LeRoux Manor

by Liz Butcher

  “I’d asked you to keep an eye on her while I was out,” Allysha replied.

  “Babysitting is not one of my duties, nor has it ever been. Not that your daughter would listen to me if it were.”

  Allysha stared at her, eyebrows raised and her mouth open, unsure how to respond in her anger. Instead, she turned on her heel and stormed through the house, going from room to room and looking for her daughter until she came to the room that was halfway to becoming a study. Her husband looked up from his work, smiled, and turned the volume down on his phone. The voices of Louis Armstrong and Ella Fitzgerald reduced to a mellow murmur.

  “Hi, sweetheart. How was town? What do you think so far?” He stepped back from the wooden trellis where his sketches for the room were spread out.

  Allysha disregarded his questions and grabbed her husband by the arm. “Have you seen Camille since I left?”

  He looked at his wife in concern. “No, I haven’t. I assumed she was still in bed upstairs. You’ve only been gone an hour or so.”

  “She’s not there. She wasn’t in the bathroom, either. Miss McAllister says she hasn’t seen her, and I haven’t found her in any of the rooms I’ve looked in.” Allysha heard the rising panic in her own voice and tried to tell herself she was being ridiculous, yet she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.

  Phillipe turned from the table, grabbed his wife’s shoulders, and looked into her eyes. “The manor is a big place. Maybe she just couldn’t sleep, or she got bored and decided to explore a little. Has she mentioned anywhere that she’s taken an interest in? You might look there.”

  Allysha chewed her bottom lip and tried to ignore the inner voice screaming at her to hurry. She didn’t know if it was a mother’s instinct, or a sixth sense, or just the manor, but she knew she wouldn’t find her daughter unless she could think rationally. “The attic. She was interested in some of the old things stored up there.”

  “There you go. That’s probably where she is. I’ll come with you. You’ll see. She’ll be fine.” Phillipe grabbed his wife’s hand and led her out of the room, weaving through the manor without a word until they reached the attic door. It stood ajar, and Allysha ducked in front of her husband to yank it fully open. Then she rushed as quickly as she could up the steep staircase.

  “Camille?” she called, stepping up onto the attic floor. She exchanged a worried look with Phillipe as he stepped up beside her.

  “I’ll check over that side,” he said, and they split up, walking through the sheeted objects around the room.

  Allysha grew more and more frantic as she looked behind one thing after another. She knew her daughter wasn’t there; Camille would have answered them if she were. The girl’s mother didn’t know what else to do or where else to look.

  “This is weird,” Phillipe called out.

  Allysha weaved her way to the other side of the attic and found her husband kneeling beside a shelf that had been pulled away from the wall. “What is it?”

  “I’m not sure. I just thought it was strange this shelf was standing here like this, but when I got down to have a look, there’s an open section in the wall.”

  “Is there anything in it?” Allysha peered over her husband’s shoulder.

  “No, doesn’t appear to be. That’s not to say that there wasn’t.”

  “Do you think Camille found this and took whatever was inside?”

  Phillipe signed as he used the shelf to get back to his feet. “Who knows? But I can say she isn’t up here. And I’m starting to feel as worried about her as you are.”

  “So, what now? Where else could she be?” Allysha leaned into her husband’s chest.

  He was silent for a moment, stroking her back and thinking. “What about her phone? Was that still in her room?”

  Allysha pulled back and looked up at him. “I didn’t even check.”

  “Well there we go. She’s a teenager. She’d never leave the house without her phone. If it’s gone, then we call her and find out where the hell she is. If it’s there, then I suggest we call her friends and see if they know what’s going on.”

  Allysha grabbed her husband’s hand and led him from the attic and back into Camille’s room. She didn’t know whether she felt relieved or dismayed when she saw Camille’s phone on the bedside table, plugged into the charger. Unplugging it, she activated the screen, grateful her daughter had ignored her advice on password protection.

  “Six missed calls,” she stated.

  “Who from?” Phillipe asked as he stopped next to his wife and stared at the screen.

  “Looks like two are from Grace and four are from Lachlan.”

  “That seems a little persistent to me. Like maybe they’re worried.”

  “That’s not very reassuring...” Allysha whispered.

  “Start with Lachlan. He’s called the most. Maybe he can tell us something.”

  His wife hit the speaker-phone button with a shaking hand. Lachlan answered on the first ring.

  “Camille? Are you okay? I’ve been worried—”

  “Lachlan, it’s Allysha. We think Camille’s gone somewhere, but she hasn’t taken her phone. She’s not well, and we’re worried about her.”

  “Uh, Allysha...” The boy didn’t say anything else.

  “Please, Lachlan,” Phillipe added. “If you know anything that will help us find her...”

  Lachlan cleared his throat.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  T

  HE FLASH OF light passed as quickly as it took Camille to remove her hand from the salt. Looking back the way she’d come, she found herself about halfway across the salt cave, yet she couldn’t remember walking this far. The nausea was now interchangeable with the dizziness, and she hardly knew if she stood upright or hunched over. Despite her efforts to stay away from the walls, she stumbled and instinctively shot her hand out to steady herself.

  Another flash of light overcame her, and when it passed, an eerie sense of déjà vu overcame her. She was back in the attic.

  “Catherine, come find me!” A giggle rose through the air, followed by the sound of small footsteps across the wooden floor. A flash of movement caught her attention, and she peered around a stack of suitcases as Mena darted out from behind them, her mischievous laughter following her.

  Camille smiled, distracted by an antique, full-length mirror half draped in an old sheet. She approached it and reached out to grab the sheet, but it fell away before she could touch it. She saw a much older woman staring back at her and somehow knew the reflection was her own; she also knew she was far older than she appeared, and yet neither of these things bothered her. She didn’t feel scared or overwhelmed but safe. Content.

  “Catherine! Come on... You have to find me. It’s the game,” Mena called.

  Camille stomped her feet across the floor, making as much noise as possible so Mena would know where she was. It was times like these she missed her ability to speak. She shoved the thought aside; she had so much to be grateful for, and the past was the past.

  She found Mena crouched beside a shelf, and the girl giggled as a voice sounded up the stairs. “Alice? Catherine? I know you’re up here!”

  They didn’t answer, instead preferring to make Sybil come all the way into the attic, knowing how much she hated it up there. Sybil got to the top of the stairs and glared at them. “Alice, you’re supposed to be helping Mother in the kitchen. And Catherine, you’re supposed to be helping me change the linens. Now hurry up.”

  The pair exchanged a mischievous look, trying to hide their amusement as they walked toward the stairs.

  “Really, Catherine. You’re as bad as the child...”

  “A TUNNEL?” ALLYSHA echoed in disbelief.

  “That’s what she said. She’d found some drawing in an album that showed an entrance... or exit... through the back of her wardrobe,” Lachlan clarified.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I haven’t seen it yet. She found it yesterday after we’d already
left, but that was what she said.”

  “Did you know anything about this?” Allysha looked at Phillipe, and he shook his head.

  “No, of course not. I would have told you. There’s nothing on any of the blueprints I’ve seen about an odd tunnel through a wardrobe. It’s not exactly something I would overlook.”

  “We’ll take a look. Thanks, Lachlan.”

  “Wait. Can you please let me know when you find her? Just let me know she’s okay, even if it’s just a message?”

  “Of course we will,” Allysha reassured him. “Talk to you later.” Rather than place Camille’s phone back on the bedside table, Allysha put it in the back pocket of her jeans, then turned and looked down at the bed.

  “What is it?” Phillipe asked. She lifted the edge of the thrown-back blanket and revealed the blueprint Lachlan had described. Phillipe quickly straightened it out, running his fingers expertly over the drawings as he mapped his way to Camille’s room. “He was right,” he said, pointing out the few tiny lines that indicated a structure beyond the wardrobe.

  “Why is it drawn like that? It doesn’t show where it leads.” Allysha looked from the drawing to the wardrobe and back again.

  “It could be that it wasn’t complete when this sketch was done, or that the person who drew this didn’t actually know where it led. Just that it was there.”

  “Remember she said she saw someone in there? And we told her she was imagining things.”

  “That’s not what we said...”

  “It’s pretty much what we implied. What if she did see someone? What if they’ve taken her?” Allysha whimpered, raising her hand to her mouth as she fought to hold back the tears.

  “Now, now.” Her husband put his arm around her shoulders. “Let’s not jump to conclusions. We both know how curious Camille is, and the thought of a secret tunnel would certainly intrigue her. I honestly don’t think anyone beyond the LeRoux family would have known about it. It’s surely long forgotten, so I don’t think it likely anyone came in this way. We’ll find her in there. Or even on her way back.” He released his wife and walked to the window seat, where Camille’s research lay scattered amongst the old albums. “What’s all this?”

  “Oh, that’s probably the assignment they were all working on last night. They have to do some family-tree project,” Allysha replied, wanting to get into the tunnel and find her daughter.

  “This looks like more than just our family tree...” He picked up the journal and opened the cover. “I think this belonged to Lachlan’s uncle.” Phillipe looked up and out the window toward the woods, frowning.

  “Okay... so Lachlan must have brought it with him. We can hand it over to the police later, if you think it’s relevant. But for now, it’s not important. Finding Camille is.”

  With one last glance at the research, Phillipe grabbed his wife’s hand. He paused halfway across the room and picked up one of the discarded torches from the night before. Then they approached the wardrobe, and he turned on the torch to shine the light across the black hole gaping at them through Camille’s clothes.

  “Let’s go.” Allysha nudged her husband forward, unable to hide the fear in her voice, though she was unsure what terrified her more—not finding their daughter or finding something had happened to her.

  CAMILLE GASPED, PUSHING herself away from the wall. She tried to shake the vision from her mind, but it wasn’t possible. She was Camille. Her name was Camille, and she was here, now. Pinching herself hard on the arm, she repeated her mantra over and over, reassuring herself that she was not only herself, but she could also talk. This calmed her until she was determined enough to push past the nausea and dizziness and get out of the tunnel as fast as she could. She forced herself forward.

  The salt cave closed in around her the closer she got to the end. She did her best to ignore the sudden claustrophobia, but the dizziness intensified. She lost her balance and stumbled against the wall before she could stop herself. “No!” Another flash of white swept over her.

  This time, when she opened her eyes, she stood in a doorway, leaning heavily on a dark, wooden cane in her hand, topped with an ornate silver handle. What startled her more was the appearance of her hand. It was gnarled, with bulbous veins protruding from underneath the paper-thin skin. As her heart sped up and her breathing quickened, she gripped the walking stick tightly, fearing she would pass out from the panic.

  “Since when do you lurk in doorways?” came a voice beside her. Camille lifted her head to find Mena standing beside her, though she was no longer a little girl. She was now a woman in her fifties, her hair as white as ever and fixed tightly into an immaculate bun. Yet there was no mistaking the mischievous glint in her eyes. Seeing the look on Camille’s face, Mena grabbed a hold of her arm. “Don’t fret, old friend. New life is something to be celebrated. There is plenty of time for existential deliberation later.”

  Camille didn’t move, unsure if she physically couldn’t, or if she was paralysed by her fear of what was happening.

  Mena sighed. “You can’t help it, can you? You’ve always found it harder to accept that we’re different than everyone else. They all know it. How could they not? Even dear Caroline never spoke of the strange way in which you and I age. Or why. I’ve never heard any of them question it. At least not within earshot.”

  Camille turned and looked at Mena, her eyebrow raised.

  “Yes, you’re right. We both know Sybil was curious, to say the least. Not that she would have believed us if we’d told her. It’s a shame she died in childbirth...” Mena didn’t sound in the least bit remorseful.

  Camille nodded, pretending to know what Mena was talking about as she feigned interest in the goings on of the room before them.

  “I mean, look at me. I don’t look a day over fifty, though we both know I am well into my seventies. And you, my dear, old, friend. A miraculous one hundred and forty-two years!”

  Camille gasped and tried to speak, momentarily forgetting that she couldn’t.

  “Do not be alarmed,” Mena said, giving her arm a gentle squeeze. “You don’t look a day over ninety. A young ninety.”

  Camille couldn’t think straight. It didn’t make any sense. Yet here she was, on old woman, still in the manor, but it wasn’t her manor—at least, not when she lived there. Mena’s ramblings faded into background noise as Camille tried to piece together what she’d been shown—tried to work out the how and the why.

  A baby’s sudden cry startled her, and she peered into the room, only now realising she stood in the doorway of a grand sitting room. The walls were covered in a rich mahogany wallpaper decorated with an intricate pattern of gold lines and arches, giving the appearance of row upon row of splayed peacock feathers. From the high ceiling hung two extravagant chandeliers, though they weren’t needed with the sunlight streaming from the large, arched windows spanning across the wall to her left. The wooden floor was as rich in colour as the wallpaper, with large, plush cream rugs spanning over most of it.

  Camille looked at a woman rising from the lounge chair. She was tall and slim, her hair immaculately styled in victory rolls—a chestnut brown with hints of grey stemming from her temples. This woman had to be a LeRoux—the lady of the house. Judging by the style of clothing, Camille guessed this was Georgette LeRoux—her great-great grandmother.

  Georgette nodded to two women who had entered the room from the other end. A man in a crisp suit stood aside and gestured for the women to approach Mrs LeRoux.

  One of them looked to be in her mid-twenties, the other in her teens. Both wore matching maids’ outfits, and each held a baby, tightly swaddled—one in a blue blanket and the other in pink.

  “Lucy, congratulations on the birth of your twins. Such a joy for you and Thomas,” Georgette declared, her hands clasped in front of her as she impatiently awaited the newborns.

  The baby girl fussed in the younger woman’s arms, as though knowing her mother and brother were nearby.

  “Oh, come now, little
one...” Georgette cooed as she took the baby from the girl’s arms and gestured for them to sit on the lounge. Both the maids looked uncomfortable at the offer and tried to hide it by focusing on the babies. “What names did you decide on?” Georgette asked.

  “You’re holding Margaret,” Lucy replied. “And this is Robert.”

  “Margaret and Robert McAllister. What grand names.” Georgette rocked Margaret back and forth.

  Camille’s eyes widened, and she felt her breath catch in her throat. Her grip on the walking stick loosened just enough for her to grasp the doorframe beside her with all the strength she could muster. It was all she could do to hold herself upright.

  “Now, Lucy, you know we think of you and all the staff as family. So, if you need anything at all, please don’t be afraid to ask.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “Do tell me why you’re in your uniform. You should be resting. Spending time with your babies.”

  “There’s always so much to be done, ma’am...”

  “Nonsense. You need to rest. If it makes you feel better, you can still oversee everything from within your living quarters. If it’s more staff we need, then I will speak to Frederic about it this evening.”

  Lucy smiled and gave her mistress a nod.

  “Now Catherine, Alice, don’t think I haven’t noticed the two of you standing there...” Georgette turned and looked over her shoulder at them with a kindly smile. “Do come in and take a look at these beautiful new additions to the manor.”

  They stepped forward, Mena’s arm still holding onto Camille’s, who was entirely grateful for the support. She felt herself shaking, assuring herself it was more from panic than old age. Then she looked down at the babies. So little. She thought of the McAllister twins she knew—had known—though they were much older.

  Are they a memory, or a dream? It seems like another lifetime ago... Camille frowned, unable to remember as she stared into the eyes of the baby Margaret McAllister.