Author's Note & Disclaimer: Oh look at me, updating again way sooner than expected. But I'm assuming you guys don't mind? ;) Thanks for the faves/comments! Xo
Chapter Two:
The carriage ride to Thornfield Hall is long. Twilight falls quickly and soon, my view outside the carriage window is all dark shadows and black night. But the moors that we travel through are bathed in silver moonlight and I can pick out wind-swept hills, humps of black rock under blankets of autumn-killed heather. The horizon is jagged against the starry sky, with hills and valleys resembling crouching monsters in the far distance.
As soon as the carriage rattled past the iron gates of Lowood, I found my chest tightening a little, having cast off my life in a matter of a few, heady moments, based on a couple lines in a stranger's letter. Maybe Diane Fowler was right—perhaps I had jumped from the frying pan into the fire?
Now, hours later, the tightness remains. My gloved hands fidget in the folds of my skirt, before drifting up to the loose ends of my dark brown hair. I'm far too anxious to sleep, wondering, with every turn of the carriage wheels, if I've made a grave mistake. I'm headed to a destination I don't know, with nothing more than that note to guide me forward.
And who is this stranger to me? Who is Raymond Reddington?
Forgive me…I reread his letter a dozen times before the sun set and the interior of the carriage went as dark as a pit in the ground. That line—I've never heard this man's voice but I somehow hear him in my head, apologizing, as if the apology is part of a sacrament. But why should he apologize to me?
I tighten my grip on the letter, stressing its creases: Who are you?
My traveling companion, Dembe Zuma, has offered nothing to assuage my curiosity. He's as silent as a monk at prayer, his reticence rivalling the best of them. I wish I could stay silent. I wish I truly felt as fearless as I pretended to be in Diane Fowler's office this afternoon, casting off my entire life with a mere shrug.
Hush, Elizabeth, or you'll give yourself away. If I ask questions, I worry the tremors in my voice will betray all—my true emotions, my fears, my uncertainty, my doubts…
But I can't stay silent. And as soon as the opportunity presents itself, I take it. Recklessly.
Dembe delays our journey only briefly, stopping to water the horses at a moonlit, trickling stream somewhere in the middle of the hill country. I exit the carriage, just to stretch my legs, and find myself standing beneath a navy-blue tapestry of moon and stars, on a white gravel road headed north, twisting and winding through the dark moors, like a fairy path leading to the hall of a mountain king.
Romantic fancy is the food of fools…I hear Diane Fowler's disapproving voice in my head again. I fear her voice will echo there for some time.
The air is chilly, promising snow in the night. For now, there is nothing. Just wisps of clouds over the silver moon and a tense stillness over the frosted moors. I hold my shawl tight around my shoulders and summon the nerve to speak.
"Your employer is Raymond Reddington?" I ask Dembe, as I join him by the horses. He's stroking the long face of the black mare with smooth swaths, before moving over the crest and down the animal's shoulders. He reaches into a cloth bag that he carries and brings out a green apple, which the mare takes gladly. Her compatriot, a brown chestnut, soon raises her head from the cold water of the stream and nuzzles at Dembe's shoulder, asking for the same.
"Yes," he answers my question simply. Again, he offers no elaboration. I've known him for only a few hours but Dembe strikes me as a man who keeps much to himself. Still, I press a little, having no other choice. I'm both afraid and disorientated, wondering if my rash shock of courage this afternoon will lead me to ruin.
"Who is he?" I wonder, nearly timidly. Mrs. Fowler had made him sound powerful…but dangerous too. And the letter in my pocket intimated some sort of connection between us that I was woefully unaware of.
I know so little about my past, in any case. But I have no doubt that Diane Fowler is right in at least one regard—my origins are not the polite, easy kind.
I'm an orphan and I don't think I was born in England. I remember a ship, the taste of salt in the air, and the rocking of unsettled seas. I was very young and I don't know where we were going or where we had come from. Uncle Sam was there. He'd been there since I could remember. Well, nearly. He always said my mother and father died shortly after I was born. But that's all I know. Whenever I asked for more, my uncle would say, "That's all there is to tell, butterbean."
A fire, a locked door, a girl with blonde hair…my dreams say differently.
Dembe is likewise cryptic, "Mr. Reddington is the master of Thornfield Hall."
"Did he know my uncle—Sam Keen?"
The horses finish with their apples, crunching the last of the tart fruit around their large molars, and Dembe grabs their bridles gently, clucking his tongue to lead them back to the carriage yoke. They follow him, with docile, trusting steps. He neglects to answer my question.
"Get back in the carriage, miss," he says instead, with a tone that says my questions are not going to be answered. At least, not here. Not now. He adds, "We still have a long way to go."
For a moment, I consider another option. I could refuse to get in the carriage until he tells me what I want to know—like a petulant child, stubborn and headstrong.
You see, we were right about you all along…now both Mrs. Keen and Mrs. Fowler's voices join together in my head. But I disappoint them once again, or the specters of them that live in my head anyway. I abandon the idea almost immediately.
Because, instinctively, I know it won't work. Dembe doesn't appear to be a man easily swayed or pulled from his directive. Besides, it's freezing and he's as likely to bend to my will as he is to leave me stranded in the wilderness. I swallow back my own disappointment, in myself, in the non-answers I've received, and pull the wool shawl even closer around me as I walk the short distance back to the carriage.
I climb into the carriage, my mind swirling with the possibilities, and with musings of things I thought I'd left behind years ago—my parents, what happened to them, the bleak but blurred images that haunt my dreams every night…the raised scar on my left wrist that I stroke whenever I'm nervous.
As I do now. I take my seat in the back of the carriage, noting the weight change as Dembe climbs to his perch outside, in the driver's seat. I settle back against the maroon, velvet-trimmed cushions, my eyes drifting out the window to the night-cloaked country landscape once more. My right hand goes to my left wrist, feeling the ruined skin and tracing the familiar scar lines up and down.
It helps, as always. It's the reminder of something I can't remember. But something I must have survived. And in survival, there's hope, isn't there? Didn't someone say that to me once a long time ago?
There's always hope.
The late hour and the events of the day finally catch up with me and I fall asleep soon after. This time, at least, I don't dream.
It's after midnight when we arrive at Thornfield Hall.
I'm awakened by the sound of Dembe reining in the horses, using a West African command that falls off his lips softly and musically. It's followed by another shift of weight and then the whine of hinges as he opens the carriage door for me. I lift my head away from the velvet cushions, blinking away the sleep in my tired eyes.
I take a breath, the tightness in my chest returning with a vengeance.
As I step out of the carriage onto cobblestones, I look up. The crisp, clear night of hours prior is no more. It's still cold, but the moon and stars are now hidden behind thick cloud cover. Snow is falling, very lightly. I feel little flakes melt against my bare cheek and eyelashes. There's a bruised violet color to the underside of the night sky and the stone battlements of Thornfield Hall are only vaguely visible, disappearing as shadow giants far above me.
But the house is massive…and old. I can tell, just by the masonry work and the size of the Gothic-styled front door, with its iron accents and thick hardwood planks, set upon the raised dais of a set of cut granite steps.
The door floods with soft, orange light as a lantern appears in its archway. The light spills across the cobblestones to where I'm descending from the interior of the carriage, my small carpetbag of pitiful possessions in tow. Dembe's hand steadies mine as I descend the two steps, my mind conjuring up what Thornfield Hall must look like in daylight.
Even in the pitch dark of night, I know I've arrived at a manor house that's more castle than squire's hall. Mr. Reddington must be a wealthy man, indeed.
Dembe's hand releases mine as soon as I find my footing on the cobblestones. He tends to the horses, running his hand down the flanks of the black mare as he moves to lead them to the stables. As he walks away, he offers me only,
"Mr. Kaplan will show you to your chambers." Dembe gestures up towards the tall, straight figure holding the lantern. I can't see the figure clearly, as the light hides their features almost as well as it illuminates Dembe and I, standing down in the circular drive. Whoever Mr. Kaplan is, he remains at the top of the granite steps, waiting, I assume, for me.
I hesitate, swallowing hard in the darkness. Dembe sees the hesitation but gives me an encouraging, if patient nod.
And I've come this far…
As Dembe leads the carriage away, I lift the hem of my skirt by half an inch and walk up the wide staircase, approaching the dais at the foot of the front door. I shade my sight from the intense glow of the lantern, and muster a smile—one I hope is sincere enough—to meet Mr. Kaplan.
"Miss Keen, we'd quite given up on you," comes a voice in the darkness. It's rough and weather-worn, short and punctuated in its business-like manner, but also…unmistakably feminine.
"Oh!" I say, surprised, as I finally see the person holding the light. From Dembe's comment, I expect a man and it shows. My expression changes and I apologize quickly, "I'm sorry. I thought Dembe called you Mr. Kaplan—I must have misheard."
"No, dearie, you heard him right," the tall woman with steel grey hair purses her lips, slightly amused. The corner of her mouth curls in a half-smirk, "The staff consider me to be a bit of a battle-axe and it's an old joke."
She extends her hand, in the fashion of a tradesman. I'm caught off guard, by her manner, by everything that's happened over the course of the day and half the night, but I retain enough control of my faculties to respond. Raising my hand, I use my teeth to help strip off the glove and then extend my hand to take hers.
My hand feels cold against hers, skin chilled after the long journey in the frigid night.
The smirk fades away quickly, replaced by a facts-and-figures expression that sizes me up in a glance. She offers, "I'm Kate Kaplan, the housekeeper."
"I'm Elizabeth Keen," I reply, but there's really no need. Like Dembe, this woman knows who I am. That's obvious. I'm hopeful that she'll be more forthcoming with explanations. I suppose I'll find out soon enough.
"I know," the housekeeper confirms, as if she's known forever. The notes in her voice betray nothing, she's neither unkind nor particularly friendly. Considering the late hour, I wonder if she'd rather be sleeping.
Spits of snow swirl around us, flickering under the lantern light. The housekeeper sends a slight glower at the weather and the dark clouds above, before waving me inside the house. "Welcome to Thornfield Hall."
As I cross the threshold into the interior of the old house, I hear an unearthly howl that I blame on the cold winds battering at the stone battlements far above. The sound is eerie and haunting. Almost like a woman's wailing, as it dies away into nothingness.
Still, it curdles my blood and I have to suppress another shiver, this one borne not only of cold, as I follow the housekeeper inside.