Recently I've had a few prompts online to have a go at writing Chuck and Blair in a historical/Gothic setting, so I suppose that's what I'm doing here! I have to please ask any readers to take this with a grain of salt and know that it's a little tongue-in-cheek! I am drawing from many tried and tested Gothic tropes to, hopefully, come up with something a bit more fun and humorous as a setting for our beloved Chuck and Blair, rather than a serious attempt at writing a real, nuanced Gothic story.
Because of the extreme lengths that writers have to go to in order to replicate an authentic tone of the time they are writing about (not to mention their intricate and well-researched knowledge basis), I can't promise that I will ever be one hundred per cent accurate in my choice of language or other little details about the period- again I'd like to ask that you suspend disbelief for a while with me here. I adore this genre, but I'm not an expert of the time, nor the literature and, very sadly, I don't have time to do a huge amount of research. Please just see this as a fun foray into Chuck and Blair in a quasi-'Jane Eyre'/'Northanger Abbey' style setting and, on that note, thanks for giving it a chance! I hope it doesn't disappoint. Can't wait to see what you think!
The arduous ride to the estate from her beloved home in London had slogged on for countless, uncomfortable hours. It was a foul journey, but if she were to be entirely honest, she'd admit that having been offered the opportunity to travel such a distance by railway had been somewhat exciting for a young woman, especially one who'd been almost wholly confined to London or Bath. Still, the restless, bumpy carriage ride, which led her further and further away from decent civilisation with every harrowing jolt, felt a little like her very own funeral procession.
Had fickle fate not been so cruel, Blair should have soon been enjoying fittings with the finest dressmaker in the city. She should have been preparing for her introduction into society, or drafting a list of ideal candidates for her hand with her Mama. Instead, she was enduring the hair-raising smiles of the appreciative gentlemen sharing her carriage.
If Harold Waldorf hadn't met Bartholomew Bass, attending an opera he'd been invited to by sheer chance after an evening spent late at his offices in the city, then Blair would not have been bartered like a common ox for trade. How her mother had wailed when he'd come home with the news of her summer stay at the Bass' country manor. How she had then subsequently wailed herself, begging to be spared from such an ordeal.
'Harold, she is yet to have her first season!' Eleanor had cried- granted, Blair's entry into high society wouldn't have been so formal as her mother's had been, it was a different time after all. Nonetheless, such a prolonged stay would undoubtedly tarnish the gleaming reputation she'd garnered amongst her peers and suitors. 'What will they say about her? It is so improper!'
'Dear, the young Bass heir is in dire need of some direction, she'll be no more than an informal governess… of sorts. His father has made a very handsome donation indeed to the restoration of our summer house.' Harold's eyes had twinkled then, the image of his beloved Genevan lake house clouding that of the propriety of his young daughter's conduct.
No amount of begging, 'nor explaining that a young lady of Blair's particular calibre was not suited to take on such a role, could move her father in his fixed view. Her mother was right; the whispers would be relentless. Blair Waldorf, only daughter of Harold Waldorf- reduced little more than a staff member for Bass' obstinate boy.
Blair had heard tell of Charles Bass, truth be told she'd even known him to some degree in her youth. He'd been brooding and intense even then, strange for his age. Even as young as six, when their fathers had left them to play in a room together as they discussed business, he'd scared and intrigued her. As he'd grown up, and flourished into quite the handsome young man, the murmurs about his scandalous comportment thence began and never ceased.
He was every society matron's favoured tale of warning when berating her young stock about the dangers of indecorous behaviour. When she thought of him now, a blurry image of a dark-haired, dark-eyed child was all that appeared in her mind's eye. Blair would be dishonest if she said she was not remotely interested to uncover the extent of truth behind the rumours that surrounded him. A slither of her even wished she'd had the nerve to rebel in such a manner.
But Harold Waldorf had met Bartholomew Bass, and he had agreed that she'd stay a six-month tenure at his family home in the countryside. With a view to straightening out his wayward son, she'd been instructed to deliver lessons of decorum, providing the rakish brute with general good company, something she'd heard he much lacked during the time he spent away at school.
So, there she sat, her hands, encased in the finest kidskin gloves she owned, folded primly in her lap. Blair Waldorf- on her way to the stately home where the elder Bass had made his progeny a recluse in recent summers, for the good of society and himself.
In all her musings, Blair hardly noticed when the carriage drew to an abrupt halt outside the tree-lined entrance to the grand Bass estate. It was the predatory hand of the man beside her, steadying her most unnecessarily by the waist to brace her from the light impact, that snapped her out of the reverie of memories she'd been lost in.
'Excuse me.' She bit out, pushing herself to her feet to escape his clutches. Blair gratefully accepted the hand of a footman, sent to escort her along the short walk up to the manor.
'Welcome to Murkwood, Miss Waldorf. I trust you had a pleasant journey.'
Blair glared at the now retreating carriage. 'Most comfortable, thank you.'
'I do wonder why our young master did not send his own to collect you, but your rest is not far now.' She was assured with a smile as they began up the gravelly path towards the estate.
Blair bit her tongue, not wishing to speak ill of her host immediately, but the knowledge that he had not afforded her the luxury of a private carriage when he had one was most displeasing.
At last, through the thinning of the trees and the dim twilight, Blair could make out the outline of the house. It was vast - overwhelmingly so - and more opulent than even the most enthusiastic of descriptions might have painted it. But, as she drew closer, her throat tightened. It stood so very still and silent like nobody had, or ever could live there. Of course, there was nothing decrepit or unsightly about Mr Bass' abode, but its sheer size and loneliness left Blair entirely speechless.
The building itself was crafted from limestone and boasted trimmed lawns that stretched as far as the eye could see. Countless, manicured shrubs and bushes adorned every edge and corner of the broad expanse of land on which it resided. She'd been assured by her mother, with great confidence, that when the gardens were in bloom they were quite something, capable of attracting many visitors. But Blair couldn't imagine anybody visiting this place, with its monstrous, dark-wood doors that hung tall like open mouths, ready to clamp shut and swallow her or anybody else who ventured near them.
'Quite something, isn't it, Miss?'
Blair gulped and nodded, unable to shake the sense of dread that had settled over her upon sight of the estate. Every fibre of her being urged her to turn back, but she trudged on and into the giant doors, not looking behind her for fear of what might have lurked in the shadows.
Inside the house, dim candlelight cast a golden glow upon an interior befitting royalty. The walls were lined with baroque paper, that was decorated with hand-painted illustrations of dark fruits and greenery. Plush velvet furniture lined the hallways. It was immaculate, but evidently little used. A plump, middle-aged woman sporting a thick bonnet and a younger, mousy girl beside her bobbed into curtseys to greet their guest.
'We're delighted to have you here, Miss Waldorf.' The elder of the pair began. 'I'm Mrs Taylor, the housekeeper here at Murkwood, and this is Grace, she'll be your lady's maid. She is still young, to be sure, but she is very skilled in hairdressing. I am sure you will get along splendidly.'
Blair smiled, her thoughts lingering on her own, beloved maid back in London. She held back a forlorn sigh. 'We shall.' She agreed, nodding generously at both of the women.
'It's beautiful.' Blair murmured to the housekeeper who smiled proudly.
Her fingers trailed over an ornate, silk chair that must have come from some far-off world she'd never be able to dream of knowing herself.
'When his wife passed, Mr Bass had hardly haunted these halls at all, but still, he will not allow the house to fall into disrepair. I think the little lad would have liked it here when he was young, poor mite.'
'What do you mean?' Blair asked, her interest caught.
'It's not my place to comment really, but I do think some time spent in the country with his Pa, rather than being all alone at that school in the city, would have done the boy a world of good. Now, when he comes, it is most clear he wishes for nothing more than to get away again.'
Her image of the young heir flickered into Blair's mind again, and she felt an odd urge to protect the strange, small creature of her memories.
'You are quite correct, Mrs Taylor. It is not your place to comment.' Blair said tartly. 'You would do well to remember I am a guest of this house and both Mr Bass and his son.' She'd watched her mother deal with bustling busybodies before.
'Of course, Miss. I have overstepped, pardon me. Your bed chambers are ready, do you wish to retire to them now?'
'Yes. I am weary from my journey and will require ample strength to greet my hosts in the morning. They have both retired themselves I assume?' Blair spoke.
'Why, Mr Bass is away on business in London, and his son will not be joining us from school until late next week. Were you not informed?' The housekeeper looked between her staff with concern.
Blair knit her brow. Perhaps, if she had not been so horrified by the prospect of living alone in the house, she might have been pleased to hear of the Bass' absence. 'I was not, I'm afraid.' She mumbled.
As Blair was led towards the furthest wing of the house, the tap of her satin slippers against the cold, hard floors was all that could be heard. The sound bounced and echoed around the silent halls almost deafeningly.
'Mrs Taylor,' Blair began, noting the direction she'd been led in. 'I was rather hoping to be situated in an apartment in the east wing. I'm afraid I don't fare well in the mornings without a glance of the sunrise.'
She had not expected the look of wide-eyed concern that passed between the two maids. In fact, it almost caused her to come to a halt where she stood.
'Is something the matter?' Blair inquired.
'The east wing of this house is closed to guests, Milady.' The words fell from Grace's mouth clumsily, earning her a stern glare from her superior.
'Mr. Bass has ordered some renovations to take place in that part of the house, that's all, miss. Grace merely means it is unsafe for guests at this present time. But worry not, you'll enjoy plenty of sun where we have placed you.' Mrs Taylor's tone was a touch shaky.
It was evident that something far greater than simple renovations was playing on her mind when she spoke of the east wing of Murkwood House.
Blair looked between both women with narrowed eyes, but knew better than to press the matter further. 'A forbidden wing- how very exciting!' She clapped her hands together and smiled indulgently. 'Shall we press on?' She ignored the thinning of their lips.
The rooms that had been laid out for Blair were quite something indeed. Her bedroom at home was luxurious, and had long been the envy of many of her friends, but she could not believe the extent to which Mr Bass had gone to ensure her comfort. Her bedroom was illuminated by oil lamps- an invention her father had even struggled to obtain in such quantities as had been procured for her here. They showcased spectacular walls, with pale green, painted paper depicting a pastoral scene.
There was a large, green, velvet-backed bed in the centre of the room, with lavish golden trim and sumptuous, silken covers. An oak dressing table, fitted with every grooming implement a lady could wish for, took up an expanse of the room by a wall with large, bay windows. With wide eyes, she stepped onto the parquet flooring and breathed in the calming scent of dried, English lavender.
The Basses had long been accused of being Nouveau-riche. All those who'd heard of them had also heard of Bartholomew Bass' lowly beginnings, his rather rapid ascension to riches. But, much to her surprise, Blair could not form a single criticism of his tastes in the moment she first set her eyes upon that bedroom.
'Will the room suit your preferences, Miss?' Mrs Taylor asked, a knowing grin lifting her plump, rosy cheeks.
'I should certainly say so.' Blair breathed, taking a seat on a chair beside the bed.
'Mr Bass had the room renovated for you specially.' The housekeeper announced proudly. 'We have been preparing it for your arrival long into the nights.'
Blair was taken aback by the knowledge. She had only learnt of her departure from London a week ago, Mr Bass had evidently kept his servants working tirelessly to create such a marvellous space for her.
'Well,' she said, still lost for words. 'My warmest gratitude is yours.'
'No thanks are necessary, Miss Waldorf. We are overjoyed to at last have a young lady in our midst once again.' Her meaning did not escape Blair.
'Was she a good mistress?' She asked softly, treading carefully so as not to overstep.
Everybody knew the story of Evelyn Bass- her husband's true and only love. She had devastated the young mogul when she died giving birth to their son and heir, Charles. Some even said that the reason Charles was so defiant was the neglect he'd suffered at the hands of his grieving father. Perhaps that was why Blair had felt the inclination to protect the boy and his reputation when the housekeeper had mentioned his ways. Or perhaps, it was because she knew exactly what it meant to be overlooked and disparaged by one's parent herself.
'The kindest I have ever known.' Mrs Taylor replied, a bittersweet gleam of fondness in her eye. 'I'm afraid this house has not been the same since she went.'
Blair nodded solemnly but said no more on the matter. She allowed Grace to begin her bedtime rituals, unweaving the tight plaits that were wound around the crown of her head, undressing her from her thick dress and into a cotton nightgown. More than once, she caught sight of the young, plain girl eyeing her dark curls, cherry lips and porcelain skin with envy.
Blair loved to be admired, it was one of life's greatest pleasures, and she had taken many steps to ensure that she would be the apple of her every onlooker's eye. Her mother had, more than once, scornfully labelled her habits as vanity, but she'd have accepted no less than her handsome appearance at all times.
'Thank you, Grace. You are dismissed for the evening. Tomorrow I should like to take a bath in the morning. Would you see to it that there is hot water?'
'Of course. Shall I distinguish the lamps now?'
Blair shook her head, keen to continue enjoying their light as long as possible, and Grace dropped into a curtsey and exited the room. Alone with nothing but the silence of the night and the glow of the lamps, she methodically distinguished them one by one, before sliding into the inviting bed and resting her weary head on the pillow.
As she sank into the mattress, her ears tuned into every noise that surrounded Murkwood. There was the gentle hooting of tawny owls in tree branches, higher than her toes could ever stretch, the soft brush of reeds in the wind against the lakeside and the rhythmic ticking of the antique clock on her mantle. All of the sounds should have been relaxing, if not for the fourth one, which seemed to begin, slow and quiet, from inside the house.
At first, she assured herself it was simply her imagination, no more than a trick of a mind wearied from travel. But, as the sound drew closer and closer, the only thing to rival it was the furious beating of her heart.
She could make it out then; what had at first been indiscernible was now the unmistakable patter of fast-approaching footsteps.
Blair's breath was sharp and shallow- there was nobody else in the house beside the servants, and she'd been assured they would also be retiring for the evening. Grace too had informed her she'd not long been married, and was to return to her husband at home each night after the conclusion of her duties. Living just a few hundred yards past the house, it would not be her. Mrs Taylor's old, short legs certainly were not capable of carrying her at such a rapid pace.
But yet, the footsteps pressed forward, louder and more insistent with each passing second. They were approaching her hallway now, perhaps just adjacent to it, still moving closer- she was sure of it.
On legs that felt so limp she wasn't sure she'd be able to stand, Blair threw her body out of bed and stumbled in the darkness towards the door into her bedroom. She fumbled hurriedly for the key. The steps felt like they were pounding inside her very mind as she twisted it, hearing the mechanical clunk that signalled safety. A ragged sigh escaped her lips as she backed slowly, silently, away from the forthcoming commotion.
The steps, so close now they could have been outside her bedroom, slowed. They seemed to pause on the other side of her door. Blair backed further away, but not too far to miss the sight of the brass handle turning a slight rotation. It went round once, then returned.
Blair willed herself to scream or cry out, but her throat had constricted. So, instead, she stood paralysed until the steps started back up, disappearing from her range of hearing after a few moments until the only sound in the room was her shaky breath.
Once she could move her feet again, Blair tiptoed up to the door and pushed one of the small chairs against it. She frowned at how meagre it looked, but climbed back into bed and pulled the sheets up over her head. She'd have been sure she didn't sleep a wink that night, if it hadn't been for the startling wake-up call that was her door rattling incessantly, and Grace's high-pitched tones.
'Why ever did you lock yourself in, miss?' Grace asked nervously. She offered Blair a hand to step out of her bath and gave her sheets to dry off in.
Blair frowned at her. Ignoring the question, she was helped into a clean day dress. She tried hard to remain silent but spoke against her better judgement in the end.
'Grace, a young lady alone in a great house like this must know better than to leave any doors open to intruders.' She took a seat on the chair at her dressing table.
'Pardon me for saying so, but you are more than safe from any intruders here. The only people in the whole house last night were Mrs Taylor and the old butler.' Grace assured her softly, taking Blair's hair into her hands and brushing her curls with much the same degree of admiration as she'd had the previous night.
Blair shivered involuntarily. As she had been in the night, she was still sure of it now. Neither set of feet, belonging either to Mrs Taylor or the elderly butler, could have picked up the speed of those which had approached her door.
'Sorry, am I being too rough?' Grace asked, lifting the brush back momentarily.
'No, you're quite alright.' She assured her. 'It is wise to take precautions in any case, though, Grace.' Blair faced herself in the mirror of the large dressing table. With the soft light of morning streaming through her windows, she was able to shake the feeling of dread away from her mind, convincing herself it could have simply been an overactive imagination that led to the strange events. 'I'd like to see your proficiency with curls. I don't care for anything extremely intricate.'
Grace nodded, and then she began twisting strands of her hair into an elegant bun that sat on top of Blair's head, pulling a few curls around to frame her cheeks. Satisfied with her efforts, Blair offered her a warm smile. 'I think we shall get along very well indeed, Grace.'
She sat alone at the grand breakfast table, cautiously eyeing a silver tray of smoked herring that was surrounded by piles of grilled tomatoes, eggs and bread. The selection was vast, but the table was only set for one.
'Am I to in fact expect Mr Bass this morning?' Blair asked the housekeeper, eyes still narrowed at the vast quantities of food before her.
'No, It will be just yourself dining this morning, Miss Waldorf. Both Gentlemen are still away, but our master left strict instructions for you to have many options on your first morning with us so that we should learn your preferences for the coming months.' Mrs Taylor looked somewhat sheepish as she left the room, allowing the servants to tend to their new mistress.
Over her heavy breakfast, she barely mumbled a word. A largely social creature, Blair was unused to spending so much time alone, nobody around her but servants. She'd spent many years in the company of girls her age and governesses who had, over those years, felt much more like friends to her than staff. It was this that made the Bass house feel even more empty and wretched.
All the lavish things that Mr Bass had already bestowed upon his guest missed a certain gleam when shared alone. She thought again of Charles and his reclusive existence. If he had been forced to contain himself in an environment like this one for months at a time, she thought it no surprise that he had fallen so far from the right path. Blair promised herself she'd do everything in her power to make good on her father's promise. She'd be good company to the young Bass.
Once finished with her meal, she informed the servants that she should like to take a turn about the gardens. It was a pleasant Spring morning, and she had a desire to familiarise herself with the house and its grounds in the light of day. It was a desire she was purposefully avoiding confronting the root of.
The hem of her bright day dress trailed along behind her, dragging softly against the green grass. She walked up to the path lined with hedges and into the rose garden. It wasn't yet in full bloom, but hundreds of rose bushes, peppered with buds of peach, pink and white, curved around a tiered fountain decorated with carved shells. At its centre, there stood a marble statue of Venus emerging from a giant clam.
She was immediately taken aback by the intricacy of the carving. Her hair of hard, white marble looked real enough to take between one's fingers and stroke. She must have spent a full fifteen minutes simply staring at it, as she rotated around the fountain, listening to the soft, mesmerising trickle of water. Much like everything in this strange and static place, where it felt as though time and people moved very differently, she'd never seen anything quite like it.
Moving further into the grounds, she found herself approaching expansive lawns in varying shades of green, surrounded by tall trees and shrubs. The land was encompassed by a thickly wooded barrier as far as the eye could see, and she felt a strong, inexplicable compulsion to stay far away from the shadowy trees.
Blair looked up at the gargantuan house in daylight- her eyes hopping from window to window until they landed on that of the large drawing room, where she saw Mrs Taylor raise a polite hand to her. She smiled and lifted hers in return, then settled down on top of the softest-looking patch of grass. Her dress fanned out beneath her, Blair lifted her face to the sun with closed eyes as it shone down on her and warmed her pale skin. She breathed in and out slowly, enjoying the fresh scent of clean country air, then opened her eyes to look at the house again. Her gaze travelled over the many windows and balconies it boasted until she found herself looking at the brightly lit, forbidden east wing of the manor.
It was a strange thing for Blair to be denied something she wanted, and a room where the sun beamed in so freely was something she wanted very much. She huffed at the recollection of having been refused entry, but busied herself with the small book of poems she'd brought outdoors with her, hoping for some distraction from her frustration.
She turned the pages until she came to one of her most beloved verses. Then, once sure nobody would hear her, she began reading aloud from her favourite part of the poem.
'She took me to her Elfin grot,
And there she wept and sighed full sore,
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
With kisses four.
And there she lullèd me asleep,
And there I dreamed- Ah! woe betide!-
The latest dream I ever dreamt
On the cold hillside.
I saw pale kings and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried- 'La Belle Dame sans Merci
Thee hath in thrall!'
With the warm sun beating down, she giggled to herself. It was as easy as ever for Blair to imagine herself as the beautiful and fierce femme fatale in the poem, vanquishing the foolish knight who wished to trap and possess her.
She cast her mind fondly back to the time when her mother had very first read her the verse, one she'd intended to pose a strict warning. But Blair had instead viewed herself in the position of La Belle Dame, a free and commanding agent of her own providence.
Feeling lazy from the sunshine, she snapped the volume shut and dropped it into her lap, looking instead up again at the house. Her eyes grazed over the circular balcony which belonged to what seemed to be the largest bedroom in the east wing. That was the one she decided she'd have liked to have the most.
She almost looked away, but a flicker of movement by the door caught her eye and she followed it to see what looked like a feminine figure, dressed head to toe in dark fabrics, much too luxurious for any servant, slipping inside the doors and into the darkness of the room.
Blair's heart began to race as she sat bolt upright, and her breath came heavily to her chest. Had the footsteps from the night before and the hand turning the door belonged to this woman hiding up in the east wing of the house? She blinked furiously, telling herself over and over that it was a trick of the light or a tired mind. But, as her vision focussed more clearly upon the windows, she was positive she saw something moving inside.
She flew to her feet and pulled her dress up past her ankles, running frantically towards the house with her poetry book left forgotten and discarded on the ground. Blair sped past the window where she had seen Mrs Taylor and back into the house through the rose garden, her heart thumping furiously.
When she reached the door, Mrs Taylor was rushing out to meet her, looking panic-stricken and nonplussed.
'Whatever is the matter, dear?' She asked, her hands moving to Blair's shoulders to calm and steady her.
Through thick, heavy pants, Blair managed to spit out the words. 'I saw a stranger up in the east wing!'
Mrs Taylor's expression was one of sheer horror. She immediately began ordering the servants to conduct a search of the prohibited wing. Escorting a shaken Blair into the drawing room, she served her a sweet cup of tea to calm her nerves. The cup rattled in her unsteady hand as she tried to lift it to her lips.
'I heard something last night too, Mrs Taylor.' Blair whispered, barely audible. 'Somebody was moving about the house in the middle of the night.'
'The men are searching the house now- if there is anybody to be found, they shall find her.' The housekeeper promised, her hand stroking Blair's head in a fashion more familiar than she normally would have allowed. With her nerves, so shaken, she would have likely permitted Mrs Taylor to wrap her up in her arms like an infant.
When the search party returned empty-handed, suggestions of an overactive mind and isolation began to spill from the mouths of the servants, which angered Blair thoroughly.
'I'm not mad- I know what I saw. There was somebody up there!' She tried to argue, but the knowing looks the staff passed around told her she would not be believed.
As an experienced young lady of the city, Blair knew very well what happened to women who were deemed to be in possession of an unfit mind. So, she vowed to keep her mouth shut. In fact, she barely uttered a single syllable to any of the servants for the duration of the evening or for the following days. But, as each night fell, she made sure to take the bolt to her door and push the chair up against it, always leaving the light burning in at least one of her lamps.
Not another word was uttered about the episode until an evening a handful of days later, when Blair had been left alone with Grace to begin her nightly duties. Grace was eyeing Blair in the mirror with caution. After a while, she could no longer hold her tongue.
'I hope you will not think me overstepping my bounds… But you must know. You are not the first to have seen her, miss.' Grace whispered, her hands shaking. 'And it does not sit well with me that you should be kept in the dark in such a manner.'
'What do you mean, Grace?' Blair hissed, feeling a cool chill dance across her limbs. Every hair on her body had raised.
'My mother, she was lady's maid in this house to each of the ladies Mr Bass visited with over the years after Mrs Bass. That was until she told Mrs Taylor that she'd seen a woman in the east wing whilst she was turning down the bedrooms.'
Blair's eyes were alight with fear as she listened to what the young girl told her.
'They searched and searched, but could find no one- just the same as happened to you. But my mother was so certain she'd seen somebody. It drove her to such a degree of fear that she could no longer work in this house. That is why it's all closed off, miss, the east wing. That is why I am here much younger than I ought to be.'
'Grace- do you mean to tell me that Mrs Taylor has been made aware of such sightings in the house before?' Blair's mind ran over the elder woman's reaction to her reports.
Indeed she had looked immediately concerned, but her conduct had felt somewhat practised, as though she'd known exactly what to do and say in such a situation. Though her mind had been too troubled to have first caught it in the moment, Blair remembered clear as day now. Upon her pronouncement of having seen somebody up there, Mrs Taylor had said, 'They shall find her.' A gasp escaped Blair's lips.
Grace nodded grimly, her fingers falling away from the waves of hair she'd just loosened from Blair's plaits.
'Thank you for informing me, Grace.' Blair said with a warmth she hoped would settle the girl's nerves. 'You get home now, do not delay.'
'I noticed you've been locking your door each night, as you did the first. If it isn't too bold of me to say, I hope you'll continue to do so.'
Then, along with her ominous words of warning, Grace disappeared from the bedroom. Blair listened as her footsteps grew quieter down the hall, before turning the bolt on her bedroom door.
That night, she did not distinguish any of her lamps, 'nor did she slip under the covers of her safe, inviting bed. Never one to leave anything to the competencies of another, Blair had decided to take matters into her own hands. She waited until she could hear no more movement about the house and was sure that Mrs Taylor and the other servants had retired for the evening. Then, she slipped a floor-length, velvet dressing gown over her nightdress and took one of her lamps by its handle, turning the lock and venturing into the dark corridor.
She was scared, of course, she felt hair-raising terror consuming her, in fact. But she knew better than to allow anybody to convince her that her sighting had been a figment. Blair tiptoed along the hallway, the lamp guiding her way, until she reached the landing that would bring her into the path of the large staircase up to the east wing. She had not entirely imagined what she might encounter up there, and her plagued nerves were almost enough to stop her, but her pride and certainty propelled her forward.
There were no sounds, except for the quiet tip-tap of her slippers against the stairs as she ascended to the pitch-black hallway, the one she'd been barred from entering up until this moment. The house was freezing, colder than she'd remembered it having been previous nights, and her hands trembled as she tried to hold the lamp out steadily in front of her. It seemed to be lighting less and less of her path as she drew closer to the tall, broad door of the master bedroom.
A floorboard creaked behind her and she flew around, thrusting the lamp forward to light the alcoves. Nothing appeared. She sucked in a deep breath and gathered the courage to turn back. Moving on, her hand reached out slowly for the doorknob. It was ice cold. She began to turn it slowly, hearing the mechanism within the thick wood groaning from years of sitting largely unused.
'What do you think you are doing?' A gruff voice from behind her bellowed.
The scream erupted from her throat before she could stop it. Blair's grasp on the door loosened, the lamp falling from her fingers too, only to be snatched by a pale hand that ghosted out in front of her.
'Who goes there?' Blair demanded, her voice strangled by her distress.
'Mr Bass. Now follow me.' The hand that held the lamp shot out in front of him, the other took her slender wrist in a vice-like grip that began quickly to hurt. She was unable to say a word as he dragged her down the stairs, through the dark halls and pushed her back into her bedroom, slamming the door firmly behind him. The entire frame seemed to shudder as he pressed his hand to the wall in frustration. The pattern of his breath told her she had vexed him intensely. Though the room was dimly lit, she could barely make out Bartholomew Bass' outline in the darkness of the night.
'Please accept my sincerest apologies, Mr Bass. Only, I was sure I had heard something, so I went to investigate.' Blair offered. The words fell out of her mouth as those of a child babbling lies about a missing scone at tea- not even she believed her ruse.
'Quite the little detective, aren't you?'
He turned around then, and she realised it had not been the elder Bass, but his son who had gripped her wrist and pulled Blair so savagely away from her trespassing venture.
'Mr Bass, I-'
'You are a guest in my home, you'll call me Charles.' The normally decorous words were marred by his anger. 'And you'll respect the boundaries which have been provided to you.'
'Of course. Forgive me.' Blair mumbled, shoulders shrinking and hands moving to tighten her dressing gown around her body.
Two pairs of dark eyes were then trained on one another- his furious, hers terrified.
Something about her cowering frame must have caused him to soften then, as he exhaled and moved to place her lamp on a table.
'It's I who must seek your forgiveness it seems, Miss Waldorf. I did not mean to scare you so terribly. It is simply that my father is very strict about entry into my mother's quarters. I was hoping to save you from his ire.'
Blair cocked her head to one side as he said the words, so struck by the angle of his jaw and the slant of his full lips, that she hadn't noticed he'd called the east wing his mother's quarters.
'I understand. I won't step out of my bounds again. But, sir, you are home from school so much sooner than expected?' Blair could not help curiosity getting the better of her.
'I encountered an issue with a fellow pupil and had to return home promptly in the night. On that note, you must be tired. Please excuse me, I shall see you in the morning. Do endeavour to keep yourself out of trouble until then.' He smiled sardonically.
Blair said nothing, only nodding as he opened the door and disappeared back into the dark hallway with her lamp. She flew over to it, locking herself securely into the room.
For a moment she stood, ever so fearful and disconcerted, by the door. Her impromptu, and not to mention wholly improper, encounter with Charles Bass had knocked her. Heavens, if her mother had known she'd stood alone in her nightdress with such a notorious reprobate, she'd have had her sent away to an institution for troubled young ladies immediately.