Dark Season: The Complete Box Set (70 page)

Chapter Two

Dinner is a meager affair, but necessarily so since the house is ill-stocked with supplies. Lively assures us once again that a boy has already been dispatched to the nearest town and that tomorrow he will return with all that we need in order to have a fine meal. Both Edward and myself understand that Lively could do no more; he is a good servant, and it is something of a miracle that we have food this evening at all. With Lively here, I feel somewhat safer than might otherwise have been the case.

As the evening progresses, I find myself becoming a little more comfortable at Gabriel Hall. The place is by no means a disgrace: it is a noble building, as befits a family of Edward's standing. There are many large and airy rooms, with a great deal of potential for hosting engagements. Some care and attention is needed to the paintwork in a number of areas, and the decoration - which has been arranged by Edward's uncle Dunstable - is very much lacking in both style and grace. But these are cosmetic issues, and the house itself seems sturdy and extremely promising. I believe I can do something with Gabriel Hall, and that it can become a highlight of the surrounding area. All that I require are patience and support from my husband.

Yet as it becomes dark outside, and the candles within cast long shadows, I find my old fears returning. As shadows build in the corners of the rooms, and the sky outside turns from blue to gray, it is as if the house itself is changing its mood. There is an eerie coldness about the rooms, and the large rooms suddenly seem inordinately empty, as if they are waiting to be filled. I find the place starting more and more to resemble the house of my nightmares, and as I pass from one room to another I recognize specific places where, in my dreams, I saw Patrick and Sophie locked in their confrontation. I tell myself over and over again that I must not be so silly, but it is difficult to remain strong when confronted so boldly by the stuff of nightmares.

Edward is busy checking the state of the building, which means that he is off with Lively as they try to determine whether Dunstable's poor stewardship has caused long-lasting damage. I therefore find myself spending the evening with Margaret, forcing her to stay with me. I can tell that she finds this unusual and awkward, but I simply do not wish to be alone in this house.

Coming from such different backgrounds, Margaret and I of course have very little to discuss. She doesn't understand my world at all, and I understand hers only too well. She is a poor, simple woman with no complex ideas or sophisticated emotions. I am tempted to inquire as to her opinions on a range of subjects, including art and politics, but I refrain; it would be cruel to torment her by trying to get her to think of such things. For all I know, her brain might overheat and she might suffer permanent injury. Eventually, however, our conversation comes around to the matter of the house.

"Tell me what you think of Gabriel Hall," I say, as she and I sit by a fire in the drawing room. "Don't hold back. I want to hear your true views. I won't be angry, and I won't tell my husband."

I can immediately tell from Margaret's expression that her views of Gabriel Hall are not entirely positive. She still seems nervous, though, as if she fears retribution if she makes a negative comment. This is understandable: she knows her place, and she does not want to speak out of turn.

"Please, Margaret," I say, "I would like to hear your views. Nothing you say will leave this room."

"It's a marvelous house, Madame," Margaret says politely.

"But?" I ask.

She opens her mouth to answer, but it seems she cannot. All her life, she has been trained to keep her lowly opinions to herself - with good reason - and now she is struggling to overcome that training and speak freely.

"Go on," I say.

"Some houses have a character to them, Madame," she says eventually, proving to be more diplomatic than I would ever have guessed. "Some houses are different to other houses." She looks down at her feet. "I'm sorry, Madame."

"Don't be sorry," I say. "Tell me, has anything specific happened since we arrived that makes you wary of the house?"

"No, Madame," she says, still looking at her feet.

"Have you ever had a dream about the house?" I ask.

"No, Madame," she says, and then she looks up at me. "Have
you
, Madame?" she asks, with a curious tone in her voice that suggests she already knows the answer.

"Yes," I say. "Before we arrived. Long before I even knew that Gabriel Hall existed, I came here in my dreams. You must not tell anyone that I told you this, of course."

"Of course, Madame."

"Frightful dreams," I continue, "filled with frightful people and terrible events." I take a deep breath. "Last night, I dreamed that the place was burning." I look around the room. "I feel almost as if my dreams became stronger as we traveled closer to the house. I fear what I might dream tonight, now that we are actually here."

"Are there people in your dreams, Madame?" she asks.

I pause, unsure as to whether I am revealing too much to this lowly woman. "Yes," I say eventually, "as a matter of fact, there are. Strange lunatics. I have no idea how I dreamed them up. I must have quite the imagination, for they are frightful creatures, the likes of which I have never encountered in real life."

"If you don't mind me saying," Margaret says timidly, "I have noticed, Madame, that you seem troubled in the mornings, and I had guessed that perhaps your dreams are troubling you."

I smile. Edward never notices such things. "Is it possible," I ask, "that dreams can foretell the future? Or that they can resurrect the past? Is it possible that dreams can reflect reality in some subconscious manner?" I pause. "Or that... other people, people from another life entirely, can somehow become projected into one's dreams in a manner that seems to make no sense at all, yet which provokes the most terrible nightmares?"

"I don't know, Madame," Margaret says.

"I hope not," I reply. "I would hate to think that the creatures from my dreams are in any way real."

"I'm sure they're not," Margaret says, although I can tell from her tone of voice and from the look on her face that she doesn't necessarily believe this. Margaret is a simple woman, and for that reason she is superstitious. She probably believes in the existence of all manner of ghosts and fairies. Myself, I am extremely intelligent and therefore I don't believe in any such thing, although my dreams of Gabriel Hall have certainly instilled a certain caution in my character.

"There you are!" says Edward, entering the room.

Margaret immediately gets up. "I'll prepare the bedroom," she says, looking down as she hurries out of the room. She knows her place, and I have trained her well.

"Were you
talking
to her?" Edward asks, watching incredulously as Margaret leaves.

"Just some light conversation," I say, smiling as Edward comes over to my chair.

"And she was capable of it?" he asks.

"Quite," I say. "She's smarter than she looks."

"She'd have to be," Edward replies, laughing. "She has quite a feeble face. I certainly wouldn't expect to get any interesting conversation from her, but if you wish to entertain yourself with such endeavors, I wish you the best of luck. Now, I feel it is time to get to bed. Lively and I have discovered plenty of work that needs to be done. If old Dunstable doesn't appear tomorrow, I shall have to assume that he is permanently gone. We might get our hands on Gabriel Hall sooner than we expected."

"That would be nice," I say, although the sentiment is a lie and I actually feel rather nauseous at the prospect of having to spend another minute in this place. To have a building construct itself in your nightmares, and then to come to that building in real life, is an extremely strange sensation, the likes of which I have never before encountered, and the idea of spending a night here is almost impossible to contemplate, yet I understand that I have no choice. This is a house in which I will likely spend a considerable part of the rest of my life, and I simply must overcome my irrational fears.

"You look quite pale," Edward says. "Are you sure you're alright?"

"I'm fine," I say. I know that my demeanor is not convincing, but I also know that Edward will not push me too much. As long as I say that I'm happy, that will be enough for him.

"Perhaps you're pregnant," he continues. "We'll have to get you checked by Doctor Lewis when we get home."

"We shall indeed," I say, smiling, although I know that there is little chance that I'm pregnant. I am simply fearful of this house, and dreading the prospect of spending the night here.

"Come," says Edward, and I rise from the chair and follow him toward the door. "Look at that," Edward says, pausing next to a small painting of a rather ugly young woman. "Dunstable has such awful taste in art." Edward takes the painting, removes it from the wall and hides it behind a curtain. "There," he says, smiling. "Much better."

"Do you think your uncle is really gone for good?" I ask as Edward and I head upstairs.

"Who knows?" Edward replies. "I certainly hope so."

We enter the bedroom to find that Margaret has just finished laying out our bed for the night. Having been married for a relatively short period of time, Edward and I still sleep in the same bed, an arrangement that I like very much. I fear the day when his passion cools and we move to separate rooms, although as his wife I shall of course have to be accepting. For now, though, Edward and I are very intimate and spend much time in one another's company. Too much time, perhaps.

"Good night, Sir," Margaret says as she bows and leaves the room. "Madame."

Once Edward and I are alone, we retire to bed and the candles are swiftly blown out. There's a pause, before Edward rolls over and starts to get on top of me. I open my legs and feel him enter me, and for several minutes he exerts himself until finally he finishes with a gasp. He rolls off me and says nothing, and I remain on my back so that there's a better chance of becoming pregnant. Edward hopes -
we
hope - that sooner or later this little ritual will lead to a birth, but there's something about the whole endeavor that strikes me as being somewhat futile.

While Edward falls asleep easily, no doubt concerned to be at full strength for the day ahead tomorrow, I find myself staring at the dark room and at the shadows that surround us. After a while, I find myself feeling rather foolish. This is, after all, only a house. It is a building, not a person, and it can no more have a personality than can a hat-stand or a chair. Once again, I have allowed my womanly qualities to become quite fevered. I should try to be calmer, and to retain a greater sense of reason. As these thoughts of self-improvement calm my nerves, I find myself falling asleep.

I dream of the house again. This time, I'm outside in the garden and it's a nice, bright day. For a moment, I am able to relax; but then Sophie appears, beseeching me to turn and run. I pause, and then Patrick arrives. He chases after Sophie as she runs into the forest, and for some reason I run after them. I'm filled with the belief that I can in some way help Sophie, although in truth there is nothing I can do to stop Patrick. He is like a force of nature, almost like a huge dog or some other kind of slobbering animal. If he could speak, I'm sure he would roar. And as the dream continues, I find myself desperately trying to keep up with the both of them as they run and run and run and then we all reach the ballroom and -

I awaken suddenly, quite breathless. The room is still and dark and quiet, but I feel unsettled. Turning, I see that Edward remains fast asleep. From his slow breathing, I am quite sure that nothing is the matter with him. He is completely oblivious to anything else that might be happening. I am sure that an entire war could be fought outside, and Edward wouldn't even notice.

I turn to look at the window. The night is still dark outside, and the moon is high. There are drops of water on the glass, as if it has rained briefly. Suddenly I realize that I'm sweating. I put a hand to my brow and find that I'm extremely warm. It must be from the exertion of running in the dream. I pause, thankful for the silence around me.

And then I hear something.

Somewhere off in the house, in the corridor outside our bedroom, something is moving. At first I can't make out what it is, and then as it gets closer I try to persuade myself that it is one of the servants, but from the way the footfall moves along the corridor, I can instinctively tell that this is not a servant at all. It sounds as if someone very large is walking slowly through the house, dragging a large bag of heavy pebbles. As I continue to listen, I realize that the noise is getting closer and closer to the bedroom door, as if some terrible creature is approaching the room. My gaze fixes on the door handle, and I almost expect it to slowly start to turn at any moment.

"This is ridiculous," I say quietly, under my breath. And it's true: I simply must be imagining everything that is happening. I am allowing myself to be drawn into the most insane fantasy, and now my mind is starting to betray me. How strange it is, that the human mind can be pushed to destruction simply by a few creaks and shadows in the dead of night. Yet the sound of movement seems very real to me as it suddenly stops right outside the bedroom door. There is a pause, and then it starts again and soon I realize that it is getting further away. It is as if this nightmarish visitor has come to our door, paused, and then decided to keep moving.