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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.
“No wardrobe?” I asked.
Ms. Dillard set her lamp down, preparing to light the one at my bedside.
“The elder Mr. Hughes thought himself modern, and there is a compartment near the bureau built into the wall. You may hang your dresses there.” She pointed vaguely in the direction of a nine-drawer dresser, and I spied the outline of a door. I released a relieved breath, small enough to be unnoticed. I couldn’t stand wardrobes. They reminded me always of giant caskets.
“Everything has been put in order for you,” she continued. “There is a bathroom just there.” She motioned the opposite way of the closet. “Hot water should be readily available. Everything you might need is laid out, and anything you see is yours to use as you like. All right, house rules: do not use the main staircase. You must have noticed that it’s been stripped and is unfinished. It’s not safe and we don’t want a fall.”
She gave me a look as though I needed help remembering my embarrassing tumble.
“Most of Willowfield is shut tight for the winter and for general lack of use and staff to tend to it. If a door is locked, it’s off-limits. Several parts of the house, especially the third floor, are unsafe to set foot in due to their state of abandoned renovation.”
I recalled the driver’s comment that, despite the tragedy, there were still significant household funds.
“Why were the repairs canceled? I was led to believe there was no financial suffering.”
“Finances are certainly not the trouble. It’s people. The superstitious foolishness of the crews got the better of everyone, and they quit one by one. Even when apprehension subsided, and the workers were willing to return, the professor didn’t want anyone in the house. He canceled the public fetes, fired what little staff had been sensible enough to stay, keeping only those of us who outright refused to leave, and then shut the house up. Made it a tomb.”
She was speaking so frankly, her words laced with regret.
“I’m so sorry. That must have been very difficult.”
“Well.” Her stiff formality snapped back into place. My sympathy seemed to be something Ms. Dillard didn’t want. “Life goes on. If you need anything in the night, Felicity and I are downstairs in the staff hall, though it’s better if you just wait until the morning unless it’s a life or death emergency. Don’t bother with the servants’ bells. They’re disconnected. Breakfast is set promptly at eight thirty in the dining room, never later.”
Before she excused herself, I asked the question scalding my insides.
“Ms. Dillard, is the professor always so”—I searched for the least rude word—“standoffish?”
The woman peered at me, trying to determine how much she should divulge to thetemporaryassistant.
“As you can imagine, the professor hasn’t been the same since he lost his wife. He used to be the gregarious sort. Boisterous. Well-liked. Now he’s rather solemn, prone to getting lost in his thoughts. He doesn’t think of other people. We hardly exist to him. In his mind, we are ghosts in this house.”
Ghosts.
Ms. Dillard sighed, ready to finish the conversation. “He’s still grieving, Miss Foxboro. I ask that you treat his peculiarities with some understanding.”
“Of course,” I replied, somewhat chastened.
She appraised me more baldly than she’d previously done, as though she’d say more. Instead, she gave a curt nod and departed.
“Good night,” I said to her retreating back. She closed the door. I half expected to hear the turn of a key in the lock, shutting me away in this melancholy house, making me a prisoner.
When Ms. Dillard was gone, I trudged to the settee and slumped into it, rubbing my fingers into my eyes. This had been a hard day, I allowed, but not the hardest. With an exhausted interest, I studied the tea tray with its rolls and fruit and a few round yellow cookies dusted with powdered sugar. The teakettle was pewter and the cup a delicate thing, absurdly thin. Thankfully, the tea in the pot was still hot, its aroma pleasant and floral. I took a sip, tasting the summery flavor of jasmine, honey-sweet chamomile, and a tart note I couldn’t place. With Willowfield being the flower haven it was there were any number of possibilities. The tea warmed me, and I felt more suited to my body.
The soft roll and fruit filled the hole in my stomach, and the cookies were dry, but once plunged into the tea, they were a treat. I dusted the sugar from my fingers and considered what to do next. I wasn’t tired as the hour was still early, barely nine o’clock.
