter or two from girlhood friends and sheets of blank paper.

  When she finally lay down, she could not relax, but kept going over and over the painful scenes of the evening, a little like a child that keeps pressing a bruise or sore place to see if it still hurts. Why had they treated her like that? It was so baffling, so unexplainable, almost as if they all had some kind of grudge against her. It made her feel as if she must somehow be at fault, though she could not imagine how. Fearful and uneasy, she lay awake for a long time.

  | Go to Table of Contents |

  Chapter Four

  DUE TO HER long sleep the day before, Amelia slept fitfully that night. A stifling heat that not even the fall of night could banish made her nightdress cling and the sheets feel clammy as she tossed and turned. The whine of mosquitos outside the netting raked along her nerves, and the hanging folds of the protective netting seemed to shut out any possibility of a breeze. She dozed, waking frequently, uncertain she had slept at all, and the night stretched dark and long around her, giving her the feeling that she was alone in the blanketing heat of the night.

  It was late, toward morning, for the moon had disappeared when, with a faint sound ringing in her ears, she awoke to see a glimmer of light beneath her door. Through half-closed eyes, she saw someone ease the door open while shielding a candle and stand quietly listening. Instinctively, she closed her eyes and tried to regulate her breathing. In a few minutes, whoever it was advanced and stood peering at her through the mosquito netting for what seemed an eternity. Then, there was a sigh, the rustling whisper of skirts, and the sound of the door shutting. In the room with Amelia, there remained only the tingling scent of lavender.

  Strangely, she wasn't afraid. What had just taken place seemed, in an odd way, to be a normal occurrence in Mirror House. For a few minutes, she tried to think who it could have been. But, the light had been so dim and she had closed her eyes so quickly that she had only an impression that it was a woman. Besides, it hardly seemed to matter. What could she do about it and any other midnight visits anybody else cared to make? She had checked the door before going to bed and it had no lock, no key, no latch, not even a bar, and there was the other door to the connecting bedroom, also without a lock. She could have pushed the chair or commode in front of the door, but she felt that it was scarcely worth the effort. It would be so laughably easy to push it aside.

  A light sliding past the door drew her attention, and raising herself on one elbow, she listened. Faintly, she could hear someone pacing with a slow deliberate tread along the hall followed by another set of scuffling, slapping footsteps. After a few minutes, she could also distinguish the rustle of garments and a small clashing rattle. The sounds moved down the hall, then returned with the measured cadence of a procession.

  Carefully, Amelia eased out of bed and tiptoed across the floor. She waited until the sounds retreated toward the far end of the hall, then opened the door to a slit she could peep through.

 
Moving away from her were two figures. In the lead was a small woman dressed in clothes that had been fashionable twenty years before. A dainty black lace cap such as widows usually wore covered her hair and a black lace shawl, edged with dangles of jet beads that clashed intriguingly as she walked, covered her shoulders. She moved with the dignity and superb carriage extolled a generation before, further heightened by a huge bell skirt over hoops that swayed majestically as she walked. Behind her went a large black woman dressed in a white tignon and a blue dress with a white overall apron that seemed a type of uniform. She was large, taller by nearly a foot than the woman she followed, and she wore slippers on her feet that slapped against her heels as she scuffed along the floor.

  At the end of the hall, they turned, and Amelia drew a sharp breath of surprise. Covering the face of the smaller woman was a masque of yellow silk edged with black beads! Extending from her eyes to below her chin, it swayed slightly, glimmering in the light of the candle carried by the Negro woman behind her.

  Tante Isabella! Isabella, Amelia thought as she slowly inched the door closed and went back to bed. She hadn't thought to wonder what had become of her after the fire. "Mysterious and silent," she could remember James saying. She had moved so grandly, staring ahead, seemingly unconscious of the servant trailing anxiously behind her. Her hands had been clasped at her waist, quietly controlled. But, the rigid control, the absence of visible emotion in her face and hands were refuted by her pacing steps, so that there seemed to be about her an agitation, a deep distress that communicated itself by her tension. What could cause such distress, Amelia wondered. Old memories, hurts, and humiliations to match her old costume; or some new anxiety, some secret knowledge that everyone at Mirror House seemed to share and that made Amelia both welcome and profoundly unwelcome?

  It was only at the vague edge of returning sleep that Amelia thought to ask herself why Isabella had come to stare at her in her sleep.