Dark Season: The Complete Box Set (72 page)

Chapter Five

"Wake up," says a voice in the darkness. It takes me a moment to realize who's speaking. "Wake up," the voice says again, and this time I'm certain: it's Sophie. "I need your help."

"Leave me alone," I say, keeping my eyes closed. "Take Patrick with you. Whatever your problems, I do not wish to be a part of them."

"He's here," Sophie says. "I'm not, but he is. I can't help you. You have to help yourself. Do you understand? If the prophecy is denied any longer, the spiders will come back."

"I don't understand a thing," I reply. "Who are you?" Silence. I wait for her to answer, but she doesn't say anything. I open my eyes and for a fraction of a second, I see Sophie standing before me, covered in thousands of spiders; seconds later, I blink and she disappears, and I find that I'm laid out on the bed upstairs, with Margaret sitting beside me. The room is filled with the day's fading light and, with window open, I'm a little cold. Outside, birds are chirping.

"How are you feeling, Madame?" she asks.

I open my mouth to reply, but I feel indescribably weak. "I..." I start to say, but the effort of saying even a few words seems beyond me. It's as if all my energy has been sucked away and I have been left as a hollow shell.

"A doctor has been sent for," Margaret says. "He should be here tomorrow."

I stare at her. A doctor? What's wrong with me? "Where's Edward?" I ask.

"He and Mr. Lively are still out hunting for that poacher," Margaret says. "They caught sight of him, but he got away before they could get any shots off. Still, they're hopeful of at least scaring him from the property by tonight. If he dares to come back, that is."

"Oh, he'll dare," I say quietly.

"Pardon, Madame?"

"What time is it?" I ask, changing the subject.

"I believe it's almost five o'clock," she says.

"In the evening?"

She nods.

I look over at the window and see that it is already starting to get dark. Soon the sun will dip entirely in the sky and the house - and all of us inside - will be consumed by shadows. The thought of another night in this place makes me shiver: during the day, the house seems fairly friendly and un-threatening, but I fear that the dark of night will awaken various ghouls and fears in my own mind, if not in the real world itself. All my old certainties have wasted away, and I'm left wondering if there is any divide at all between my fantasies and the real world. It is as if a barrier has been broken, and all my nightmares are spilling out into the house. "We must leave," I say, turning back to Margaret and trying to sound as determined as possible. It is difficult for a woman to seem authoritative, but I must make an effort. "This house is not a good place for us. It is full of darkness and it will do us no good to remain here."

"That's the Master's business," Margaret says. "Not mine."

"It's my business too," I say. "I cannot spend any more time in this house. There is something about it. I don't know what, exactly, but I feel as if I shall fall apart if I am forced to remain here." I pause. "I know I must sound like the most dreadful fool, but I have these nightmares and now I fear they are spilling out. Do you have any idea what life is like for me here?" I stare at Margaret. "Of course you don't. How could you ever understand my suffering?"

"I try," Margaret says quietly.

I sit up. "I feel so weak. What's wrong with me?"

"The Master thinks you might be expecting a child," Margaret says. "That's why he's sent for a doctor."

"I'm not expecting a child," I snap back at her. "I'd know if that were the case. Wouldn't I?"

"I expect so," says Margaret.

"Of course I would!" I say somewhat sharply, before sighing. "Sometimes I feel I would be better served having a woman around me who has been through childbirth, rather than a barren hag." I instantly regret my choice of words. "I hope I did not offend you," I add.

"Not at all," she replies unconvincingly, looking down at the floor.

I put a hand on my belly. "I am not swollen," I say. "I do not feel nauseous in the morning. I am absolutely certain that I am as yet not with child, though..." I turn to Margaret. "Obviously, were it to be the case, I would be extremely happy."

"Of course, Madame," Margaret says.

"Typical," I say, sighing. "As soon as a woman becomes a little ill, it is assumed that she's with child. I should have known Edward might -" I pause, suddenly noticing that Margaret has tears in her eyes, and she looks very pale. She's clearly trying to hold back her emotions, but her efforts are in vain and I can see that she is almost fit to burst.

"Margaret," I say, genuinely touched by her problems despite the fact that she is merely a servant. It is usually the case that employers should not meddle in the private lives of their employees, but I cannot shake the feeling that in this case Margaret's anguish is in some way connected to my own fears. "Whatever is the matter?" I ask. "What has caused you to drop your guard in this manner?"

Her bottom lip is quivering, her face is becoming red, and tears are rolling down her cheeks. "I can't say," she bursts out, and then she starts to sob. I am quite sure that I have never, not once in my life, seen a person cry, although obviously I have heard of such an event. But to see this woman show her weakness in such an obvious way is, to be honest, rather pitiful.

"You most certainly
can
say," I tell her. "And you will. Tell me immediately." The best way to deal with such a situation is to be firm. Sympathy would only encourage Margaret in this act of weakness.

She looks over at me, and her eyes have a look of such sorrow in them. I never knew that servants could feel emotions so keenly, but she certainly seems to be in absolute anguish about something.

"Margaret," I say, affecting my most commanding tone of voice, "you must tell me at once what is causing this... this... scene. I am not used to having people in my employ show such weakness, and I want to know the cause at once." I feel that perhaps I am being a little too strict, a little too severe, but I must get to the bottom of Margaret's problems at once. "Tell me," I say firmly, "or I shall dismiss you from my service this very instant."

"I saw it," she says, her eyes fixed on me, her expression filled with extreme shock. Despite her lowly status, it is hard to dismiss such obvious fear. "On your back," she continues. "I saw it."

I stare at her. "Saw what?"

She pauses. "I saw it sitting on your back," she says. "When I came into the room a short while ago, to check on you and bring you some water. I opened the door, and it was sitting there. And it turned its head and it looked right at me."

"What did?" I ask, feeling a chill run through my body.

"I can't say," she insists.

"Tell me!"

"It was the Devil himself, Madame," she replies, her whole body shaking. She makes the sign of the cross on her chest.

"Nonsense," I say.

"I saw him," she continues. "Small and hunched up and red of skin, with yellow eyes. He was sitting on your back while you were asleep. He was perched there like a bird."

"You're having a delusion," I say, hoping to get some sense back into the foolish woman. "The Devil was most certainly not sitting on my back. Don't you think I would be aware of such a thing if it happened to me?"

"He was putting one of those things inside you," Margaret continues.

"What things?" I ask. "Margaret, you are in serious danger of being dismissed from my service if you do not right your attitude at once. I am tired of your -"

"One of those stones," she says, interrupting me, still sobbing. "He took it out of his mouth, and he... he..." She bursts into tears, covering her eyes with the sleeve of her dress.

I stare at her. "What did he do?" I ask, but Margaret just sobs like a weak fool. "Tell me!" I shout at her. "What did he do?" I am rapidly losing patience with her.

She looks up at me. "He put it inside you," she says. "He slit open your skin with his own finger, and he took a stone out of his mouth, and... it was covered in some kind of liquid, and he put it in you. He closed the wound, and then he left, and I sat here and I didn't know what to do. I didn't know whether to wake you, or to call for help, or to -"

"You just sat there?" I ask, finding it hard to believe that she lacked the intelligence to go and fetch my husband. Then again, perhaps she knows deep down that the whole thing was a hallucination, and she would rather not appear deranged.

"Where?" I ask. "Where in my body did he put this stone?"

Margaret stands up and comes over to the bed. She reaches around and puts her hand on my back. I put a finger where she has indicated, and I immediately feel that there is something hard under the skin, something that I am certain was not there before.

"Was it exactly like the others?" I ask her. "Small and black?"

She nods.

"And you say this man was the Devil himself?" I ask.

She nods again.

"No," I say. "No. I am quite sure you're wrong. Whatever or whoever it was, it was not the Devil. Tell me, did he have a forked tail? Did he have horns? Was he laughing?"

"No, Madame," Margaret says, returning to her seat. "None of that."

"It is well-known that the Devil laughs at his victims," I say, trying to reassure myself as much as Margaret. "He taunts them. He takes pleasure in their misery. If this creature, or whatever it is that you saw, was not reveling in my misfortune, then most certainly it was not the Devil but something else entirely. And for that we can only be grateful."

"Yes, Madame," says Margaret, once again making the sign of the cross on her chest.

"You must not speak of this to anyone," I say. "Not to my husband or anyone else, do you understand?"

"Yes, Madame," she says again.

"This is for your own benefit. If you tell this story to anyone else, you risk being taken to a house for lunatics." I pause. "Have you spoken of it to anyone already?" I add.

She shakes her head.

"Good," I say. "We must simply ensure that we leave this place soon. If we start talking about demons and other creatures, we shall be laughed at, as if we are foolish little women. We must simply say that my health requires an urgent move to see a doctor. Can you relay that news to my husband?"

Margaret nods, but she seems paralyzed with fear, as if she can't do anything other than sob.

"Margaret," I say tersely, becoming tired of her failure to act, "do you understand me? We cannot simply sit here and let our fears overtake us, do you understand?"

She stares at me. "I tell you, Madame," she says, her voice slow and heavy. "It was the Devil himself -"

"Nonsense!" I shout at her. "Absolute nonsense!"

"He looked straight at me!" she says, ignoring my protestations. "Right in the eyes. He looked at me. What else could it be, Madame? It was the Devil!"

"Go to your room!" I shout at her. "Go to your room and stay there until you are told that it is time for us to leave this place. When we get back to London, you will leave my service at once, and if you speak of the Devil one more time, I shall refuse to grant you a letter of reference." I stare at her. "Without a letter of reference, no-one else will ever employ you. You'll end up in the workhouses, or on the streets. Do you understand me? I'm sorry to be so harsh. I have found you to be a very capable employee for many years, but this superstitious nonsense has become far too much. Not another word. Now go to your room. I will get myself up for dinner."

Margaret stands up and shuffles over to the door, but she turns back, tears still in her eyes. "I'm sorry, Madame," she says. "Perhaps you can find it in your heart to reconsider. I would not like to leave your service."

"You must," I say firmly. "This nonsense about the Devil is too extreme. But as I have told you, if you comport yourself well until we get back to London, I shall at least give you a letter of reference with which you might be able to secure another post. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Madame," she says, hurrying out of the room.

I sit alone for a moment. "There is no Devil here," I say out loud. "Just the imaginings of a crazy woman." And that's all Margaret is, really: a crazy woman. Years and years of service have obviously dulled her senses. She is of a lower class than myself, and as such she has always been somewhat challenged in terms of intelligence. Perhaps she came to believe herself to be something greater than she was born to be; perhaps she began to fancy herself capable of seeing things that others could not see. I have heard of common servants getting such ideas before, but I never believed it could happen to Margaret.

Getting dressed without Margaret's help is somewhat difficult, especially since I am still feeling so weak. I simply am not used to the procedure of manhandling my dress so that it fits my body, and I simply must engage another woman as soon as we get back to London. Eventually, however, I get the dress on and I check myself in the mirror before leaving the room and walking along the corridor toward the stairs. I can hear voices in the distance, so it is clear that Edward and Lively have returned from the forest. It will be good to have some civilized conversation for once, rather than having to listen to Margaret's drivel about the Devil. And then I can -