Charlotte Markham and the House of Darkling (12 page)

“Duncan can escort you back through the orchard, but I hope you'll be able to visit us again soon? Perhaps the day after next?” There it was, laid bare before us—the moment of truth. Would we return? Darkling was certainly a very interesting place, and the Whatleys were odd but not obviously threatening. This did not release them from my suspicions, but I softened toward them. Mr. Whatley appeared to be a man of knowledge, and there was much that could be learned at the House of Darkling, things that would prove impossible at Everton. This alone was worth exploring, and considering it in conjunction with Lily's desire to continue her relationship with her children, I saw little reason to decline the invitation. I could not ignore what I had seen of the creature in the pond, or Mr. Samson's interlude with Duncan, but if there was one thing I had learned as a girl in India it was not to presume to understand a thing before one had all the requisite facts.

“I suppose we could.”

“Excellent. I'm planning a surprise for the boys.”

“There's no need to go to any trouble. Having their mother back from the dead is more than enough excitement for one week.”

Lily lowered her voice and slowed our pace to put some distance between our conversation and the others. “As you can see, my position here is a professional one, just as yours is at Everton.”

I gulped down a knot of guilt that rose in my throat, remembering the way I felt when seated next to Mr. Darrow in the music room, alone in the middle of the night . . .

“Can I count on you to return?”

“I said I would return with the children and I meant it. I don't entirely trust this place, but I understand that you do. For now, that's enough.”

“Good.” She squeezed my wrist. At the bottom of the library we bade the Whatleys good-bye. Olivia went to prepare for her lesson, and Mr. Whatley, after taking my hand into his own large fingers and kissing it, nodded to Lily and began wandering aimlessly through the house, stopping every so often to admire the pieces of his collection that decorated each interior. Lily escorted us across the foyer of the entryway, a kaleidoscope of rooms within rooms, to the back entrance into the orchard, where Duncan was waiting for us. She kissed the children good-bye and watched from the steps of the great house as we disappeared through the trees.

CHAPTER 9

Bazaar and Bizarre

I
had never been to a village bazaar before the one in Blackfield. Mrs. Mulbus spent the whole week leading up to it baking mincemeat pies, spice cakes, and chocolate biscuits, too busy to even bother shouting at Jenny, who sulked from the lack of attention and loudly broke a number of dishes with more than a little dramatic flair, all the while looking over her shoulder at her tormentor with something like desperation in her eyes. When she could be bothered, Mrs. Mulbus would tut quietly to herself, and Jenny would happily scowl back at her with affectionate venom.

When I passed by Mrs. Mulbus's table with the boys and Mr. Darrow, she snuck some biscuits into the hands of the children, thinking I hadn't noticed. I was too struck by the normality of it to say anything. Following the discovery of Darkling, it seemed a long while since I had been plagued by something as simple as the children spoiling their appetites. The boys ran ahead of us and crammed the biscuits into their mouths, gulping down crumbs and wiping the bits of chocolate from their faces onto their gloves, as pleased with their own cunning as they were with their secret snack.

Autumn was ending. There was very little green left in all of Blackfield. The surrounding forests shook in the breeze like dying embers, brilliant patches of gold and red erupting from the trees as showers of sparks into the ashen sky. James kicked through the piles of parchment-colored leaves that littered the grounds of St. Michael's Church. Mr. Scott walked arm in arm with Cornelia Reese, who was not only the richest woman in the village but also the catalyst for the bazaar itself. Having come from the city, she made no effort to hide her displeasure with the quaint nature of our little church, and she told anyone who would listen—Mr. Scott most of all—how she intended to see to it that St. Michael's be cultivated into a proper place of worship befitting the level of patronage she could offer. And so, every Sunday for the past few months, poor Mr. Scott had reminded everyone who could hear him over the din of birdsong wafting down from the rafters to do their part. The turnout at the bazaar spoke very highly of his place in the esteem of the villagers, for although many people could not stand to see Cornelia Reese succeed, it was apparent that this sentiment had been overcome by those who wished to see the vicar prosper.

There were other tables from Everton in addition to the cook's. Ellen and some of the other maids had a display of handmade dolls with simple button eyes but exquisitely detailed dresses. Mrs. Norman sat enclosed in a small tent, looking haughty and mysterious in a cloth turban that was woefully inaccurate if she intended to conjure the image of an Indian swami. Some of the villagers, Cornelia Reese in particular, seemed mortified by the idea of having a fortune-teller on the grounds of the church. They glared at Mrs. Norman as they passed by her booth, some of them more than once to make their opinions known, and all of them crossed themselves with exaggerated devotion. If Mrs. Norman noticed, she neglected to give them the benefit of a reaction, for hers was the busiest of all the tables, and by the end of the day no one had contributed more to the proliferation of St. Michael's Church than the housekeeper from Everton.

The bazaar was a boisterous affair, despite the occasional social posturing. Mr. Watersalt, the carpenter, had built a small puppet theater next to Ellen's table and was demonstrating the usefulness of her handmade dolls with a bit of theatrical flair and a vast assortment of tiny, high-pitched dolls' voices. Mildred Wallace, who was usually too concerned with the lives of others to enjoy her own, tried to show anyone who would listen the ornate clock her husband had constructed that, on the hour, displayed a whole array of carved, lifelike figures that very much resembled herself. Even Mr. Darrow seemed to forget his melancholy. He greeted everyone he passed with a dashing smile and carried James on his shoulders until the boy was persuaded to join a group of children in a complicated game of tag that mostly involved running in circles around the church and screaming as loudly as possible.

“It occasionally astounds me that he can be so happy,” Mr. Darrow observed.

“Children are more resilient than we are, but they do still need us to set an example,” I said, obliquely referencing Mr. Darrow's unfulfilled promise to spend more time with his sons.

“You are a wise woman, Mrs. Markham.”

“You flatter me, Mr. Darrow.”

“Perhaps I should do so more often.”

We gazed at one another, lost in the moment until Constable Brickner cut between us. Mr. Darrow shook his hand with enthusiasm, much to the other man's surprise, for he was immediately suspicious of such goodwill. Together they went to the Larken brothers' table, which was copiously populated by both many kinds of ale and the majority of the men of the village. I asked after Susannah, since I hadn't yet seen her at the bazaar, but Lionel had lost track of her the hour before last. Mr. Darrow found Fredricks, who was well ahead of everyone else in his enjoyment of the festivities. It was then that Mr. Darrow took his leave of us to purchase a pint for his old friend and confidant.

That left Paul and me to wander the grounds of the church alone. We drifted away from the noise and the laughter and the scent of food, into the graveyard. The tombstone of Lily Darrow was unchanged from our last visit, and yet it meant so many other things than it had before. Paul touched the chiseled numbers that marked the date of her death.

“It's still here.”

“What did you expect to find?”

“I don't know . . . maybe a crack running through it? Just something different.”

We stood beside one another in silence. I didn't know what to say. I placed my hand on his shoulder, and he continued.

“I wanted to see her again so badly. I dreamt of her every night, and every morning I would wake up and remember that she was gone. It made me sad, but it was worth it just to pretend for a while that everything was all right. But somehow this is worse, because it's real, and I still have to leave her. I can hug her, but she's still dead and Father is alone. We can't take her back with us, and everything is still broken.”

“Would you rather that she never came back?”

“No. I don't know. I wish nothing ever had to change.”

“That's all life is. It must change, or else we never would.”

Paul looked so sullen, his bright blue eyes dull with a sadness that resembled his father's more and more every day. I ran my fingers through his soft black hair. “We don't have to go back, you know, not if you don't want to.”

“Yes, we do. I'm not ready to say good-bye, and neither is she.” Paul stood from his mother's grave and returned to the bazaar without any pretense of enjoyment. I followed behind him, until Roland caught my gaze with a friendly, nervous wave. He was dressed in his best Sunday clothes, and he had attempted to slick down his dark hair with copious amounts of pomade, but instead of refining his appearance the waxy substance sharpened the strands into asymmetrical spikes that lent him a feral, yet also innocent look.

“Good bazaar, eh?”

“I can see that you've dressed for the occasion.”

“A fellow's got to look nice once in a while, or he's not much of a fellow at all. Is Mrs. Larken all right?”

“I suppose so. I haven't seen her in a day or two—” He ran past me, toward a disheveled young woman with wild red hair. He slid an arm beneath her and sat her on the ground. Her hands were bleeding.

“Susannah?”

“Charlotte!” She smiled at me with relief, and patted Roland's arm. “I've so much to tell you!”

“What on earth has happened to you?”

“You're going to think I'm insane.” She put her head in her hands, smearing blood onto her forehead. It was difficult to get the groundskeeper to leave her side, but eventually he relented and agreed to fetch Lionel, occasionally glancing back at us with a dark expression. I took Susannah into the church and sat her down in a pew before the altar.

“I could never think you mad,” I told her.

“At least that makes one of us.”

“Let's start at the beginning. What happened to you?”

She sat back in the pew and smoothed down her hair before taking a deep breath. She told me her story.

“I'd brought along a special cask of ale for the reverend. Lionel forgets himself sometimes when he starts drinking with the boys, and I didn't trust him to keep it set aside, so I hid it in the cellar of the church for safekeeping. But when I went down to retrieve it, the room had
changed,
Charlotte. There was a door where there had never been one before. For a moment I thought I had gotten turned around and discovered some new chamber beneath the parish, but no . . . it was the same old stone walls, and the cask of ale was on the table right where I had left it.

“There was nothing special about the door aside from the fact that it hadn't existed just a few hours before. It was made of cherrywood, with no special markings and a plain brass doorknob to match. I was about to leave, but then it opened inward by itself. I didn't want to know what was inside, you must believe me. I tried to go back up the stairs, but there was a darkness on the other side of that door that spilled into the cellar. The entire room went black, and soon I couldn't tell which way was up. I felt along the walls trying to find my way out, and then I saw a light.

“I went toward it, desperate to get out of that accursed place, but was disappointed to find myself staring into a mirror. I spun around in an attempt to locate the source of the light, but the rest of the room was still awash in gloom. I pressed my forehead against the glass, starting to feel exasperated, when a pair of black hands slid around my throat. Gloved hands.
His
hands. I tried to scream, but he was already choking the life out of me. I tried to thrash against him, but I could find no one behind me, just the hands closing tighter around my throat, and yet, I wasn't dying. In fact the light before my eyes multiplied, and I was surrounded by a half dozen similar mirrors. My reflection was different in each of them. In the closest one, I was drowning underwater. In the next, I was burning alive. There were scenes of me with my throat slit, being mauled by a wolf, shot in the head—every terrible way that I've ever been afraid to die, forced upon me. I felt myself growing faint. The hands were tightening their grip around my throat, and the mirror images multiplied again.

“I saw a vision of myself the same way I had seen Nanny Prum . . . coming apart from the inside. In that moment, even as I began to lose consciousness, I felt something rise up out of me, from some deep place I didn't know I had. I stopped trying to pry the fingers from around my throat, and with all my might, I punched my fist through the looking glass.

“Every mirror shattered at once. I grabbed ahold of a glass shard and cut at the hands still clutching my neck. They shuddered and fumbled against me, trying to regain their grip, but then stopped altogether. We were no longer alone in the darkness. There were other women with us, visions of myself flayed, burned, bleeding . . . all of them stepping through the broken glass to lunge at the man in black with a fury I could never have dreamt I was capable of. I turned away and ran into the gloom that surrounded us, until the world felt solid beneath my feet once more and I could feel the cool stone walls of the church cellar. I turned around to close the door, but in its place was nothing but a pile of soot and cinders.”

She stared at me when she was done and waited for me to say something. I didn't know what to believe until she unclenched her bloodied hands to reveal a small shard of mirror glass.

“I didn't dream it, Charlotte. It
happened
. What do I do?”

My mouth tasted like ash. My mother, my father, Jonathan, Nanny Prum, and now Susannah . . . all of them set upon by a mysterious man in black.

“Be careful. Be watchful.” Mrs. Norman's warning became my own. “It's time for you to find your husband and to tell him what's happened.”

A man waits for you. He watches you.

But why? What did he want from me? The specter of Death had hung over my life since I was a girl, taking everyone I had ever loved. But then, with a wave of triumph, I remembered: Death is not an absolute. I knew someone who had fought against it and won, and I realized that with her help, I would be able to put an end to this horror once and for all.