The Rose Master (9 page)

There were never any letters for either woman, but they always asked and made the man, John, look through his bag. I had a suspicion they went through those motions each week to hold his attention a while longer, to brush against a life that was so removed from theirs just a few minutes more.

I enjoyed watching them during those times, when the heaviness I didn’t understand lifted off them, and they prattled on like any two women in a London market.

I enjoyed those days as much as they.

On one afternoon, in which I found myself idle again, I decided to set out on a bit of a thorough exploration, long overdue. Not outside this time, but inside. Ms. Simple and Dora were in their rooms, Mr. Keery was in the stables as usual, and the master was . . . wherever he liked to spend his time, so I had little incentive to curb my curiosity.

I waited until the house was silent around me, then set out deeper into its bowels, past the staircase, past the edge of what I knew. Whatever hope had been chirping inside me about what I’d find slowly began to strangle itself with the cold that seemed to grow the farther into the manor I moved. Just a few paces past the staircase and the trembling in my hands became pretty severe. There had to be a broken windowpane somewhere. This could not be normal, even in such a large, stone-crafted house.

Plunging my hands into my pockets, I moved forward. The walls were tight around me, the wallpaper faded by a sun that no longer appeared to reach down these passages, the smell dank with neglect. No one had come down to look at, let alone clean, any of the rooms that were hidden behind the forbidding doors. I tested one, to make sure, and found it locked, the latch hitching with a metallic cough. Well, at least I wouldn’t be expected to dust in there.

I tried two more doors, but by that time, my hands were shaking to such a degree that I knew I had to turn back, or risk illness. It seemed the house would keep its secrets. And I’d found one more direction in which I couldn’t travel on the grounds. Wonderful.

As I was turning around to retrace my chilled steps, I thought I heard something—another chuckle. Had I disturbed the master? But as I tried to part the dim light, I could see no one. Fear joined in chorus with the cold to get my legs moving. My head screamed that I needed to get back to the main hall. I didn’t know why I was so panicked, which scared me as much as the fear itself did.

Finally, I could see the hall; the sunlight that bathed its floor paused on the edge of darkness, not daring to brush through it. I passed the staircase, stepping fully into the sun. Sighing with relief, I turned and peered into the darkness that had spat me back out.

I shivered. It seemed to peer back.

Close to dinner time, and more out of boredom than actual need, I climbed the stairs to polish the landing. I hadn’t been to the second story yet, and while it was as cold as the rest of the manor, it had a lovely view of the grounds. The windows had no curtains, and fully allowed a glimpse of the surrounding forest, the trees so close to one another I could hardly see the snowy earth.

Finding my hands all too soon straying from the work I’d set for myself, I gave it up altogether. Who would care to check up on me, especially since it wasn’t one of my approved duties? A rather convincing argument, I found. So I gave myself up to the sight of the sun setting over the flock of trees.

It was a soothing moment, allowing me to even forget, somewhat, the strange atmosphere that prevailed in the manor, that sense of something hidden and not too friendly.

The sun burnt, large against the trees. I’d never seen it quite like that before. In London, I’d always gotten just a peek of its mantle as it lowered, its beauty crushed by buildings and smoke, but here, it was magnificent. First, it burnt orange, then red, lending the landscape its warmth for a few more minutes. One of its rays caught a tendril of my hair in its light. A flash of color wrapped around me, triggering a memory I didn’t even know I possessed: a woman’s face, frowning as she looked at something behind me, her hair a crown of gold on her head, resplendent with sun. My mother.

Pain grabbed me. Like a hand tightening around my heart, I felt grief taking over my body. For most of my life, I’d been rather independent, as any servant with a father like mine had to be, but at that moment, watching the sun die over the barrier of trees, feeling the cold growing by the second, all I wanted was a comforting arm around my shoulders. A voice to tell me that things would be just fine.

When I felt a tear coursing down my cheek, I shook my head. What nonsense. I just missed Elsie, that was all. And my home.

No, I chided myself. Caldwell House was no longer my home. This manor, with all its faults, with all its strangeness, was where I belonged now.

“Supper, Anne!” Dora’s voice screeched up the stairs.

“Coming.”

Good, supper, and then bed. I’d feel better in the morning.

As I began to turn away from the window, I saw movement near the borderline of trees. I frowned and looked closer. There was that figure again. Although I was sure he had to be the master, he looked . . . peculiar. The word came into my head without any real basis in fact. He was dressed nicely enough, he moved with elegance, but still, there was something about him that I couldn’t quite place.

Looking down at the figure, I thought of what Dora had told me the night I’d arrived. Why did he choose to live so isolated?

Without any warning, the man turned, raised his head, and looked directly at me.

I gasped and raced down the stairs.

Later that night, scratches at my door woke me from a restless slumber. I swam up through the layers of twisted dreams to the dark and cold of my room. My heart was pounding, and my breath insisted on abandoning my lungs with such force it burned through my throat. I lay still. For a moment, I thought I’d imagined the sound, that it had just been a dream’s tail disappearing around my ears. But then, I heard it again—scratching.

I didn’t know if there were any animals in the manor, but I doubted it. Except for Mr. Keery, no one else seemed the type to care for pets. Rats were never out of the question, even in such a grand house, but even that thought rang false in my head. I grit my teeth and unwound my limbs from the sheets.

“Bloody hell!” I exclaimed as the cold struck me. I could see my breath again. I looked over to the window. It was closed and bolted, something I had checked again and again before retiring to bed. There had to be a draft. How could the temperature change like that, in dips and plunges?

I walked to the door. The scratching continued, lazy and regular, like a cat grooming itself. As I neared the noise, though, it stopped.

Holding my breath, I inched an ear against the wood in the hopes of hearing either a retreating creature or maybe some panting. Anything that would solve the mystery and allow me to return to my warm, body-shaped dent on the bed. I could hear nothing, though. No breathing, no sighing, no panting.

In the time it took for me to blink, the scratches began again, fiercer and faster, like knives stabbing the wood. The sound rose higher until it reached where my ear had rested seconds before.

I considered screaming. My mouth opened, but no sound flew out. The cold clutched at my voice.

I couldn’t explain what happened next, all I knew was that I felt a pulsing slightly above my ribcage, like a low drumming that rose, spreading a rhythm that chanted of warmth and strength. It poured out my panic and refilled my body with tranquility.

I lifted my hands to my eyes. My fingers felt so hot I was sure there was something wrong with them, but no, they looked just like always: a bit scuffed, but reliable. I felt dizzy, and my limbs threatened to collapse in a pile around me. So I did the only thing I could think of, I gripped the doorknob and yanked the door open.

A gust of winter air surrounded me, and I tore at it with my hands, flinging it off me like torn spider webs. The cold seemed to be sucked out of my room, and I could soon breathe again without the stabs of air against my fumbling insides.

A weakness scurried up my legs and I had to grip on to the door. I concentrated on staying upright as I pressed my hot forehead to the tranquil wood. As with the two previous times, the spell soon passed. I stepped out into the corridor, but it was empty and quiet, not a single light staining the floorboards.

My breathing was too fast, too shallow.
 I had to slow it down or risk fainting, which, after what I’d just heard and felt, was not the wisest idea. Clutching my shaking hands together, I concentrated on slow, even breaths.
It had just been an animal
, I told myself. As much as my mind resisted it, it was the only explanation. Unless I’d gone and truly lost my mind.

By slow degrees, I got myself back under control. As tired as I felt, I knew sleep would not return that night, so I pulled my Bible out and lit my lamp. Wrapping the blanket tightly around me, I buried myself in the pages. I waited for the comfort of my father’s voice to still my thoughts and fears, but it never came.

Ten

I mentioned the previous night’s disturbance around the kitchen table the following morning. By that time, I had managed to convince myself of my own fright’s silliness. I’d checked the door as soon as the sun had trailed in on dim footsteps and had seen nothing on the entirety of it. I made an effort not to allow myself to quake at a single night of lost sleep. I spoke of the incident in the lightest tone, a layer of laughter anchoring the words as I uttered them.

The room, however, stopped in its tracks. Everything and everyone around me appeared to stop breathing, hearts paused in mid-beat. The silence drew my eyes up from my coffee cup, allowing me to catch a look exchanged between Ms. Simple and Dora.