And I only wish there was some way I could be of some use to him, to help him to escape from whatever dilemma he faces.
We have a quiet dinner that night with little conversation, yet I can see on Marjorie’s face that she wants to say something. She longs to ask Father what is wrong with the company, to learn if our family’s finances are in trouble. Marjorie can barely hold her questions in, but even still, she will say nothing. My sister is smart enough to know that Father will not appreciate being interrogated by one of his daughters, even though it kills her to remain silent. Better to let Mother handle the matter, and glean what information we can from her afterwards.
When our meal is done, I go to bed early. No one seems to mind, as a sombre mood hangs over the house. I turn out my lights, and burrow beneath my comforters, desperately trying to convince myself that I still feel safe in this place. But I lie awake for hours with worried thoughts circling my mind.
And late in the night, I hear something, a noise which seems out of place at this late hour. I have always had sharp ears, and though my room is on the second floor of our home, I can hear the sound of strangers visiting in the middle of the night, coming from somewhere downstairs.
I sit up in my bed, trembling, straining to listen.
The voices are masculine ones, entering the front lobby of our home. And after some muted conversation, I am left with the impression that they have moved behind a closed door, perhaps the one to Father’s study. And the sound of these invaders frightens me, as I cannot help but to think that they somehow relate to our newfound problems. Are creditors taking away our home? Will they come and drag me from my room? This cannot be the case, Father would never let our affairs fall into such a state of disrepair. And yet, the irrational fears spin out of control in my mind.
I simply must know who they are and why they are here.
I have always wanted a life of adventure and excitement, yet still, I hesitate, afraid to leave the confines of my bed. But how can I be a coward now when necessity presents itself? I realize that I cannot, though I still wonder what I should do. And I look to my soul mate Saga for advice.
Of course, Saga is not ensconced in a spacious manor in central London. She is a lowly slave in the temple of Pharaoh, a servant girl. Her life held little value in society at that time, so she had little to lose through behaving inappropriately. Other than her life. But within my story, she eventually rises to become a part of the royal family, and helps them to overcome the nefarious forces in the kingdom.
Though she is only a fictional character, thinking about Saga somehow gives me the strength to do what I must do.
It is horrible on my part to exhibit such inappropriate behavior, to leave my room in the middle of the night. Mother will be extremely disappointed if she sees me, and will lock me in for a week, at the very least. But I don’t care. A compulsion builds within me, and I have to risk everything.
I put on a thin robe, and step out onto the second floor landing, which feels foreign to me at night. I never walk here at such hours. My bare feet touch the costly red and gold carpets Mother took great pains to import, yet another sin on my part, and I venture forth on my quest. Luckily, I am quite skilled at creeping along silently, if need be. It is a game we would play as children, to try to sneak up on each other as quietly as possible, to frighten one another. It was a small thrill we would find in our otherwise docile lives. And I was always the best at the game. But I would be a fool to try to creep past Mother’s room, even with my talent. She is the one who I have inherited my sharp ears from.
Though my room is at the end of the second floor landing, there is a servant’s staircase nearby, an enclosed one, designed to appear out of sight. Mother had the house built this way, to keep the serving class from using the same walkways we do as much as possible, to keep them in their place. And there are few servants on the premises at this hour, so my risk is worth taking. I open the door just a crack to squeeze through, and traverse the stairs one at a time at an agonizingly slow pace, to keep the boards from creaking. And each time the stairs groan beneath my feet, I stop, as though someone has stabbed a knife through my heart.
It takes forever to creep down in the darkness, yet I do so with a degree of confidence that no one can hear. If they do, it will only be because they can listen with a supernatural power.
Luckily, the door to the servants’ stairwell lets out near Father’s study, and when I step out into the first floor hallway, I realize that this is the place where our visitors are. I can hear murmurs from behind the closed door, but they are not loud enough for me to understand what they are saying, and I must step closer.
When I am 10 feet from the door, I find I can recognize one of the voices. It is Mr. Stimwell, Father’s most trusted executive at the company. He is a man from the lower classes, an expert in the coal mines we harvest to garner our great wealth. He has vast knowledge of the industry, gleaned from working amongst the mines his whole life. And the poor man has a perpetual cough, which I fear has been developed from inhaling too much of the dust. Even now I can hear the muffled sounds of his lungs expelling from behind the door. Father trusts him implicitly, and it gives me a certain peace of mind to know he is there.
And if Mr. Stimwell is here, then Father’s late night meeting must certainly relate to his business.
There are other voices I don’t recognize, and for some reason, I am certain I would not know them even if I could hear better. I feel they are individuals unfamiliar to me. It is difficult for me to understand what they are saying, but there is one word I can hear distinctly, repeated again and again; “railroad.” And I am desperate to know more.
I creep closer. It is dangerous, but if I shorten the distance by a few more feet, I am certain I can gather more information.
But suddenly, my worst fears are realized. The door to Father’s study opens, and a man steps out. I find myself standing in front of a stranger, dressed in an indecent way, wearing only a thin nightgown with the robe I have not had the good sense to tie. And I can only imagine what I expose to a gentleman I have never seen before in my life.
But he only looks at me and smiles.
“What have we here? A charming spy?” he says in low tones.
The man is tall, very tall, with blonde hair so light it is almost white, though I can only see a small bit of the short haircut that is tucked beneath his hat. And though he is dressed in a distinguished way, in a grey suit, he seems young, perhaps a few years older than Marjorie. Though youthful in appearance, he carries himself with a certain seriousness that makes him seem older at the same time.
The man takes off his hat, and I can see that his hair is so lustrous it almost glows. It is swooped over from a part at the side. When the momentary shock of fear fades away, just a bit, I notice something else about him; he is handsome, almost startlingly so. He has the most sparkling blue eyes I have ever seen. They almost fix me to my spot, controlling me so that I cannot move.
And I stun myself. Words tumble from my mouth, before I even know what I’m saying.
“My, what a beautiful creature you are …”
And I say them in a daze, momentarily mesmerized by his image. But I am confused. What have I just said, and were the words even English? For a moment, I am convinced I have spoken in another language, perhaps the mock Egyptian I have invented for my story of Saga.
And I realize that those are the first words Pharaoh says to her in the story.
The man’s expression changes, to one of almost anger.
“What did you say? Where did you hear those words?” he hisses in a low tone, glaring at me.
But I can hardly tell him the truth, nor explain why these words have come to me now, of all times. Yet, they are so inappropriate, I owe him something. The breath catches in my throat, and I am terrified, mostly by the very real possibility that I am about to cry.
“I am sorry to have been so rude, I …”
But he stares at me for a moment, analyzin
g me, and his features soften. The stranger offers me a gentle smile.
“No, no. I am the one who is sorry, for startling you in your own home,” he says in low tones. “Please forgive me.”
My voice is quiet, almost the squeak of a mouse, as I try to speak again. It catches in my throat in a ridiculous way, struggling to get out. And I feel completely foolish.
“You’ll have to excuse me, I should not be here,” I manage to gurgle. “I was just getting a book from the library before bed.”
My lie is an absurd one, as I have no book in my hand, and I immediately regret it. And he already thinks me a spy. Yet, the man only continues to smile. And I find it comforting, somehow.
“Then I shall leave you to your reading, as your father might not approve of our meeting like this. But I shall keep this rendezvous a secret, as well as my hope that we might meet again under more appropriate circumstances.”
I try to say something, but I cannot. And the stranger smiles and looks at me so intensely that it might almost frighten me, were his handsome looks not so appealing. He bows, and disappears into the bowels of our home so quickly that I wonder if he was little more than an apparition. Or perhaps a dream. And for a moment, I wonder if I have even seen him standing there at all.
But this is my opportunity to escape, before Father spies me. If he catches me traipsing about in a state of undress, it will scandalize him. Father might disown me, or send me off to spend the rest of my days in a convent, which would fill Marjorie with glee.
I scurry back to the stairs, and manage to return to my room undetected, unless you count the handsome stranger. And for some reason, I lock the door behind me, even though Mother forbids us to do this. She is worried we might choke in our sleep before Father can break down the door to save us. But I cannot help but to feel unsafe, knowing there are strange men wandering about our manor in the middle of the night. And I cannot help but to wonder again, who the man is that I ran into in the hallway, the one who spoke of railroads with Father. And I wonder exactly where he was going, when he disappeared before my eyes.
I return to my canopy bed, and untie the curtains in the darkness, so they fall around me. Which is ridiculous, as they are flimsy, and cannot provide much protection. And I tremble beneath my sheets, worrying more about my family’s fate.
But as much as I am concerned about the state of our affairs, my mind wanders back to the man who appeared in the hallway. I wonder if he is a banker or lawyer, who he might be. He is so different from the other young men my age, who have shyly asked me to dance at social events, or had the poor manners to beg for a walk in the gardens, where they would try to steal kisses. He is a man, not a boy, the kind who might chase after Marjorie’s hand in marriage. He has broad shoulders and strong arms. And though we met only briefly, I could tell he had a thick, masculine chest beneath his coat.
And as I think of him, I feel a strange buzzing in my mind that startles me. It feels electrical, how I imagine the energy that fuels the light bulbs in our home must feel, and it crackles at the edges of my consciousness. And though it feels foreign and alarming, it has the strange effect of making me feel warm and calm at the same time. And in my relaxed state, I begin to think inappropriate thoughts.
One of my friends had once shown me a book from her father’s library, while our mothers were having tea. It was improper, and had drawings of naked men and women, entangled with one another. And I think back on another time in the country, when our carriage drove past a lake at a most inopportune moment, and I caught a glimpse of some naked young men, frolicking in the water undraped.
It was the only time I had ever seen what a man’s body really looked like, before I had averted my eyes. But I will never forget the image of the dangling parts I saw, which my friends had only whispered about before.
I cannot help but to wonder how the handsome stranger would appear out of his clothes, what it would feel like if he was in my canopy bed, naked, under the covers, as a husband would be. It is wrong, but I have sinned so much tonight, it hardly matters anymore. I picture that he has strong muscles, like a workman, and arms that will make me feel safe as they wrap around me. And as I do this, I run my hands over my own flesh, beneath my nightgown, in an unclean way.
My fantasy becomes so real it almost feels like he is in the bed with me. And I bolt upright, suddenly scared.
Because someone is indeed in my bed.
I open my eyes, and look around in the darkness. And though I can’t see anything at first, I can hear a rustling sound that scares me to my core. A ghost must be here with me. And in horror, I watch as something crawls toward me. But before I can cry out, I catch a tantalizing glimpse of delicious, naked flesh. And familiar blonde hair.
It is not just anyone who shares my bed. It is the stranger, the man I met in the hallway downstairs.
I am about to scream, but he only smiles at me, and his silence mesmerizes me.
“What are you doing here? This is not right! How did you get in?”
It makes no sense. How has he snuck into my room? How has he crawled into the bed without my hearing the curtains part for a man as large as he is? But the stranger says nothing, and only crawls closer. I begin to wonder if he is a specter, and can only determine that he really is some creation of my overactive imagination, come to life. Like those moments when I imagine Saga’s life, and I feel it take shape around me, as strongly as my own world.
And he moves closer still, to the point where he is over my body, so close that I can feel his breath on my lips. And it thrills me.
“Are you … are you really here with me?”
And again, he smiles.
“Because, if you are, the scandal would …”
“You will be mine,” he whispers. “Forever.”
The stranger moves to kiss me, and I close my eyes. But something changes in the room, before our lips can meet. I open my eyes once more, and he is gone.
Before I can wonder if it was a dream, my back arches in a spasm, and I am pinned to the bed in what can only be described as an explosion of pleasure that courses throughout my body, unlike anything I have felt before. The sensation is so intense it is almost more than my mind can handle. Yet, as quickly as it comes over me, I am released, left a shivering mass beneath my covers. And slowly, without my realizing it, everything turns to black.
The next morning, I awaken with a start, looking around for the stranger in my bed. But he is gone, just as he was last night, and I search for some sign that he was even here at all, though I am not quite sure what I expect to find. A calling card, perhaps. And I’m sad to think that it all might have been my imagination, or a dream.
I clean myself, and walk downstairs for our daily breakfast, where I sit distracted, at best. But no one seems to notice my state. The others are filled with concerns of their own, no doubt wondering about our family’s fortunes as I once did. But my mind is now occupied with other matters.
I long to ask Father about the men who were in our home, but I’m afraid that if I do, he will know about my midnight wanderings. And he offers up nothing about their presence on his own. So I am left to mull over the events of the night before in my mind.
I should be unnerved or terrified, but somehow I am only fascinated by my fleeting moments with the handsome stranger. My brain lingers on his beauty, his tall frame and the luster of his hair. And I long to experience the indescribable pleasure he gave me once more.
I pass through the rest of the day in a daze, and later that night, when I am alone in my bed, I try to conjure up my secret lover again. I tremble in fear at the thought of it, but I cannot stop myself, and I think back to what happened, the details of it that I can remember. I daydream about him being in my bed, just the way that I had, but nothing happens. Eventually, I peel off my clothes, and lie naked on top of my sheets, offering myself to whatever handsome ghost might be haunting our home.
“Are you there? Please, come back to me,” I beg.
But he
does not return.
And the next day, I again sit daydreaming at the breakfast table. But I quickly realize something is amiss. Mother and Father cast glances at me in an unusual way. My sisters remain blissfully unaware, but I am suddenly certain that the stares of my parents are pointed, and relate to my late-night spying. And somehow, I know that the stranger is real, at least our conversation in the hallway outside Father’s office was. Perhaps he has lied to me about keeping our chance encounter a secret, or one of the servants caught sight of me, while looking for things to steal in the middle of the night. They have told Mother and Father of my transgressions, hoping to curry favor. And I now know that I am doomed.
Toward the end of our meal, Father addresses me, and I nearly jump out of my seat.
“Caroline, if you are done with your porridge, your mother and I would like to have a word with you in the sitting room.”
I drop my spoon into my bowl, dramatically, and it hits the china with a loud clatter. My sisters giggle, especially the Twins, sensing now that I am in trouble. I only wonder why my parents have waited so long to punish me, perhaps to let me stew in my guilt. I look to Mother, to try to get a sense of how severe my sentence will be. But she only looks away.
The damage is done, but at least I can take heart that they do not know the way I have debased myself in my bed. Unless they have also somehow discovered that a man snuck into my room. In which case, I am ruined.
“I’m finished now, Father,” I say, sadly.
Marjorie alone stares at me with narrowed eyes, full of suspicion. As I rise, when she thinks our parents’ backs are turned, she touches my arm.
“What have you done?”
“I …”
But I am too nervous to even reply, and I leave the room.
We enter Father’s private study, and I am made to sit in front of his desk, as Mother stands by his side. And it is ironic to me that they have chosen to dole out my punishment here, as I have always loved this place. It is exciting to enter Father’s private sanctum, where we are forbidden to go. The door remains locked at all times, and he has the only key, as far as we children know. My sisters and I have scoured the house looking for another copy, and have never found one.
The Meridian Gamble Page 18