The cruel dark, p.3
The Cruel Dark, page 3
“Millie, are you light-headed? Are you hurt?” Dr. Hannigan was all business, shooing away the groundkeeper, who still had his hand at my elbow, and taking my chin, tilting my head one way and another, searching for injuries.
I took his hand gently, removing it from my face. The attention flustered me, making it feel like I was back in Our Lady of Grace again being poked and prodded, asked all manner of questions I’d been unable to answer. The last thing I wanted or needed was any reason for these people, my new peers, to decide I was a basket case.
Mad Millie, my mother’s voice echoed in my ears.
I’d been fine, though the scare had peaked me, but now my throat tightened, the muscles in my shoulders coiling up and building an ache in the base of my skull. In a moment, the world would collapse on top of me. I took a measured breath.
“I was on the bottom step when I lost my footing.” I emphasized my position to ease his mind.“I haven’t hurt myself. Honestly, I’m all right. Is she?”
I purposefully directed everyone’s attention away, and three gazes shifted to the waifish maid, whose gray eyes were a bit too large for her face, giving her an ethereal appearance that likely handed her plenty of masculine attention.
“I’m fine,” she half whispered. “I wasn’t expecting to see anyone here in the foyer. The house has been empty for so long. I thought…”
Ms. Dillard shushed the girl, not unkindly, and patted her back. “It’s all right, Felicity. Some strong tea will do you good. Rodney, come take Felicity to the kitchen. I’ll be there in a moment.”
She passed the young woman to the groundskeeper, who placed a hand on her back in a brotherly way and shuffled her off. She cast me one last glance over her shoulder, unblinking, and they disappeared into a portico.
“I’ve already alerted Callum to the young lady’s arrival,” Dr. Hannigan informed Ms. Dillard, who still hadn’t introduced herself to me. I took the initiative.
“I apologize for my chaotic arrival. You must be…”
“Ms. Dillard,” she finished for me, uninterested in pleasantries. “I manage the household for the professor. Welcome to Willowfield.”
To my ears, it didn’t sound like a welcome at all.
My cheeks burned, frustration making knots in my shoulders. I hadn’t even seen my employer yet and things were already going disastrously. I couldn’t have made a worse first impression, and this woman who was the overseer of everything that transpired within these walls was unhappy there was an interloper in her midst.
“I’m delighted to be here,” I said, determined to make friends.
“I’m sure the professor is waiting for you.” Ms. Dillard sought silent confirmation from the doctor, who nodded and offered me a reassuring shoulder squeeze.
“When Felicity recovers, she’ll take your bags”—she paused and corrected herself—“bag, to your room.”
Dr. Hannigan left my side, approaching the housekeeper, who continued to survey my clothes with faint disdain. My friendly conviction wavered.
“Well, it’s past time I depart. I leave everything in your capable hands, Ms. Dillard.”
“Doctor,” she responded dismissively.
The doctor’s expression became dour, and the two of them locked eyes, some unknown animosity passing between them. Then, the air cleared, and Dr. Hannigan presented me with a smile, the corners of his mustache lifting. “Enjoy Willowfield, Miss Foxboro. It has its charms.”
Ms. Dillard sniffed.
The doctor made his way out, going not to the front door but the same way the groundskeeper and the maid had gone, toward a back entrance somewhere in the servants’ halls. Ms. Dillard turned abruptly and walked away, expecting me to follow. Apprehensive, I abandoned my bag and headed after her.
“We’ll take the long way so you’ll get your bearings. Please pay attention as we go. The house can be a maze. It won’t do for you to get lost every time you attempt to find the library. We’ve put you in a room as close as possible to where you’ll work with Professor Hughes to eliminate unnecessary wandering.”
My exploration plan wasn’t as solid anymore, but she hadn’t expressly forbidden it yet. I felt there was still room for interpretation of what exactly wandering meant, unless I was kept locked in my room.
Every inch we traversed, there was more and more for my eyes to behold. Elaborate floral cornices and exquisite gilded vines were stenciled to the plaster ceiling where brass chandeliers with twisting serpentine arms lifted candles, half burned.
“No electric lights?” I asked with tentative curiosity.
“Willowfield was originally built too far from civilization to partake in the modern marvel of electricity. Professor Hughes endeavored to make the switch when it became possible, but the project is incomplete. Only parts of the house are wired.”
I offered an understanding hum and continued the game of trying to see all the many elaborate elements of the hall as we passed: statues of women languishing in the laps of their lovers, draped in luxurious fabrics, crowned with flowers. Portraits, carvings, and stained glass transoms depicting the sweeter and more whimsical fairies that were popular now.
Since she’d answered my previous question so readily, I ventured another.
“This house, the professor’s father built it?”
“Grandfather. If you ask me, it’s a Gilded Age monstrosity, but full of history and, before recently, pride.” Ms. Dillard caught herself bringing up the recent trauma of the household and pressed her lips into a thin line.
“Was he a whimsical man?” I asked, noticing yet another cluster of carved flowers teeming with miniature creatures from myth. Unicorns, sea monsters, and ethereal women climbing from their sealskins.
“No. He came from a very pious lineage that rejected whimsy, though not wealth, in all fashions. His wife was an Italian heiress, equally dedicated. They both despised what they called the eccentricity of simple folk.”
“Ah,” I said, insulted from beyond the grave.
“The flowers, the fairies—it was all Professor Hughes’s mother. They did considerable cosmetic renovations to the estate when their company expanded. She was in charge of it.”
I didn’t offer my opinion on this, unsure from her tone how she felt about the professor’s mother, but I was enchanted. I longed to linger and study each carving and relief, every bit and piece of wallpaper and carpeting that held magic like secret kisses.
“Does the professor spend a lot of time here?” Alone was the word I omitted.
“This is the longest he’s been present in the house in the past two years. He’s been traveling extensively for business. He plans to remain here only until his research is done.”
This explained the short-term contract of my employment, the sum of money undeniably set to tempt a potential employee to take the position despite the environment they’d be working in.
“That’s impressive, to run a business and continue to teach,” I said.
“As I’m sure Dr. Hannigan mentioned to you, the professor is taking a sabbatical,” she replied, adding with a trace of sympathy that revealed her affection, “Though, someday soon, he’ll be forced to choose one or the other.”
We arrived at the doors of the library, two hulking slabs of oak that were unique only due to their lack of ornamentation. There were no carved faces, flowers, gilded animals, or fleur-de-lis. Its only adornment was the handles, bronze and glinting in the final daylight.
Ms. Dillard knocked sharply three times to announce our arrival, then pulled the door open with relative ease, the hinges well-oiled. The scent of cedar wood and polish invaded my senses in a rush, and a wonderland appeared before me. Herringbone parquet and damask carpets warred with mahogany bookshelves, trimmed in gold leaf and green marble, for the attention of the eyes. Though the room was not a full two stories high, track ladders were necessary to reach the topmost shelves, all packed tight with books and curiosities: jars of moss and lichen, bone-colored candelabras, bronze mantel clocks featuring cherubs and fauns, skeleton clocks under glass revealing their delicate innermost workings. Ruby brocade was the fabric of choice for the high-backed Victorian parlor chairs arranged around the fireplace that opened to my full height. A mantel matching the dark wood of the bookcases was carved to depict a conspiracy of ravens taking flight, extending up into the room, creating a lifelike quality that enthralled me. Above the fireplace was an oil painting of the same woman from the fountain, hair like the early sunrise, her magnificent birds perched on her raised arms as waves crashed at her feet. Unlike in the hallways, there was electricity here. Stained glass lamps flanked the chairs, warmly illuminated. A crystal chandelier the size of Mr. Dempsey’s automobile hung above head, light bulbs in place of candles, though for now unlit.
“Professor”—even Ms. Dillard’s voice was warmer in this space—“Miss Foxboro has arrived.”
“Show her in,” came the absent response in a velvet baritone that raised my brows ever so slightly.
In my awe of the library, I’d missed the man rifling through a stack of papers, shuffling them one after another, his back to us. He stood bent over the desk in a manner that made his imposing height evident. Over a starched white collared shirt, he wore a tailored tweed vest the color of flint, the cut of it bringing attention to the broad expanse of his shoulders. His slacks were still perfectly creased despite the hour, as though he hadn’t sat in them the entire day, and a matching business jacket lay discarded on a nearby chair, too warm for the room. Based on the tailoring alone, I deduced that the outfit had been ludicrously expensive. I smoothed the hem of my modest and much-mended sweater and stepped inside the library’s warm arms, relieved to finally meet the professor.
“Professor Hughes, I’m delighted to make your acquaintance,” I said, channeling every drop of my professionalism.
“Miss Foxboro,” he intoned, drawing my name into a rumination, not turning but instead discarding the paper in his hand onto the floor to join several others that had not proved useful to him. I perceived this as a fire hazard.
When he spoke again, his voice was a honeyed lilt, sending a tingle through me.
“Mé Líadain, rocarus-sa Cuirithir: is fírithir adfiadar.”
A log in the fireplace gave way, sending the flames high and casting a momentary bright light before dying down again, stretching the shadows.
“Sir?” I faltered.
“Translate it.”
I rushed to gather my wits. “Ehm, I am Líadain who loved Curithir: It is true, as they say.”
“Identify the origin.”
My brain kicked and sputtered, reviewing all the Gaelic poetry I’d stored in the ditches of my memory.
“The seventh-century poetess Líadain. She’s writing about her love.”
“Fluent?”
“Not at all, sir. I studied at school, and it was merely a pursuit of interest. I didn’t think I’d ever have need of it.”
“Hm.” He seemed displeased and grew silent again, his back still turned. I was beginning to feel a little offended. When the silence stretched so long as to be uncomfortable, Ms. Dillard cleared her throat.
The professor gave a minor start and sighed, gazing out of the towering windows into the growing night. “Fear gorta. What is it?”
I tried to stay on my toes.
“A starving ghost appearing especially during times of famine. It—”
“And the Abhartach?” he interrupted, not waiting for me to expound.
“A sort of”—I stumbled—“vampire creature.”
“Sort of?”
“There’s differing lore. It doesn’t always drink blood.”
“That will do. It’s enough you know a bit of Old Irish. I’m sure it was explained to you what your function here would be?”
“Your assistant, sir.”
“Yes. It’s a devil tracking all these manuscripts, and my notes are in piles.” He motioned around him with a gruff exhalation. “I don’t have the time nor the mind for organizing.”
He still wouldn’t turn to face me.
I tried to catch Ms. Dillard’s eye, questioning. She pointedly ignored me, her expression stony. This was no way to be welcomed in any place. I stared so hard at the back of the professor’s head there must be a hole burning there. Surely he would feel me looking.
“I’m more than capable of assisting you, Professor,” I said smartly, tiny spines of irritation thickening in my throat. “When will I be needed?”
Another long silence, only the crackling fire breaking the rude quiet.
“Professor,” Ms. Dillard said quietly, a small, unintrusive prod.
“Tomorrow,” he said, his voice weary. “Tomorrow. I’ve so much work to do still. I’ll greet you properly in the morning when my mind is fresh. Ms. Dillard, please show Miss Foxboro to her room.”
I was being dismissed without him ever laying eyes on me. Indignation was a hot iron in my sternum.
“Professor Hughes,” I began, fully prepared to apprise him of my displeasure. His head turned ever so slightly, revealing his olive complexion, the plane of his cheekbone high and proud. He was listening. I came to my senses. To lose this job for my insubordination before my first day had even begun would be a new low.
“Good night,” I finished lamely.
“Good night” was the terse reply.
Ms. Dillard guided me out the door we’d stepped through not even five minutes ago. We departed the light and warmth of the room with its cold master, and as the housekeeper pulled the door closed behind us, I sensed that I was poorly prepared for Willowfield.
Chapter 4
The hallways had become almost too dark to walk. We had barely enough time for Ms. Dillard to stop by the kitchen to fetch a gas lamp. She wouldn’t let me come in, insisting I wait on the house side of the threshold. As I was also an employee, it was silly not to allow me in servant areas. Growing up in a household that had never wanted children, I’d lived underfoot of the servants. The downstairs liveliness had been my home far more than the stuffy formal rooms of my parents.
At one point, my mother remembered I existed and forbade me to ever again associate with the help. However, what she didn’t know couldn’t anger her, and I continued to spend most of my free time being an absolute nuisance to the staff before being shipped to Mount St. Mary’s school for girls across the state, a blessing in the most basic sense.
Unlike the school experiences of girls in great sorrowful classics, I had no mean matrons or bullying classmates. Instead, I had an endless monotony of etiquette classes, supplemented with a few fascinating subjects like history and languages, all with a healthy dose of chronic boredom. There had been moments where I’d have risked my mother’s wrath just to be free in the warm belly of that house where Ms. Reeves, the cook, had loved me like her own. The memory was so real I could smell the yeasty aroma of bread rising, and the slight sea tang of fish brought fresh from the bay. I hadn’t been sad to leave home, but I still experienced a bittersweet wave of nostalgia. Ms. Dillard returned, a lit gas lamp in hand.
“There’s one of these in your quarters. We’re too short-staffed to light all the remaining gas lamps. Besides, there’s no one here to need them. Professor Hughes stays in his rooms or the library, Rodney lives in the groundskeeper’s cottage, and Felicity and I handle our duties in the God-given light of day.”
We walked the long back hallway, keeping to the servant’s highways, all sensible walls and wood floors boasting none of the opulence of other parts of the house.
“This is the fastest way to get to the library from your room. I recommend keeping to this route. I don’t have time to acquaint you with the full estate, and you will get lost.”
Though it was likely the truth, her tone suggested a lack of faith in my competence. This woman was grating, but not directly unkind. She’d handled the maid so gently, and the lines of time on her face were indicative more of laughter than scowling. I resolved yet again to ignore my initial distaste for her and change her mind.
We emerged onto a landing that branched into two heavily carpeted halls, taking the left back into the more decorated byways that belonged to family and guests. I was already turned around, and we’d barely rounded a handful of corners.
We passed innumerable rooms on both sides of the hall, their doors shut tight, and occasionally a blank space on the wall where a gas lamp had been removed to prepare for the introduction of electricity, the line capped off but not covered. How alive this place might have been had the lights ever made it in.
Ms. Dillard slowed as we came to a set of double doors, white as the others with gleaming gold leaf beveling. She placed her hand on the well-polished knob and paused for a moment, her lips pressed in a grim line. This, I guessed unfairly, was her signature expression.
“Is something wrong?” I asked.
“I’ve forgotten to tell you the house rules,” she responded curtly, opening the door. “Well, I’ll go through them quickly so you can be on with your rest.”
She ushered me inside.
The room was massive, the ceiling so high above head the chandelier was a mere shadowy phantom. Furniture-shaped smudges hulked in various corners, the only inviting space the fireplace with its white mantel and marble relief depicting a virginal woman, her hair a halo around her head, asleep naked beneath a fruit-bearing tree surrounded by meadowsweet. A fire had been laid and roared merrily before a settee of blue brocade, a teapot and small plate of bread and fruit waiting on a nearby side table, inviting. The light of the fire cast a cozy glow only far enough to illuminate the gossamer curtains that hung around the palatial bed, its comforter a matching set to the seat, the headboard painted wood inlaid with delphinium velvet. There were so many pillows, crisp and snowy white, it was easy to imagine someone getting drowned in them while asleep. Though the rest of the space was submerged in gloom, I deduced it mirrored the same color palette. I could see only shadows of other bits of furniture, and swiftly searched for a specific one, but couldn’t find it looming against the walls.
