Chapter Four
There is a saying about minding one's business. I should have told myself, "Elizabeth, to bed with you before it is too late!" My conscience begged me to listen… but I did not heed its warning. I wish I had!
Had I but known that "curiosity killed the cat" would come to fruition, I never would have pursued the matter. Now, I fear I am in too deep, for I have witnessed something I ought not to have seen, and my life is in danger.
I do not speak of my own death—at least, I do not think so. I am uncertain. Everything I have known, everything I have believed about my family, has been shaken. No, I speak of the death of another, of coldblooded murder. The act itself has been committed by the hands of someone I have deeply loved and respected since infancy, and it is what frightens me the most.
I have been suspicious of Lord Barclay's sporting with one of the maids for quite some time. Only a few months ago, before tonight, I saw Greta Henry—Anna's former chambermaid—bolt from his bedchamber wearing only her chemise. I knew it was Greta, for I have always noted that her golden hair is so very much like Anna's that one might easily mistake them at a glance. I never told a soul of my discovery, not even my sister, for I had no desire to cause her grief. One could not imagine my relief when I learnt that Greta had run away with one of the stable boys. I thought for certain then that Barclay's thirst for infidelity would be quenched afterwards… but I was wrong.
Until tonight, I could not prove the identity of his new mistress. She had gone to great lengths concealing her face, but a backward glimpse on a moonlit night revealed her at last; alas, bringing an end to my nightly surveillance from the end of the hall.
I was quite shocked when I discovered it was Penelope; indeed, I never would have suspected her capable of such a thing! She was no Aphrodite, being quite plain in looks with eyes entirely too large for her head, and she was a simpleton. I hardly believed it of her! One can only imagine my delight when my father caught her coming out of Barclay's room tonight. Naturally, I expected severe repercussions, and that this was, undoubtedly, Miss Williams' last night here at Wolbrighton. I assumed correctly… but not in a way I could ever imagine. What happened tonight… oh, how I wish I could forget what I've seen! It was absolutely horrendous! That poor girl! How could my father allow this to happen? How could Barclay? I never knew such cruelty existed—that either man was capable of it!
My world is spinning—I hardly know what's what!
Odd whisperings from the servants come to mind as I race through the dark halls of my home. All its warmth and familiarity grew as cold as the shadows clinging to every nook and cranny. They were utterances made in secret, after Greta ran away, when the staff thought they were alone…
"I 'eard the Earl asked 'er to marry 'im, an' she fled so's to keep the master and the Missus from findin' out," said John Jones, one of the gardeners.
"I 'eard she was wi'f child," Nancy Taylor, the parlor maid, objected.
"Both o' ya's talkin' out yer arse!" growled Richard Smith, the cook. He and his wife, Tilley, were in charge of the kitchen staff. "That rich bugger done got her wi'f child so the master tossed 'er out on 'er arse fer not takin' treatment!"
"Lord Barclay is impotent," declared Sally Pole, Mrs. Elshire's daughter. She was Mama's chambermaid. "I used to work for a gentleman who was in his poker club. He told me the Earl can't have children."
"Sally! What a wretched thing to say! That is not true!" Mrs. Elshire cried.
"But 'tis true, Mama!" Sally refuted.
"It is not, and you know it's a lie. Shame on you, Sally!" Elsie Gibbons, Anna's personal maid, scolded alongside Mrs. Elshire.
"Oh-stuff it, you Irish b—!" Sally growled before her mother struck her with a dust cloth atop her head.
"Aye. How else could 'e get her wi'f child?" agreed Richard with a smirk. "It ain't like you is no stranger to the ways of a man, Sal."
"None of ya know what's what!" boomed Thomas O'Brian the head groom as the women lashed out at Richard for his impudence. "Greta was with child, but it ain't the Earl's. It's Toby's. Told me hisself…"
I am not in the habit of eavesdropping, especially when it comes to the servants. Theirs is a world in which I do not belong nor do I understand. Thus, I profess my innocence on the matter, as Mama had only sent meto fetch Mrs. Elshire the housekeeper, who was also her personal maid. I had heard quite enough at that point and promptly removed myself to the sitting room just as Mr. Jervis stepped in to issue a sharp reprimand for their idleness. I lied to Mama about being unable to find Mrs. Elshire.
I was determined to forget all that I had heard until I learnt that Toby McKingsley and Greta had not run away together, but that he had up and quit us not long after she went missing. Thomas told me he'd gone to work in Derbyshire, but would say nothing more.
These past four months, I had not turn't my mind to it. Worrying about what had become of a servant girl does not exactly raise my curiosity, especially as I have my own matters of courtship to deal with.
But tonight… tonight… I am in tears just thinking about it!
As I said, I saw my father escorting Penelope from Barclay's quarters to his and Mama's room. I had followed her and remained hidden round the opposite corner of the corridor.
Barclay had slipped away during our reading hour. I had not thought a thing of it. I only supposed Barclay's unwillingness to participate was owing to Anna's absence, who could not be persuaded to leave her room for anything, despite our best efforts. I felt he quite fancied her—which is why I did not understand his infidelity with Penelope.
I often wonder if he knew of her promiscuity with James Norrington. I saw her sneak away with him on more than one occasion when we were younger. I even distracted Mrs. Lennox for them… but I know nothing of the physical relations between a man and a woman. I have not yet contrived to go that far, in spite of my own curiosity; nevermind that it is, quite frankly, not my business, and I am determined to wait until my wedding night.
But Penelope… how had she the mind for it?
I could not answer this, until I realized a horrible truth: my father had known about her sporting with Barclay and had had a hand in it. I should have left well enough alone at that point. I overheard part of my parents' scolding of her—something about being tossed out into the streets—but it did not sound quite right. And it made me wonder: was that what they told Greta, too?
"Tossed out on her arse," is what Richard said, was it not?
I weep uncontrollably—I cannot stop the tears from falling! "Oh, Penelope! I'm so sorry!"
I saw it all through the keyhole: Papa's interrogation, a large, bearded figure slipping into the room from his private entrance—the one that leads to his own personal library, where he sometimes meets with his business partners from the East India Trading Company and other great men from London. I hear Papa issue a harsh reminder of the Rule of Letters: 'No letter is to reach our hands until it is approved by either him or Mama.' He asks her if she likes 'serving' Barclay… I do not understand what he means by this.
I saw that bearded monster strangle her—and then I heard the most sickening 'CRACK!' before she falls silent. I shall never forget that sound. I have heard it one other time, when Addison's horse—Addison is my older brother, the eldest of us—fell after taking a fence during the hunt last summer. The ending was just as horrible for the poor creature as it was for Penelope.
And my father merely stood there. He let that monster murder her!
"… Elizabeth? What are you doing out here?"
I was scared out of my wits by the sound of Barclay's voice. I spun round and begged his silence with a finger to my lips, struggling to even find the voice to reply. "Shh! It's Papa! He just-he just—!" I could not breathe. I choke on my own words! "He-he just, he-just—!"
Barclay clasps my shoulders to steady me, his face laced with concern. "What is it, Lizzy? Is your father alright?"
He's sporting with her! He must care for her! How am I to tell him!? The thoughts run together so rapidly in my head that I can hardly process them. But he must know! He must care for her, if he has just lain with her. He will be heartbroken! "It's Penelope!" I confess, trying my best to keep my quivering voice at a whisper so we are not discovered. "He just killed her!"
I cannot describe the look that comes upon the Earl's face. He glances at the door in silence… but there is no show of emotion present in his features. Or, rather, not what I would expect a man to exhibit upon being told his lover has just been murdered. His eyes are wide, and dark; I have never seen them so dark. There is not a trace of fear or sadness; no outrage or thirst for vengeance. There is only blackness, malice—evil! A chill races down my spine, and I am struck by another terrifying truth: he knew this was going to happen. How he knew, I do not know.
Unless…
"Lizzy, listen to me." His grip tightens on my shoulders. "Listen to me very carefully—"
"—Let me go!" I writhe in his grasp.
"Stop squirming, right now!"
I freeze, struggling to suppress my cries of pain as his thumbs dig into my collarbone. "Barclay, you're hurting me!"
"Be quiet!" he growls. "Listen to me: whatever you've just witnessed tonight, whatever you've just seen… you must forget it! Do you understand?"
"You're a monster!" I cry hoarsely. "How can you be so unfeeling? So cold? He just murdered her!"
"It does not matter!" he barks in a harsh whisper. "You must forget it!"
"Barclay, let me go…please!" I whimper, feeling quite helpless.
He lowers his voice, his eyes locked on mine. "You must never speak of this, Elizabeth. If you value your life, you will forget all that you've seen tonight. For the sake of your father. Do you understand?"
I tremble violently. I do not doubt the viability of his threat.
"Do you understand, Elizabeth!?" he jerks me when I do not answer.
I can only think to nod. I am too terrified to say anything else.
He releases me. "Good."
The moment I am free, I push past him and make a mad dash for my bedchamber. I do not stop for anything. The tears flow freely down my face burning from the horror of what I have just witnessed. My heart is racing wildly in my chest. I gasp for breath with every stride.
I desperately wanted to tell someone what happened. I could not tell Mama—how could I? She would be horrified if she knew what Papa has done! But I should, for that very reason! Yes, she will know what to do!
I stop at her door and raise my fist to knock… but I stop. Something within tells me to stop.
She would be horrified… but what if she knew? Why would Papa take Penelope into their room instead of straight to his office to discipline her for lying with Barclay? Or simply throw her out? What is this 'treatment' Richard spoke of? The one that Greta allegedly refused? They said she was with child when she ran away. Did she truly run away? I shake my head to quell my racing thoughts and back away from the door, feeling cold, and alone. Nothing makes sense… I do not know what to believe!
As I race past Anna's room, the urge to tell her the truth about her suitor crosses my mind, but I shove it away the instant it forms. It is replaced by Barlcay's threat. I cannot tell her; I cannot tell anyone! Not Mama, not Anna—certainly not Lydia! And if Bridgette or Addison were here, I would not tell them either!
"Oh, God! What do I do?!"
I burst into my room and slam the door shut behind me, locking it. I wedge the chair from my dressing room between the floor and the handle, ensuring it cannot be opened. I cannot stop trembling… Weapon, I need a weapon! I hurry to my vanity, plucking the candlesticks out of the holder. Something pops behind me, and I jump. Wheeling about, I realize it is only the tapping of tree branches against my window. The wind is quite strong…
I close the curtains. The room is completely dark—it shall be easier for me to hide. I drag another chair from my vanity and place it against the wall so that nothing is behind me.
Here, I sit all night, clutching my brass candlestick holder… and I pray he does not come for me.
Blackness.
When I was a little girl, I was terribly afraid of the dark. Now, it is my ally. I sit in the refuge of its shadows, silent and aware of everything. Every nerve is on edge. I cannot say how long it has been. I cannot say I want to know, though I do wonder how long I have to live. I wonder how long it will be before he comes for me.
I need not wonder what he will do to me if I am found. If my father does not object to the murder of an innocent servant girl, then I am most certain he will not object to accosting the life of his own flesh and blood. Yet doubt lingers within the depths of my loyalty.
Would my own father, my dearly loved and adored Papa, truly allow Barclay to bring harm to me? All over some silly letter? But it is more than just a letter, isn't it? It must be! Why else would he resort to such extreme measures?
My mind is racing… I do not understand!
Who was that letter from? What did it say? Is it really worth all this violence, this madness? What is Barclay's role in all this?
Our parents have never objected to our sharing of correspondence with friends and family, or even our suitors. They only ask to receive it first so that they may inform us of its sender as a courtesy. This is the Rule of Letters, and I do not object to its purpose. It is no different than receiving visitors, is it not? But I've no more time to dwell upon the subject, for now I hear the faint sound of footsteps approaching. They stop on the other side of my door.
He's here.
My breath stills. My heart pounds fiercely. I freeze in place, tightening my grip on the candlestick holder. Someone raps their knuckles upon the door. I am taken aback by the sound of my father's voice asking to be admitted.
There is only one reason why he would be on the other side: Barclay must have told on me.
I render no answer, nor do I stir from my seat. The handle jiggles, and he discovers it is locked. He calls to me again, but I do not answer. I do not know what to make of it. I cannot see past the horrid sight of Penelope writhing just before Joseph snaps her neck. I cannot hear my father's requests over Barclay's threat rumbling like thunder in my ears. My father did nothing to stop it. He allowed that monster to murder an innocent girl. I do not think I can look upon him without disappointment and searing hatred ever again!
"Elizabeth? Are you alright, my dear?" His voice is laced with concern as he knocks a little more firmly. "Elizabeth? Answer me!"
He jiggles the handle again. The door creaks as he attempts to push his way inside. For the moment, I do not panic, secure in my belief that the chair wedged against the floor will stand against his efforts should the lock fail.
"Elizabeth! Open this door at once!" he bellows, pounding his fist. He pauses to mutter something.
I cannot make out his words, but it is clear he is not alone. Someone else is with him? A chill races down my spine. I know it can be only one of two people.
Another set of footsteps hurries away down the corridor. His attempts to gain access to my bedchamber grow more fervent, and the next few minutes become a deafening assortment of angry demands, incessant pounding, and creaking wood as he pushes against it with all his might.
All at once, his efforts cease, and it is as if time has stopped.
The world about me is silent, except for the howling wind. My breath hastens, my eyes fixed straight ahead; watching, and waiting. Muffled whispers emanate from beyond my door. One voice is my father's. The other is deeper, with an accent I cannot place at the moment.
Suddenly, my door explodes.
The impact sends the chair wedged beneath the handle tumbling across the floor. Light bursts into my room from the corridor, illuminating flying shards of wood as the handle is ripped away. I start from my seat with a gasp, darting into the shadows before I am seen. I seek shelter behind my wardrobe.
Hesitantly, I peer round the corner.
A tall and slender figure enters. In the dimness, I see his head swiveling about, looking for me. His features are obscured from my view, but I am convinced it is Barclay. He is blocking my only means of escape… and I realize what I must do.
I duck behind the wardrobe and press my back against the wall, clutching the candlestick holder against my bosom. My heart is racing; I do my best to quiet my breath, yet I tremble so fiercely that it is nearly impossible. I swallow my nerves, trying to muster my courage. I have never brought harm to another soul in my life! But I must if I am to survive!
I listen to his footsteps drawing closer, closer… and then I attack.
Lunging from my hiding space, I swing my weapon with all my might, striking him firmly on his temple. He cries out in pain and staggers sideways. I make for the door, but he recovers sooner than I anticipated and ensnares me about my waist, tearing me away. I scream, flailing wildly in his grasp. He pries the candlestick holder out of my hands and traps my arms against me, thwarting my efforts to strike him again. I realize my hands are still free, so I seize his arm and sink my teeth into his finger. He roars in my ear and shoves me to the floor. I scramble to my feet and race round to the other side of my bed, seizing hold of another candlestick holder from my night table.
"Elizabeth, I demand you cease this madness at once!" my father barks from amidst the darkness.
I freeze in place, furrowing my brow. His figure is indiscernible as he fumbles about my room, bumping into my day table and at last finding his way to my fireplace. He strikes a match, and my eyes widen as his features become clearer when he ignites the candelabra on the mantle. The trail of crimson streaming down the side of his face instantly catches my eye when he finds me, and I realize what I have done: I have just struck my own father.
I did not mean it; I truly believed it was Barclay that had intruded upon me… but I am not sorry for it.
He regards me with an air of caution and slowly makes his way round the bed—as a predator stalks his prey. "Elizabeth… my dear, dear Elizabeth…"
"Don't come any closer or God as my witness I shall strike you again!" The words tumble out of my mouth.
He does not heed my warning. "Lizzy, there is no need for this—"
I raise the candlestick holder as if to throw it. "—Not another step! I mean it!"
He halts his approach, raising his hands. There is a moment's pause between us before he speaks. "What is troubling you, my child? You're all out of sorts. Come now: talk to me."
"There is nothing left to be said between us!" I refute.
"Steady now," he says calmly, his eyes watching my every move.
"You murdered Penelope! There is nothing left to be said between us!"
He glances about in uncertainty. "I don't know what you're on about, Elizabeth, but I assure you: whatever it is that you're imagining… it is not real. It is all in your head."
I am mortified by his denial. "All in my head? Papa… how can you say such things?! I saw you–I saw everything! You let that fiend murder that girl! Over what? Some silly letter?! Why? What harm has she done to you?"
"I tell you, I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about!"
Had I not witnessed his crime with my own eyes, I would have been fooled by his unwavering assertion of his innocence. His performance is rather convincing, and I know not whether to praise him for it or acknowledge its wound.
It is not lost on me, of course, that the letter had been for Anna. I had caught a glimpse of her from my window walking about the Garden this afternoon, just before Barclay's return. She had had a letter in her hand. Papa said Penelope had left a letter on her dresser without his approval by mistake.
"Has it something to do with Anna?" I inquire.
He resumes his approach, his voice soft and reassuring; as it used to be when I was a child. "I don't know about Anna, but at the moment, my primary concern is you. I fear you are unwell, my dear."
I glare viciously at his audacity. "Oh, I assure you I am quite well, Papa. You are the one who is unwell."
"Elizabeth, listen to me: you are experiencing another one of your terrors, just as you did when you were a little girl. Remember? They were always so terrible for you."
My fear of the dark, spawned from a condition from which I have not suffered since early childhood. I shake my head, utterly disgusted that he would sink so low as to force me to revisit the past. That part of me—that little girl who would awaken in the middle of the night screaming for her hero, her father—desperately longed to believe his reasoning. I desired nothing more than to rush into the security of his embrace and forget this night; to pretend that this was all just a dream and that this man before me, this monster, was not my dearly beloved Papa. But Penelope's murder and Barclay's threat, of my Papa's involvement in it all, were permanently ingrained in my mind. The bond between us had been severed beyond repair. And now, I was in fear for my life.
"No, Papa," I whimpered, blinking away my tears. "I have not had terrors since I was seven. It is all a lie."
He dares to take another step. "Elizabeth, listen to me: it is all in your head, my child. None of this is real. Let me help you." He reaches for me, but I draw back.
"No, you're lying! It is not in my head! I know what I saw!" His denial breaks me. Tears stream down my face unchecked. There is a pain in my heart, and it is difficult to breathe.
He inches closer—too close. "Elizabeth, I beseech you—"
"—No! No, get away from me!" I back against my night table. I am cornered. I edge closer to my bed, preparing to make one final dash for the door.
One look and he realizes the truth: that I am not to be taken for a fool; that I am not a simpleton like Penelope and I will never trust him again. What he has done, I cannot look past. The man I knew as my father no longer exists. In his place now stands a stranger and I've no desire to know him. He perceives this, and what is left of the kindness and warmth in his gaze vanishes into a look that truly terrifies me: it is the same look Barclay wore when he threatened my life.
"I think you know I can't do that," he says. "Come now… I only wish to talk."
He grows silent. He is but two strides from me. I say nothing, staring into his face, feeling my own streaked with the tears. He regards me with a warm smile and opens his arms as if to invite me into them, to encourage my acceptance of his bribe… but I see behind his ruse. It does nothing to soften the blow of his betrayal.
As he lunges for me, I hurl the candlestick holder at his face. I do not wait to see if it makes contact. I bolt across the bed, nearly reaching the door—and then I am seized by someone dark and massive that I can only determine is Joseph. In that moment, I lose all sense of myself, devoid of all sense and reason beyond this gripping need to survive.
In that moment, I became a wild beast—a shrieking, stark-raving madwoman hell-bent on escaping the clutches of this bloodthirsty murderer, well aware of his previous crime and of his capacity to do it again. I claw viciously at his burly arms entangled about me, digging my nails into his flesh. He growls in pain as I sink my teeth into his hand, planting the heel of my foot into his groin for good measure when he releases me.
As he doubles over, I bolt through the broken door. But Barclay is just outside. I manage to evade his efforts to snatch me, but here my good fortune ends. I reach the top of the spiraling staircase. I hear Barclay thundering after me. My foot slides away beneath me and I feel my ankle twist. I plunge headfirst down the steps, tumbling, tumbling…
… And then I am enveloped in the blackness once again.