The Watch, Page 2

library one evening attempting to read, but my thoughts veered right and left like a shying horse. I put down my book, listening to the cracks and snaps in the fireplace and the howl of the wind outside. My eyes wandered about the room, taking in the towering bookshelves. Uncle Ralph certainly loved his tomes, however I could not vouch for how many he had ever actually read; while he was a clever businessman, he was not particularly bookish. I stood and took a turn around the room, sliding my fingers over the bindings of the richest and most ornate books I had ever had the pleasure to touch.

  I came to the end of the shelf and stood at the window. The curtains – royal blue velvet, drawn back with golden cords – hung heavily to the floor. It had just begun snowing outside, a lively and whirling sea of flakes. My reflection stared back at me, dark in front and lit from behind by the fire and the gas lamp. I could not help but notice that my figure was sublime, and perhaps Aunt Victoria might be right when she said I would not be long in finding a husband when the time came.

  An odd shape on the ground below refocused my attention. Was that a person? I raised my hands, cupping them around my face to block the light. It was indeed a man, standing on the lawn. I was not wholly familiar with the comings and goings of the servants at Tullemont, but there were no gardens or stables on this side of the house, and we were nowhere near the kitchens. Why would anyone be out in such weather, without holding so much as a lantern by which to see?

  I spun around and turned down the gas lamp, and with the immediate light removed from the reflection, I had a better look. The man still had not moved, but was merely standing and – could it be? – looking up at me. Was he a new hired hand? I could not make out his features, but he appeared to be wearing a long workman’s coat. It was only after I had watched him for twenty or thirty seconds did it occur to me that he could see me far better than I could see him. My heart thumped, and I quickly withdrew from the window. But I still felt strangely unsettled at not knowing who he was. Perhaps if I could see him from an unlit room, I could observe which direction he headed.

  I hurried to the next room, a spare bedroom, but a maid was there changing the bedclothes. I sighed. I just had to get another look before the man got away. I then remembered the storage room on the third floor, where my empty trunks had been stowed. I ascended the staircase, which was narrower and more simply decorated than the one between the ground floor and the second floor, devoid of intricately carved banisters and looming artwork. The storage room was at the opposite end of the hallway. I picked up my skirts, hurried to the last door, and tugged it open. A musty smell met me, but I ignored it as I stepped inside. Mountains of clutter towered on every side – my own trunks piled not far from the door, a wardrobe overflowing with dresses a decade out of date, Persian rugs rolled up and standing on their ends, chairs and bureaus, a harp, an ancient rocking horse, a crate that appeared to be filled with nothing but dolls, and piles and piles of books. I was careful not to touch anything as I made my way to the window, as it all seemed quite precariously balanced. A thin layer of grime coated the glass, but such was my curiosity and haste that I wiped it off with the palm of my hand and peered down at the lawn – and gasped.

  The man was now directly beneath the storage room window, staring up at me as though we had done nothing less than arrange a meeting. My heart jumped into my throat, and my stomach lurched. Who on earth was this? His motionless stance, the angle at which his head was cocked, sent goose prickles along my arms. I still expected him to make a movement or gesture – to have some type of natural, human reaction. But he continued to stand as though frozen in the winter air.

  I withdrew, stumbling. I grasped the edge of a shelf and felt it shudder under my weight. Terrified that I might bring a half-century’s worth of rubble onto my head, I staggered through the door and slammed it shut behind me. I nearly tripped clattering down the stairs, my skirts gripped crudely in my fist. In the safety of the hallway lamplight I leaned against the wall, my chest straining against my corset, begging for more air than I was permitted. Too late, I noticed my dirty handprint left on the wallpaper. Wincing through my alarm, I continued downstairs, overcome with the strangest compulsion to see the man again, despite my fear. I hurried through the front hall and into the parlor. I half-expected the man to be just outside, peering in at me, close enough to touch. But the darkness was dense and unyielding, and although I searched for several minutes, I saw nothing.

  Supper that night was a quiet affair. Uncle Ralph was absorbed in his newspaper, and despite several emphatic throat-clearings from Aunt Victoria, the only noises from his seat were rustlings, and an occasional clink of silverware. I picked at my roasted squab and boiled potatoes, but had very little appetite. It was not until halfway through dessert, sitting in front of an untouched slice of almond cake, that I worked up the nerve to inquire about what I had seen.

  “Aunt Victoria?” I said in a low voice. “Have there been any new additions to the staff recently?”

  Aunt Victoria looked at me with her round doe’s eyes as though I had just spoken in Russian. “Why, no, dear. Whatever makes you ask that?”

  Of course I could not allow her to suspect anything resembling lunacy on my part.

  “I saw a man outside tonight. He was in the yard but did not appear to be working.” I paused, searching for a conclusion. “Perhaps he was a trespasser?”

  “Trespasser?” Uncle Ralph broke in gruffly. “We’ve got a perimeter fence and men at the gate.” He flipped a page in his newspaper without looking up. “All sorts of people have business around here, Marie. You know that.”

  “Yes, sir.” I stared at my cake, its white icing reduced to dull yellow in the candlelight. I dared not press the issue, and have them believe I was seeing things.

  It was after midnight the following week when I sat at my escritoire in a dressing gown, my hair loose and tumbling down my back. I was attempting to write a letter to a school friend, but once again my thoughts refused to align. I had kept a close eye on as many of the staff as I could since that frightening night, especially those who worked outside the house, but I never spotted the man. I had, however, developed an almost unconscious dread every evening as the sun dipped in the sky, and the shadows lengthened on the ground. I felt exposed and vulnerable whenever I passed a window at night, and had begun drawing my bedroom drapes shut long before dark. I had trouble sleeping as well, often lying in bed and staring at the ceiling for hours before finally drifting off.

  My room was on the front side of the house, so it offered a view of the lawn and the carriageway all the way to the entrance gate, nearly a half-mile away. I had convinced myself that the man would not dare stand on this side of the house, where he would be visible to anyone in front, or coming up from the road.

  But so late at night?

  I pushed my hair out of my face in exasperation, and glanced at the window protected by its scarlet drapes. Whoever he was – either a curious (perhaps even slow-witted) employee, or a trespasser who was halfway to Baltimore now that I had discovered him – he was no longer any concern of mine. I wrote a few more lines of my letter, blotted them, and then, after some contemplation, scratched them out. With a sigh I stood, wondering if Agatha was still awake to make tea. But then I found myself again turning, quite compulsively, to the window. And I daresay, had anyone discovered my thoughts right then, all hope of a future would vanish, as I would be branded the next Lancater to degenerate into madness.

  But what if?

  What if, just by some chance, he was out there, waiting for me to appear? I would never be able to sleep until I knew for sure.

  I turned down my lamp, strode to the window and pushed the curtains aside. It had snowed repeatedly during the week, and the world sat under an eerie blanket of silver. The clouds had broken up in places, and the moon, suspended uncertainly above the horizon, cast wan and monstrous shadows across the grass. I gazed over the property, but
the carriageway was clear, the lawn empty. With a rush of relief I stepped back, about to return to my letter. And then I saw them.

  What appeared to be two legs stood under one of the elm trees. The body was invisible above the knees, cloaked in the trunk’s bulky shadow, and this caused me to stare even more intently at the two motionless limbs. Were they indeed legs, or merely illusions created by the moonlight? I had almost convinced myself of the latter when, to my horror, they stepped backwards, one, then the other, vanishing into the blackness at the base of the tree.

  I did not call Agatha for tea – I did not want her to see the fear in my face. I was too afraid to check the window again, and I slept not a wink that night. A fresh batch of snow fell early in the morning, ruining any chance of following the man’s footprints – had I ever worked up the nerve to do so.

 

  In April I went into half mourning, which meant I could resume wearing colors – albeit only from a select group of grays and muted purples. In correlation with my fresh appearance, Tullemont’s gardens were in bloom, adorned with bold sprays of daffodils, tulips, and hyacinths. I had not seen the man again, and as the winter