CHAPTER 19
Passages
“Standing in the fusty room and looking from place to place, Helena felt an almost unbearable sorrow, as if the hollow hands of many wraiths were slowly pulling her down into deep, cold waters.“
TWILIGHT AT PRIMROSE
Gothic Fantasy / Supernatural Mystery / Horror Series
Helena stood in the drawing room, gazing out of one of its tall arched windows at the sunrise over distant treetops. Gillis had already lit the fireplace before she came in, and the faint sweetness of his tobacco pipe lingered in the air. She sipped from the cup of coffee Delores had so kindly prepared for her and felt an altogether foreign sense of her guard finally being let down.
After a time, she took a seat on the very same sofa where just days before she was interviewed by John Greycross. The feelings of desperation and horrible smallness that had coloured that day were still fresh in her mind, and she regarded her present reality with gracious disbelief.
Upon the lacquered rosewood table before her was a handwritten note Greycross had left in the scullery. She picked it up and read through it again:
Dear Helena,
I hope you’re beginning to settle in here at Falgrave, and that the old ghosts haunting these halls haven’t kept you awake at night.
For the better part of today, I’ll be at the Ashmolean evaluating a number of Scandinavian artifacts with a colleague. Simon Cruthers will collect me at dawn, as Gillis must remain to receive our trusted farrier, Mr. Blethridge, this afternoon. Once Artemis and Apollo are properly attended to, Gillis will be happy to take you and Delores into town to purchase supplies and sundries for the Christmas gathering.
With this note, I’ve provided specifics regarding the yuletide congress, including my exhaustive guestlist and recommendations for the number and types of hired hands we may need. Delores has a purse earmarked specifically for this whole production, so, please, spare no expense.
As for the management of housework, you’ve already shown such incredible initiative that I would risk patronizing you should I suggest some arbitrary litany of tasks. I ask only that you continue transfiguring the dusty catacombs of our home into its true and regal form. I entrust all into your most capable hands.
By the by, the weather today may allow a walk with Nanda and Makalu. If you happen to take that pair of diablos out, please don’t forget the whistle—it will save you much trouble, I assure you.
Gratefully,
JSG
As in his speech, Greycross’s writing was instilled with his wit, intelligence, and subtle humour, but none of the arrogance or derision of the other men Helena had worked for. Above this sincerity and charm, however, it was the words our home that kept ringing in her mind. Did he truly mean our home inclusive of Helena? Her heart insisted that he did, and she folded the note away with a smile.
After another nourishing breakfast with Delores, Helena set to work mapping Falgrave’s vast interior, documenting the condition of each room in a small notebook. With a maid yet to be hired, she took the responsibility upon herself to tidy whatever she found in need—which proved to be almost every room. She donned the old, yellowing apron found in the scullery and fetched the large basket she had been using to carry cleaning supplies. Inside were old mason jars filled with various solutions of vinegar, baking soda, and lemon juice, alongside an arsenal of dusters, dustpans, horse-hair brushes, scraps of flannel, and burlap pads. Armed now for battle against Falgrave’s dust, grime, and cobwebs, she set off towards the grand staircase in the great hall.
Ascending the steps to the second floor, Helena sensed a rising curiosity demanding to be tickled. Greycross had conspicuously omitted the second storey during his house tour, and Helena began to wonder at what may lay above—particularly her employer’s own bedchamber.
Her mind spun fanciful visions about the lavish furnishings that must be in the master chamber, considering how exquisite the lesser quarters were. Was John Greycross’s room adorned with gold leaf wallpaper, priceless artwork, and a gasolier dripping with diamonds? Perhaps there was a small observatory adjoined to his quarters, complete with an elaborate brass telescope that captured the faintest of stars? Did he sleep on a generous down mattress beneath the finest silk sheets and cashmere duvets?
At the thought of Greycross’s bed, Helena blushed and laughed aloud, taking the final step at the top of the stairs.
“Naughty Helly,” she whispered to herself.
Ahead of her was another long hall—quite characteristic of Falgrave—ending in a grand pair of ornate black doors. Closest to Helena on her left was a smaller door, and she resolved to begin the work of stringent cleaning there. She placed the basket down and drew the hefty key ring from her apron pocket.
Helena had discerned from Elise’s indexing system that keys starting with the number “2” were all assigned to the second storey, logically enough. However, the second number on the key corresponded to the position of the room along the hall— “1” for north, “2” for south, “3” for east, and “4” for west. Finally, the third digit was the room number in order of distance from the great hall, which Elise appeared to have chosen as the hub of the manor’s labyrinthine layout.
Assuming that the second floor was bound eastward, Helena flipped through the keys on the enormous ring until she came to the one engraved with the number “231”. She slipped it in the lock, and as the mechanism yielded with a crisp click, she giggled at her own brilliance in decoding the pattern only hinted at in Elise’s notebook. Yet she paused, wondering why such a system had been devised at all, and why the numbers had not been simply inscribed upon the doorhandle plates. Just who was supposed to be kept out of these rooms in a house where only its master and a couple of his staff lived?
The last thought stayed Helena’s hand for a moment, a chill creeping along the nape of her neck. She shook the inexplicably eerie intimation off and pushed open the door. A frenzied current of dust borne on stale air rushed out of the dark and stirred her into a little coughing fit. As the threshold cleared, she peered inside.
A plank of light from the hallway cut into the umber of the room, providing a path towards a silvery slit where curtains hung slightly parted before a window. The floorboards creaked and complained under Helena’s feet as she crept along, and when she threw apart the curtains, a figure in the corner suddenly appeared.
She cried out, leaping backwards into an armoire which gave no quarter. As reason returned, she saw the spectre was simply a gentleman’s overcoat on a dress form mannequin. She laughed at herself, feeling her heart sink back down in her chest, and surveyed the room.
Near the mannequin was a foot-powered sewing machine with a collection of spools in wicker baskets. An antique loom occupied an adjacent corner, above which was a medieval tapestry depicting a unicorn. On a rustic trestle table lay shears, scissors, and awls, each coated in dust. A small notepad was left open, and Helena read the lightly pencilled words on the yellowed page: Daniel’s coat: Chest ~40 inches. Armholes ~18 inches …
“Daniel,” she whispered, recalling the parlour room’s painting of a man with aching, Byronic beauty. “Daniel Greycross.”
Helena stared for a time at the handsome, green herringbone coat on the mannequin, trying to envision the elder Greycross filling it, and again a chill crept over her like the caress of a ghost. Snapping back into action, she fetched her basket of cleaning supplies.
After a half hour, Helena had thrown open the windows, scoured every dusty surface, and swept the floor. She straightened the many wooden boxes which were haphazardly stacked in any spare space, and neatly folded unfurled lengths of fabric. Instinctually, she also organized the tailoring tools with reverence—as though her heart insisted they had belonged to someone cherished.
As a cold breeze coursed through the sewing room and sunlight bathed its now polished facets, Helena wondered how much time had gone by since the second-floor rooms had been cleaned. There were no regular maids, Gillis busied himself with myriad other tasks, and Delores likely just tidied only the rooms she frequented, leaving these nether chambers all but forgotten.
She glanced again at the herringbone coat and thought perhaps forgotten was how John Greycross preferred things, whatever his reasoning may be.
Pressing on towards the neighbouring room, Helena found that the door was unlocked already, and to her astonishment, it opened into a small bedchamber that had clearly been in recent use. The drapes were left parted, spilling silvery daylight into the room. A bed with a tufted leather headboard was placed in the corner left of the window, its bedclothes lazily put in place.
Upon a side table stood a whiskey glass and a depleted bottle of Ulster Dandy, along with an opened book. Looking closer, Helena saw the words Gentleman’s Magazine on the header of one of the pages, and that the reader had left off in the middle of an article called Meteor Dust. The paragraphs she skimmed described an astronomer named Raynard who studied the contents of fallen meteors using special chemicals, sorting magnets, and microscopes—a far cry from the erotica and political tripe Mr. Watters had left lying about.
Exploring the quarters further, she noticed a handsome armoire with a leather belt draped over one of its ajar doors, and a small bookshelf crowned by a gilded crucifix. The cross’s fashion was peculiar, each arm budding into a clover-like trefoil and inlaid with a blood-red gemstone. Gazing upon the relic, Helena was filled with vague intimations of some far-off place and time—a vanished empire, perhaps.
“How beautiful,” she whispered, even though the sight of a crucifix typically stirred memories of ornery nuns and their brutal brand of discipline.
Creeping into the adjoining bathroom, Helena caught the lingering musk of a cologne rich with bergamot. The scent was familiar, as her father had favoured a similar eau de toilette with that bold citric ingredient. Twisting the gas inlet knob she filled the room with light. Her eyes darted at once to a crimson tie and vest laid upon the dressing table—and she knew then that she was in none other than John Greycross’s room.
Helena stood in utter confusion, unable to fathom why the master of such a grand estate chose to stay in these comparatively modest quarters. Yet she recalled the dinners he and his staff shared at the tiny kitchen table and thought she was beginning to glimpse a more complete picture of Mr. Greycross—of John.
Smiling, she looked about. An older style copper bathtub commanded the centre of the bathroom, flanked by a porcelain washstand and the modern Crapper that Greycross had so juvenilely mused about. Near the door sat a wastebasket filled to its brim. She drew it into the light and recoiled at the knot of bandages packed inside. Each tatty strip was blotched with a deep, burgundy stain. She thought fleetingly of the wine they had enjoyed a few nights ago at her first supper at Falgrave, but experience told her the residue was nothing other than old blood.
A pungent odour clung to the bandages, like that of a distilled oil from the apothecary—tea tree or eucalyptus, perhaps. Helena wondered what sort of wounds the dressings might have covered. In her mind’s eye she saw Greycross’s hands as he held her résumé, knuckles scraped and scabbed. Maybe he really did moonlight as a prize-fighter? At this final, silly thought, she shrugged, deciding she ought to stop snooping and make herself useful.
Over the next half hour or so, Helena polished and primmed Greycross’s humble quarters, having scoured the bathroom surfaces with a lemon juice and baking soda solution, tidied the bed clothes, and swept in far recesses which men typically ignored in their routines.
After lightly dusting the exotic crucifix, Helena knelt to inspect the collection of books on the shelving beneath it. To her surprise, nearly every volume was intended for young readers. Her fingers danced across the crinkled spines as she read several titles including Captain Maryatt’s Children of the New Forest and Maria Edgeworth’s Moral Tales for Young People. Just as she resolved to leave the books undisturbed, she spied a small leatherbound journal wedged between the upper shelf wall and another of Maryatt’s adventure tales. She paused for a moment, grappling with the more mischievous part of herself. Finally, mischief won out, and she pulled the journal free.
On the cover, a gilded embossing of a naval ship gleamed, its many sails billowed by some imaginary wind. Opening it, Helena saw these words set in type:
Herein are the thoughts and deeds of John S. Greycross
Falgrave Manor
1852
Beneath the inscription was a handwritten dedication made in red ink:
To my dearest Johnny on your tenth birthday.
May these pages tell the story of a brave and noble heart.
With all my love, Mamma
With this unexpected bit of datum, Helena was able to calculate Greycross’s current age at thirty-eight. He had called himself ancient, yet looked young enough, aside from a few silver hairs and a subtle weariness which often shadowed older men. Deciding to indulge her curiosity further, she leafed onward.
The first entry—dated August 18th, 1852—was written in a flowing cursive that was remarkably smooth and precise for a boy:
Hello, new journal!
What ever shall I fill you up with? I hope many adventures, where I’ve made nice new friends and have seen parts of the world no other English lad has ever seen. I grow very excited when I think of these things! It brings me the most joy to imagine the places I can go once I’m a man. I hope to be like Father, setting off on quests and bringing back interesting things.
It makes me sad that Father cannot take me with him, but he says it’s far too dangerous. He takes Mr. Gillis along to help because he is very strong, and I once saw Father putting a pistol in his traveling trunk! There must be pirates or thieves out there who make trouble for Father. One day, he will realize just how strong I am and invite me along, too. We’ll have an adventure together and bring more beautiful jewels and artwork home for Mamma.
I love Father and miss him ever so much when he is away.
When Mamma gave me this journal, she said I may write down my most private thoughts and feelings here, like when I miss Father or have a fit of the “melon-collie”. Well, I shall try to write about these things, although I may feel too embarrassed. I’ll hide this journal under my mattress, just to be certain no one reads.
Allow me to share a secret with you, then. Last night, I dreamt I was given a golden sword. It wasn’t named “Excalibur” like King Arthur’s but was called something which I cannot remember. I do know it was not a proper English name. Either way, it was just as good as Excalibur, perhaps even better. With it, I chased a great, white dragon through a forest, then into a cave that went down deep into the ground. When I had trapped the beast, he blew a flame at me, but I struck him with the sword, and down he went on his side!
I wanted to leap about and celebrate my victory, but a voice that sounded like Father’s called me deeper into the dark. Then how the fright came! Instead of Father, I saw a strange man, or perhaps a lady, made of fire, with many wings as big as the sails of a windmill! When I tried to run away, I fell onto my bottom, and someone made me open my mouth and eat a burning stone!
I woke up with a shout and began to cry, but I went back to sleep soon after that because I remembered Mamma saying that food that does not sit well in your stomach can cause bad dreams, and I think Miss Findlay’s roast was seasoned quite strongly.
“Well, that ought to explain that awful dream my first night here,” Helena murmured to herself. She reread the boy John’s vivid description of his dream and grinned, amused by his nearly palpable excitement. She then leafed ahead several pages, across more blocks of energetic handwriting and even a few crude drawings. She stopped on an entry dated September 5th, 1852, reading:
Dreadful day!
Father and Mamma hosted a party with our family from Chalkhill, and the adults played silly games in the parlour and drank too much wine. This meant that what Merrick and I had planned was sabotaged by Little Delphine! We were made to have her tag along with us the entire afternoon. What rotten luck!
I shall attempt to describe this horrible child to you. Little Delphine is a tattler and an actual parasite. She asks far too many questions and runs much too slowly to keep pace with us, as well. She’s learning French from Grandmamma Delphine, and she thinks she is smarter than me because of it, even though I know geometry quite well!
Indeed, the day was so very dreadful. Worst of all, Merrick and I could not visit the Lost Place in the deep woods with Little Delphine trotting behind. Only knights may enter the Lost Place, as we well know, and not girls. Us lads buried some treasures there the last time we went, and we had more to add to our collection, but all was ruined by the fatal disease known as Little Delphine.
Instead, Merrick and I took up swords and battled the tree giants near the old well. Even though he is smaller than me and is quite ill sometimes, Merrick is a good fighter and isn’t afraid of anything in the whole world. Not only is he my cousin, but he is most certainly my best friend. If I am Arthur, then he is my Lancelot. Little Delphine is my cousin, too, but she is just a little nag. I wish we could send Little Delphine to America to join Barnum’s exhibition of human oddities, or else put her in a hot‑air balloon and cut it free to float away into the sky.
I’m very sleepy now.
Goodnight!
“Poor Little Delphine,” Helena whispered with a laugh.
As entertaining as the journal entries were, her conscience began to sting with guilt. She closed the book and slipped it back into its place. With a final look about, she let herself out of the room, shutting the door gently behind her.
Helena glanced down the length of the hall, wondering now what was behind the great ebony double-doors if not Greycross’s room. She elected to cut to the chase and enter it next. She strode up to the threshold, stopped to glance over a shoulder in hesitation.
He did say no room was off limits besides the library, she reminded herself.
Consulting the key ring again, she counted the number of rooms between the foreboding doors and the sewing room, arriving at key 238. She slipped it into the lock, twisted against some resistance, and finally felt a mechanism yield.
The door would not yield so easily. Helena pulled it toward her and felt it resist. Gripping the rightmost handle with both hands, she leaned back and tugged in ratcheting heaves. At last, with an awful groan of hinges, the door yawned wide, releasing a stale, sepulchral scent. Not even a dapple of light pierced the black of the room’s unknowable dimensions. Helena peered inside, unable to discern the vaguest of shapes. Dread crept through her as the dark stretched ahead, the frigid air seeping outward. She stepped back, set down her basket, found a candlestick, slipped it into its holder, and struck a phosphoric match.
As she headed into the master chamber, the candlelight revealed a spacious yet eerily sombre bedroom. Central to the room was an enormous canopy bed, elevated a foot from the floor on a masterfully crafted platform, its four twisted and ornamental posts thrusting towards the vaulted ceiling. A faded, scarlet duvet lay heavy with dust.
Helena cast light upon the walls, mosaiced with artwork as fine as any in the gallery proper. Searching for a gas valve, she realized the room must have been built long before such modern conveniences and was never updated; only wax-encrusted candelabra offered any hope of light.
Raising her candle and creeping forward, she discovered a beautiful vanity within an alcove, its mirror shrouded in black mourning cloth. A French window with moth-bitten drapes was adjacent to this, and Helena quickly parted them with her free hand. The underlying window glass was so opaque with age that only a dim light perfused into the master chamber, revealing a bit more of the dusty interior but doing little to dispel the funereal atmosphere.
On the opposite end of the room hung a large oil painting in a cobwebbed frame. Helena drew closer and saw the life-sized figures of a man and a woman, the latter of these instantly recognizable as Claire Greycross, that sweet DaVinci smile playing across her face as she sat on a little stool. The man was standing, a hand on Claire’s shoulder, wearing a velvet coat not unlike the one Helena had seen earlier on the dress form mannequin. Although this man was surely Daniel Greycross, his face was covered by a black sash wrapped around the upper left quadrant of the painting—another old mourning tradition, like the cloth shrouding the vanity mirror.
Standing in the fusty room and looking from place to place, Helena felt an almost unbearable sorrow, as if the hollow hands of many wraiths were slowly pulling her down into deep, cold waters. She was surrounded by gilded decorum, priceless baubles, and the finest furniture wealth could buy, but every bit of it was somehow haunted. Indeed, Helena’s sense for the impalpable began to stir—not warning of danger as it often did on nighttime city streets, but reading a fathomless grief imprinted upon the space itself.
The little voice of her heart told her it was best to leave.
Making her way back to the door, a jewellery box the size of a small traveling trunk caught her eye. It scintillated in the light of the candle, every facet of its myriad inlaid gems dazzling in the bleakness of that plagued room. The thought of Mabel Watters’s jewellery box—offered to the utterly disgusting Mr. Clifton just days ago—came. With this, a vestige of her desperate past began to conspire, suggesting she take this long-forgotten jewellery box from its place here in a room that no one had obviously cared to enter for many years, and fetch a handsome purse for it at the markets.
The thought angered Helena. After she had been shown such unbelievable trust and warmth by John Greycross, such a notion was all but profane—especially in a room that seemed frozen in a soundless dirge for the dearly departed.
She regarded the portrait again, wondering which of John’s parents had died first. A strong and inexplicable notion suggested that it was the Greycross patriarch, and the subsequent dwindling days of Claire’s widowhood seemed almost visible in Helena’s mind. Her gaze returned to the vanity, where the woman had sat in life, perhaps beautifying herself before one of Falgrave’s lavish parties. Her thoughts drifted to the empty dining hall downstairs, and the portraits in the parlour of people who time had simply erased from the world.
These sentiments were then twisted in Helena’s mind, the faces of lost Falgraveans replaced by those more familiar—an eyeless man with ruddy hair, a comely young woman scourged by syphilis, and a little warm-skinned boy Helena had not thought of in many years. Myriad and unbearable feelings swelled like a riotous mob in her heart, and she wanted absolutely nothing more to do with the room.
She marched at once over to the curtains, slung them back to smother the wan daylight, and blew out the candle.
After battling the door shut, she took a deep breath, and decided a cherry tart, a splash of brandy, and a nap were in immediate order.
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