A World So Small: Part One
Jun. 11th, 2009 10:54 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
wordslingingMaster Post
I.
When he was younger, Frank used to pretend that he had been cursed. He liked to imagine that his sickliness might be the work of some evil sorcerer or vengeful fairy, and that one day he might find some magic spell or potion that could cure him.
As he grew up, it became harder to hold on to such fantasies, and by the age of nineteen, he was resigned to the far less interesting truth—he was simply a sickly boy. Some accident of birth had left him small and weak, prone to coughing fits and highly susceptible to fevers, and no doctor his parents had ever consulted had ever found a way of correcting nature’s oversight.
Frank was doubtful that the latest doctor to examine him would succeed where any of the others had failed. Perhaps he would be able to provide some temporary balm, but Frank had long ago given up any hope of finding a cure that could make him truly strong or healthy. But even temporary balms, he had learned, were not to be scorned.
So he submitted once more to being poked and prodded, to having his heartbeat and breathing listened to and answering seemingly endless questions about his habits and diet. The doctor--a gruff but kindly old man with gold-rimmed spectacles and an impressive mustache--hemmed and hawed and wrote things down in a little notebook, and finally, when Frank rejoined his parents in the small office adjoining the examination room, informed the three of them that he felt Frank would benefit most from a change of scenery.
"London is the worst possible environment for a boy of his constitution, you see," the doctor told them gravely. "Smog and soot everywhere, not to mention the constant noise and crowds--frankly, it's a wonder he's not in worse health than he is."
Frank slouched down in his chair, ignoring a stern glance from his mother. He hated being talked about this way, though he ought to be used to it by now.
"What he needs more than any medicine I could give him," the doctor went on, "is fresh air, along with peace and quiet, as much as he can get. If you could arrange for him to travel somewhere with a milder climate, that would be ideal--somewhere on the Continent, perhaps. Failing that, any place in the countryside would still be far better for him than the city."
For the time being, at least, there could be no question of a trip to the Continent. The Ieros were not poor, by any means, but they weren't wealthy, either, and lacked any connections they might otherwise have been able to draw on for assistance.
There was, however, Mrs. Iero's sister, who lived in the country with her husband. As they were the only close relatives the family had living outside of the city, it seemed to both Mr. and Mrs. Iero that the best course of action was to write to them, and see if they would allow Frank to come and stay for a while.
Frank, unfortunately, was not in agreement with his parents.
"I don't want to go and stay with Aunt Hortensia and Uncle Edward," he said at supper the next day, bracing himself for the argument he knew would follow.
His parents exchanged slightly exasperated glances, and then his mother turned back toward him, asking, "Whyever not?"
"They don't like me," Frank replied matter-of-factly. "And to be perfectly honest, I don't like them."
"Frank, that's a dreadful thing to say about your aunt and uncle," his mother chided.
"Perhaps, but it's also true," Frank protested. "You know they don't like me, it's why we don't visit them more often."
Frank knew that the animosity there was at least partially his own fault; as a child, he had been given to boisterousness when in good health, as if all the time he spent confined to his bedroom and forbidden any excitement had left him compelled to make up the difference when he could. His parents had always had a great deal of patience and understanding for his rambunctiousness, but the same couldn't be said for his aunt and uncle, particularly after he had broken a rather prized vase while visiting them one summer.
So Frank could understand perfectly why they might bear him some ill-will, but he wasn't a child anymore, and his vase-breaking days were behind him (well, for the most part). Nonetheless, Aunt Hortensia in particular still treated him exactly as she would an ill-behaved six-year-old, and the idea of spending weeks, perhaps months in her house was not an appealing one.
"Very well, they aren't as fond of you as they might be," his father conceded. "Although you could do more to win them over, I must say. But there isn't anyone else for you to go stay with, so--"
"There's no one else in our family," Frank pointed out. "But some of my friends have houses in the country, I could ask one of them--"
"I hope you mean 'ask' and not 'wheedle and beg until they give in'," his mother said. "I don't want you imposing yourself on any of your friends."
"But you don't mind me imposing myself on Aunt Hortensia and Uncle Edward, even though you know they wouldn't ask me to stay of their own accord," Frank countered.
"Family is different," his mother replied, in a tone of finality.
Frank's father looked back and forth between the two of them (in particular, at their matching stubborn expressions), and then spoke up.
"I think we can at least wait and see whether or not any of Frank's friends is willing to host him." Frank grinned at that, but before he could say anything, his father added sternly, "But if they aren't, you're going to your aunt and uncle's, whether you like it or not."
Finding a friend he could stay with in the country proved more challenging than Frank had originally suspected. He had drawn up two lists, the first of of people he knew with country homes, the second of friends close enough that Frank thought he could depend on their willingness to have him as a house guest for an unspecified length of time.
A comparison of the two lists yielded only four names that fit both criteria. Of those, Frank knew that two of them were currently touring the Continent. Each of them may be willing to let Frank use their homes in their absence, but it would take time for him to write to them and receive replies. Another was newly married, and had left his flat in London to set up house in the country with his wife. It may still be worth a try, but that would be imposing, and Frank was reluctant to do it unless he was left with no other options.
That left Michael Way.
Frank and Michael had met two years ago through a mutual acquaintance, and formed a quick and easy friendship in spite of their differences in both personality and station. Michael was quiet, self-contained, and easily mistaken for humorless, a marked contrast to Frank's more expressive nature, and while Frank was a merchant's son, Michael was some manner of nobility--a viscount or a baron, Frank wasn't entirely sure. Michael never mentioned his title, seeming almost embarrassed by it, and Frank only knew of it from the gossiping of their other friends.
Gossip also held that Michael rarely entertained guests at his house in the country, which was supposed to be some sort of grand manor. Frank didn't know what reasons Michael might have for not wanting company at his house, but in the absence of any more ready options, surely it couldn't hurt for him to ask.
Michael divided his time between the city and the country, and, as luck would have it, was in London currently. At Frank's request, the two of them met in Michael's rooms, and Michael listened with characteristic quiet and patience while Frank explained his situation.
"I understand why you'd prefer to stay somewhere other than with your aunt and uncle," Michael said when Frank was finished, his tone sympathetic. "I'm afraid my house wouldn't be the most viable alternative, though."
"Oh," Frank said, disheartened. "Are you certain? I don't mean to press you, but I don't have many other alternatives of any kind."
Frank had it on good authority that when the circumstances called for it, he was capable of an extremely effective pleading look. His mother's admonition about wheedling as opposed to merely asking flashed through his mind, but not strongly enough to keep him from catching his lower lip between his teeth and raising his eyebrows hopefully.
"It isn't that I don't want to help you, or that I wouldn't enjoy your company," Michael told him. "But the house simply isn't in a fit state for visitors. You probably wouldn't even like it there, in any case, it's frightfully gloomy."
"I'd like it better than my Aunt Hortensia's, I'm certain, no matter what state it's in," Frank replied emphatically. "Honestly, Michael, as long as the roof's not falling in, I wouldn't mind. And I'd be on my best behavior, I promise. You wouldn't even know I was there."
"I doubt that," Michael said dryly, and sighed. "I don't know about this, Frank."
Frank tilted his head down just a bit, and let his eyes widen just a little. "Please?"
The arrangement they settled on was for Frank to make the journey to Way Manor a few days after Michael's return there, to allow the servants there some time to prepare for an unexpected houseguest. Frank used the time to pack, to inform other friends of his impending absence from London, and to listen to a good many admonishments from his mother on the subject of being a gracious guest.
Before he knew it, the day of departure arrived, and he said goodbye to his parents and climbed into the carriage that would take him to Way Manor. The journey was long, the road rough, and the countryside pleasant enough to look at but boringly unchanging, and Frank spent most of the day dozing fitfully in his seat, unable to fall asleep properly, unable to muster the energy or concentration to read or do anything else. It wasn't until dusk that he glanced out the carriage window and saw the manor looming up ahead of him.
It was like something out of a novel. The house itself was huge, and looked as though it had been grand once, before age and disrepair had taken their toll. The outbuildings and grounds were extensive, but Frank saw the same signs of neglect on some of the buildings, and the gardens the carriage drove past on its way to the house were wild and overgrown. Altogether it was far larger than Aunt Hortensia's house, which was the only thing Frank had to compare it to, but Aunt Hortensia would never have stood for such untidiness.
As he neared the house, however, Frank saw warm, inviting light spilling out of the open door, and Michael standing there, along with a man near his own age in clothes that seemed neat, if somewhat threadbare.
Frank cast one more glance up at the house as the carriage drew alongside it, craning his neck to see the upper stories. There were other lights on, mainly toward the center of the house, while the outer wings and topmost stories were dark.
For a moment, Frank thought he saw a flash of something white in the topmost window. He tried to get a better look, leaning forward until his forehead was pressed against the carriage window, but whatever it had been was gone.
There was no footman, so the driver hopped down to open the carriage door himself, and Frank climbed out, walking towards the front steps as Michael and the other man came down to meet him.
"Well," Frank said, spreading his arms with a hopeful smile. "Here I am."
"Here you are," Michael said, in his usual monotone, and then stepped forward, embracing Frank. "I hope the journey went well?"
"Well enough," Frank replied.
Michael pulled back and turned to the man standing next to him, laying one hand on his shoulder. "Frank, this is Brian--" the man interrupted with a small, polite cough, and Michael shook his head, smiling faintly. "Or, well, Schechter. He's in charge of the household staff."
"Mr. Iero," Schechter said, punctuating the statement with a quick bow. "Please don't hesitate to let me know if you need anything."
It was on the tip of Frank's tongue to ask Schechter not to call him 'Mr. Iero', for one, but given how the man had reacted to Michael using his first name, perhaps that wouldn't be the best idea.
"Thank you," was all he said, bobbing his head in response to Schechter's bow. "It's a pleasure to meet you."
"I'll show you to your room," Michael said. "Brian, have his things brought up?"
Schechter nodded. "Second floor, third bedroom on the left," he said briskly, then bowed to Frank again before moving toward the carriage.
Michael put his arm around Frank's shoulders, turning and steering him up the stairs. "Brian can be a bit...abrupt," he said as they walked, "He's also used to not having anyone but me to wait on, and I think he's worried about seeming too informal in front of a stranger. But he's a good fellow."
"He certainly seems to know what he's doing," Frank replied, and Michael smiled.
"Oh, certainly. This place would be even more of a shambles than it is without him. Which I'm sorry for, by the way--we keep the main wing and the servants quarters in good shape, but the rest has gone to seed, I'm afraid."
"Oh, no, it's fine," Frank assured him, and if it turned out to be less than fine, well, that was what he got for pressing his company on Michael on short notice. "Your house is amazing, I had no idea it would be so big. How do you keep from getting lost in it?"
"Well, as I said, I only really use the main wing," Michael explained as the two of them stepped through the open door.
The front hall was spacious and a bit drafty, the walls bare stone, the floor dark marble cut through the middle by a long Turkish rug. There were a few portraits decorating the walls, either country scenes or people Frank assumed were some of Michael's ancestors, as well as a tapestry with a coat of arms and a mounted stag head with immense antlers, which seemed to be staring at Frank quite unnervingly with its glass eyes.
Across the way from the front door were two long, curving staircases, sweeping up on either side until they met at a landing and continued on as one. The foyer was well-lit, but the stairway was dark, so Michael took a candle from a long, low table before leading Frank up.
"It's only been me here the past few years, since my grandmother's death," Michael went on. "I don't have guests often, and it seemed pointless to keep the full staff of servants we used to have, or to have the ones I kept on look after parts of the house that were never used. The main wing is cozy enough, never fear, but the outer wings are a bit of a mess, and you'll want to stay clear of the upper stories and the attic."
"Why, what's up there?" Frank asked, remembering the flash of white he'd seen, or thought he'd seen.
"Dust and spiders, mostly," Michael informed him, and Frank shuddered, grimacing. Dust was an eternal enemy, given how easily it could set him to coughing, and he had a lifelong fear of spiders.
Frank's room was, as Schechter had said, the third room on the left when they reached the second floor. It was larger than his room at home, with old-fashioned but sturdy-looking furniture and a fire already blazing in the hearth.
"Supper should be ready soon, if you'd like to rest a bit," Michael said, adding, in a typically Michael fashion that made it difficult to tell if he were joking or not, "I'll come and fetch you, just to make sure you don't get lost."
After Michael had gone, Frank crossed to the small table that held a pitcher and basin, splashing his face with cold water, and then sat down on the bed, looking around. However the house might look from the outside, the room did seem pleasant, and was quite warm with the fire going. Once he had some of his things set up, to make it feel a bit more like home, he thought he would be quite comfortable for the duration of his stay.
When he and Michael went down to supper, they walked through a dining room bigger than any Frank had ever set foot in, with a table that would have filled his parents' dining room from corner to corner. But the room was dark and everything was covered by dust cloths, and Michael led him on into a smaller and much friendlier-seeming breakfast room, close to the noise and warmth of the kitchen. The maid who served them--Hannah, Michael called her--smiled shyly at Frank and was far more personable than Schechter had been, and the food was excellent. Altogether, it was a very pleasant meal.
Tired from the long carriage ride, Frank sought his bed soon after supper. It was strange, as going to bed in an unfamiliar place always is, and for some time he lay awake, listening to the creaks and odd noises of the old house around him. He was too tired to remain wakeful for long, however, and soon drifted off.
Frank began his first morning at Way Manor by oversleeping, and discovering when he woke that he had not missed breakfast in spite of his laziness. Michael was not in the habit of rising early himself, and the servants' custom was to simply set out a cold breakfast that their master could enjoy at his leisure.
After he had eaten, Frank spent the rest of the morning unpacking and putting his room in order. It was a clear, sunny day, and he opened all the windows, letting the fresh air drive away the slight musty smell that lingered in the room in spite of its having been thoroughly cleaned before his arrival. Michael came by and offered to help, but as Frank preferred to arrange everything to his satisfaction himself, Michael's help consisted mainly of sitting on the bed, picking things up to look at them as Frank spread them out on the mattress, and keeping Frank engaged in conversation as he worked.
In the afternoon, Michael disappeared into his study with a mention of business he must attend to, and Frank explored the rest of the main wing. There were bedrooms (all shuttered and cloth-draped except his and Michael's, which Frank glanced at through the open door but didn't enter), parlors (the two nearest the front hall kept presentable, the rest closed), a music room (containing a piano that showed signs of recent use and a harp that did not), a library (Frank had brought a few books from home, but made a note to explore the library's collection as well), the dining room and breakfast room he had already seen, and the kitchen and servants' quarters. Frank didn't enter the last, being unsure how the servants (particularly Schechter) would take that, but he did venture into the kitchen, introducing himself to the cook--a cheerful, matronly woman named Betsy--and stealing one of the crumpets she was preparing for tea.
Tea was served in what seemed to be the second-best parlor, which Frank didn't mind at all, given that it seemed less ornate and formal than the best parlor, and he was less afraid to touch things. Having already been downstairs, he arrived before Michael, and passed the time while waiting for him looking at the pictures on the walls.
One wall was dominated by a portrait of a young lady sitting in an arbor, holding a bouquet of wildflowers in her lap. She was pretty, if a bit solemn-looking, and Frank thought he saw a resemblance to Michael in her features, though the clothes she wore and the style of the painting suggested the image had been committed to canvas long ago, perhaps sixty years or more.
On the wall opposite the painting of the young lady were two smaller ones. Frank was no expert, but it seemed to him that they had both been painted by the same hand, a different one than that of the first painting. The first showed another young lady--a girl, really, she looked no more than fifteen--with a slightly less antiquated appearance and, again, a certain resemblance to Michael. The second was of two children; one a boy of perhaps three or four, dressed in a short jacket and trousers, dark hair curling about a round face, the other a baby in what may have been a christening gown, seated on the older child's lap.
There were no other paintings in the room, but there were a few photographs, which Frank also examined. There was an old daguerreotype of a stately woman who might be the girl in the first painting, grown into middle-age, a tintype of a handsome young couple and two boys (who Frank thought were the children from the third painting, both a bit older here), and, set in a hinged case on a table, two more recent-looking photographs, both of young men. Frank picked the case up to examine the two pictures; one was Michael, a few years younger than he was now and posed somewhat stiffly by a mantle, and the other was an older man, who bore a faint resemblance to Michael, but with rather rounder and softer features. When Frank held the case up, so that he could view the photograph alongside the painting of the children, it seemed very possible that the strange young man could be the older boy, grown up.
"I see you found the right parlor without difficulty."
Michael's dry voice came from behind him, and Frank started, almost dropping the case. Abashed, he set it carefully back in the spot he had taken it from before turning. Michael didn't seem bothered by his having picked it up, however; he had already crossed to the table where the tea things were set out, and was pouring cups for himself and Frank. Frank took his tea when Michael offered it, and looked back at the largest portrait, that of the young woman in the arbor.
"The woman in the painting," he began. "Is she--?"
"My grandmother," Michael confirmed, nodding. "And that one--" he pointed to the other young lady, "is my mother, and this--" he tapped the frame that held the photograph of the family, "is her and my father. I don't have many pictures of them, they died when I was quite young."
"I'm sorry," Frank said. He knew that Michael had been raised mainly by his grandmother, but not the circumstances that had led to that turn of events. "If I might ask--how did they die?"
Michael's expression was a bit shadowed, but it seemed to be more with the memory of pain than with any continued suffering. "They were driving home from a visit with friends, and their carriage lost a wheel. The driver was thrown from his seat and lived to tell of the accident, but the carriage plunged into a ravine, with both of them inside."
Frank's eyes widened a bit; he had had no idea that Michael's history contained anything so dramatic. "How terrible," he murmured.
Michael shrugged. "As I said, I was quite young. It was harder on my grandmother, I think--there's something uniquely horrible about a parent outliving their child."
Frank nodded in agreement, and sipped his tea. When a few moments had passed, and the rather obvious gap in Michael's explanations remained unfilled, he asked, "What about the other boy in the picture, and this other painting? I assume one of them is you, but..."
Michael's brow furrowed, and he seemed more reluctant to answer now than when Frank had asked about his parents' death. "That's Gerard," he said at length. "My brother."
"Your--Michael!" Frank exclaimed, chiding. "You never said you had a brother! Does he live here, or in London? Why haven't I met him yet?"
"I would have introduced you to him long ago, if I could," Michael replied, his tone grim. "He disappeared, I'm afraid."
"What?" Frank asked, perplexed. "How? What do you mean, 'disappeared'?"
"Just that," Michael said, spreading his hand. "One morning, not long after our grandmother's death, he was gone from the house, and I never found him, or learned what became of him."
"Oh." Frank looked back at the photographs in their double case, at the round-faced young man whose image stood alongside Michael's own. Between the long hair curling about his ears and neck, the wide eyes, and the vaguely startled expression, as if he had been caught off-guard by the picture even though he must have posed for it, Michael's brother looked more like a captive wild creature than a young nobleman.
"I'm so sorry," Frank said, looking back up at Michael. Michael who had lost not only his parents and grandmother, but a brother as well. "I had no idea."
Michael was silent a moment, then reached out and touched Frank on the shoulder lightly, offering a faint smile. "It's all right. I don't speak of it often, but I can, when I must." Jerking his head back towards the table, he added, "Come and sit down, have something to eat."
The refreshments were both delicious and plentiful; in addition to the crumpets Frank had sampled earlier, there were jam tarts, cucumber sandwiches, and fairy cakes with delicate icing, all of which the two young men set into eagerly.
"She'd be cross if she knew I told you," Michael mumbled around a mouthful at one point, "but Betsy's decided you need fattening up. And she's been on a campaign to fatten me up for at least fifteen years, so I should warn you she doesn't admit defeat easily."
"Oh, dear," Frank replied, with a horror he didn't at all feel, as he reached for another tart. "I shall have to do my best to withstand the onslaught, then."
On his second day at the manor, Frank had intended to explore the grounds and gardens a bit, remembering his doctor's admonishments to get plenty of fresh air. This proved impossible, however, as he woke to thunder outside and torrential rain beating at the windows. There was no sign of its clearing up soon, and even if it did the grounds would be horribly muddy, and so he resigned himself to seeking amusement within the house, instead.
He considered his books, but as he had brought only a few of them, and they were to be his only sure source of occupation on days such as these, it seemed best to make them last, and look for some other means of entertainment by which he might supplement them. This quest took him to the library, where he was quickly disappointed to find that a great many of the books there seemed exceedingly dull.
Frank was not the sort of person who disdained books in general; he found a great enjoyment in them, but only in the right sort. He loved tales of adventure or mystery, was not at all averse to reading poetry, and sometimes, depending on the subject, he could take a lively interest in works of satire.
Perusing the shelves of the manor's library, he saw some poetry, but very little satire, and nothing that seemed to hold much promise of adventure. There seemed instead to be a great deal of books devoted to history, politics, and philosophy (or combinations such as the history of philosophy or the philosophy of politics). Frank had been known to take some interest in history--the events it described, wars and assassinations and the like, were often interesting even when the language used to relate them was dull--but he had no patience for politics when they were presented in any form other than satire, and had found philosophy useful only to help him fall asleep on wakeful nights. He looked a while longer, certain that Michael, who was not nearly as dull as he seemed to the untrained eye, must be in possession of more interesting books, but he found nothing that excited his interest, and shortly abandoned his search to go and pester Michael instead.
This pestering included a joking complaint about the contents of the library, which Michael apologized for. "I'm certain I have some books somewhere that would be more to your liking," he said, "but they may have been put away somewhere besides the main library. I'll look for them."
The storm continued throughout the day, sometimes pausing for a few moments only to resume with full force the moment Frank began to cherish a hope of going outside after all. It was still raining when Frank went to bed, but the thunder had abated somewhat, and he found the steady patter on the windowpanes tolerable and even comforting, an easy sound to drift off to sleep to.
It was somewhat less comforting when he was woken by thunder once more, this time in the dead of night. Jolted into sudden wakefulness, Frank sat up in bed, looking out of the windows. It was very dark, but flashes of lightning gave occasional illumination, and the scene they revealed was as wild and romantic as anything out of a novel: the moors around the manor in chaos, rain coming down in sheets while the wind whipped the long grass back and forth and made it look more like a storm-tossed sea than solid land.
As he watched, there was a dramatic flash of lightning and a clap of thunder so loud it was alarming. Frank started, letting out a little cry of surprise--and then paused. In all likelihood, it was nothing but the thunder echoing in his ears, but for a moment, he could have sworn he heard a second cry, much louder than his own, from above. He listened carefully, and could not discern anything else that might be a voice--but after a few seconds, there were some muffled thumps that could well have been footsteps.
Frank hesitated, but his curiosity was roused, and after a moment he threw back the covers and got out of bed, donning a dressing gown and slippers and lighting the small lamp that stood on his bedside table.
Stepping out into the hallway, he found it empty, but noticed that Michael's door, across the landing from his own, was wide open. Crossing to the door and glancing into the room, Frank saw no sign of his host, and noticed that the bedclothes had been thrown back carelessly, as if Michael had risen and left the room in haste.
Frank looked towards the wide staircase, which turned when it reached the landing and continued up. There was no light but his own small lamp, and it only served to illuminate a few feet, leaving most of the staircase in shadow. Frank was not afraid of the dark, not particularly, but under the circumstances--standing alone in a massive old house with a storm raging outside and darkness all around--he wasn't ashamed to admit to a certain nervousness. He took a moment to steel himself, and then proceeded towards the stairs, only to whirl around when he heard a noise behind him.
Schechter stood at the end of the hall, holding a lamp of his own. On seeing Frank, his brow furrowed, but he gave no other sign of surprise.
"May I help you with anything, sir?" he asked, as brisk and polite as he had been every time Frank had spoken to him.
"I thought I heard something from upstairs," Frank said. "It sounded like someone crying out, and then footsteps."
"I beg your pardon, sir, but I doubt that," Schechter told him, not even glancing towards the staircase. "If you heard anyone cry out, it must have come from downstairs."
While not entirely certain what it was he had heard, Frank had no doubts that the noises had come from above him. Frowning a bit, he asked, "And the footsteps?"
"Something torn loose by the storm, perhaps," Schechter replied smoothly. "I'll have someone go up and check the roof for damage tomorrow." He paused, looking at Frank calmly, and then said, "If I might make so bold as to say, sir, wandering about on such a wet night as this hardly seems likely to encourage good health. Perhaps you should go back to bed?"
In spite of Schechter's polite, deferential tone, it felt more like a command than a request, and Frank's first instinct was to balk at it. But curiosity about strange noises and a dislike of being told what to do did not provide him with a very good reason to object to the suggestion, and, after casting one last curious glance up the dark stairway, he returned to his room.
The rain continued the next day, though not as fiercely, and a hope that it might clear up by afternoon did not seem entirely vain. Frank passed some of the morning writing a letter to his parents, in which he informed them of his safe arrival, described the house, and assured them that he could already feel the benefits of the marvelous country air (he couldn't, but knew such a statement would reassure his mother). He could only write so much, however, and by ten o'clock he was at loose ends, with Michael once again ensconced in his study and the rain still falling outside.
He briefly considered an exploration of the uninhabited outer wings of the manor house, unable to see what harm it might do, since while he had been told that they were dark, drafty, and unpleasant, he had not at any point been forbidden to enter them. He soon discovered, however, that such a verbal restriction would have been unnecessary--upon finding a door that seemed to lead out of the main wing, he tried it and found it locked. The case was the same on the other side of the house, and a wish to avoid seeming nosy or prying kept Frank from searching for any more doors to try. It seemed, therefore, that he had effectively been forbidden from the outer wings even without words to that purpose.
To have more than half the house locked away from him rankled a bit. But then, perhaps it was nothing to do with him--perhaps it was Michael's habit to keep those doors locked at all times, since the rooms were never used. And, seeing as Michael was doing Frank a great favor by letting him stay at the manor, and since he had done it over his initial misgivings, to be upset over not being let into rooms that he had, after all, no business being in seemed a poor way to repay his friend's generosity.
Defeated in his plan, Frank resigned himself to another day spent in the rooms he had already explored, and, for lack of any other ideas for amusement, turned to one of the books he had brought from home. He took it from his room, however, and went to sit in the library, where there were large, comfortable wing chairs and a hearth where he kindled a cheerful fire without difficulty, not bothering to trouble the servants with something he could so easily do for himself.
Just as he was settling in to read, however, something caught his eye. It was a chest, fashioned out of plain dark wood and tucked into a corner near the fireplace. It was small enough that a man might easily lift it, provided its contents were not too heavy, but large enough that he felt sure he would have noticed it the day before, if it had been there. Curious, Frank rose from his chair and went over to examine the chest, and, finding it unlocked, he opened it to reveal a good many books stacked inside.
Looking through them, Frank noticed that they seemed to be largely novels of the sort that were filled with mouldering castles, terrible secrets, dastardly villains, and imperiled heroines--the sort of books, in other words, that were typically adored by young ladies and disdained (at least outwardly) by young men. Frank had never held such lofty attitudes about novels, or allowed his enjoyment of them to be affected by any prejudice but his own. If he began a book and found himself bored with it, he would cast it aside without a second thought, but if the story engaged his interest, he would read it with great eagerness, and be not at all troubled by anyone else's opinion of it.
Frank glanced through the titles; he saw Walpole's The Castle of Otranto, which he had read when he was younger, Lewis's The Monk, which he had been expressly forbidden to read (and made to return to the bookseller by his mother), Polidori's The Vampyre, Beckford's Vathek, a whole slew of works by Anne Radcliffe, and more, some he had read before and others he had not, enough to keep him occupied for months even if he read each one quickly.
In his delight at this discovery, the book he had brought down with him was utterly forgotten. A short time later, Michael came downstairs and found Frank sitting cross-legged in front of the fire with books in untidy piles all around him, already several chapters into The Monk. At his friend's approach, Frank looked up, speaking before Michael could.
"These are wonderful," he said enthusiastically. "That you for finding them for me."
For a moment, Michael's expression was blank, and he seemed almost taken aback. Then, he smiled. "Of course. It's been ages since I read any of those, myself, but I knew they had to be about the house somewhere."
The rain stopped sometime during the night, and the next morning dawned clear and sunny, finally affording Frank an opportunity to explore the grounds. He and Michael went out together after breakfast, touring the kitchen gardens, which were well-tended and neatly kept, the flower gardens, which were overgrown and choked with weeds, but had a certain wild beauty, the orchard, also overgrown but full of ripe summer fruit, and the stables and carriage house, where Frank exclaimed over the horses and fed them apples he'd taken from the orchard.
In the afternoon, Frank took The Monk and went back out, finding a small arbor he and Michael had passed on their walk. It was in the same state of romantic disrepair as much of the property, paint long gone and vines twining thickly around the wood. The bench he sat down on creaked alarmingly, but held steady, and Frank settled himself comfortably before turning his attention to the book, losing himself in the strange, lurid tale.
As he read, though, he became aware of a new sensation, one that kept the book from claiming his undivided attention. It was queerly like the feeling he had when knowing he was being watched by someone, but when he raised his head and glanced around, there was no one about who could have been watching him. The feeling persisted nonetheless--no doubt encouraged by his imagination, but telling himself that did not help him to curb it.
Putting the book down for a moment, Frank stood up, looking about himself again. There was no one in sight, merely the arbor behind him, a tall hedge across from him, a little gate leading to another part of the grounds on one side, and the house on the other. He turned his gaze toward the house, but could see no activity in any of the windows, no sign that anyone might have been watching him.
He was unsure, by this point, how much of the strange sensation had been truly felt and how much imagined. But whether it was the product of his fancy or not, he was left unsettled by it, and repaired inside soon afterward.
A few days later, Michael announced at breakfast that he had an engagement that afternoon in Thornton, the little town a few miles from the manor.
"Would you like to come along?" he asked. "The engagement is nothing exciting--a business matter you would find terribly dull, I imagine--but the town is quite charming, and you could walk about a little, if you liked."
Frank accepted the invitation gladly, and they set out shortly after lunch. Thornton was, as Michael had said, charming; vastly different from London, but busy in its own cheerful way, and its quaint houses and neat gardens put Frank in mind of villages in picture books he had loved as a child. The two friends parted ways in the main square after agreeing upon a time to meet again, and while Michael went on to his business engagement, Frank wandered about at his leisure. From the looks he attracted as he walked, he deduced that this was the sort of small town in which a stranger is recognized as such immediately, but as he was a stranger with the appearance of a gentleman, neat and well-groomed, no one troubled him.
It was a warm, sunny day, and walking about soon left Frank both tired and thirsty. Turning back in the direction of the square, so that he should have no trouble arriving back there at the appointed time, he found a small tavern, and stepped inside in search of both something to drink and a place to rest his feet.
He expected to be an object of curiosity in the tavern, as he had been while walking the streets, and was not disappointed. He bore it cheerfully, answering the questions put to him by the barkeep and the patrons sitting nearby, and found that their interest increased greatly when they learned he was Michael’s guest.
“It’s been some time since there were any guests to speak of up at Way Manor,” one man commented, eying Frank over the rim of his drink as he added, “I suppose you’re not troubled by the rumors, then.”
Frank had already had the attention of a good portion of the tavern’s patrons; now, he felt even more eyes turn towards him. No one said anything for a moment, and then the barkeep cleared his throat loudly and spoke up. “There’s no need to bring any of that up, Davies, and even if it were, it’s not your place.”
There were a few murmurs of agreement at that, but Frank shook his head. “No, don’t leave it there. What rumors?”
“The ones about the older Way brother, of course,” Davies replied, seeming surprised. “Have you not heard them?”
“You shouldn’t be troubling the gentleman with this,” the barkeep broke in again, a stern frown on his face. “You talk too much.”
“You’re not troubling me,” Frank said. “M—Lord Way told me about his brother, though I don’t know why you think I’d be bothered by it—”
Davies raised his eyebrows at that, a peculiar gleam in his eyes. “Aye? I suppose he told you that Gerard just disappeared? Ran off in the night?”
“Well…yes,” Frank replied, brow furrowed. “What else would he have told me?”
“Lord Way told that same story to anyone who asked after his brother when Lady Helena died,” Davies told him, and shrugged. “And I suppose that’s one way to explain a man vanishing without a trace, but if you’ll pardon my saying so, sir, there are others.”
“That’s enough—” the barkeep began, but before he could finish Frank sat up straight, eyes narrowing in suspicion and jaw tightening in anger, and cut him off.
“Are you—are you suggesting Michael might have done something to—”
Davies spread his hands, not seeming particularly troubled by Frank’s anger. “All I’m saying is it’s possible. No one knows what really happened, and I don’t suppose any of us ever will.”
“But it isn’t possible,” Frank insisted, one hand curling into a fist at his side. He was dimly aware that all eyes in the room were on him now, all other conversation hushed, but he was too angry to care about the attention he was attracting. “Michael would never—the very idea is ridiculous, not to mention insulting.”
“Well, and you’d know better than I, I suppose,” Davies said in a placating tone. “But I’m not the only one who wonders about what might have happened up at the manor, whether anyone else here will admit it or not.”
Frank glanced at the others gathered around, most of whom avoided his eyes. “Is that true?”
After a moment, the barkeep nodded reluctantly. “Aye, sir, there’s been some speculation. Nothing that I would’ve thought it right to trouble you with—”
He shot a hard look at Davies, who merely shrugged again. “A man has a right to know what might’ve happened in the house he’s staying in.”
“You don’t know what happened or didn’t any more than the rest of us do,” the barkeep told him sternly, and turned back to Frank. “It’s idle gossip, sir, and no harm meant by it. We think very highly of Lord Way in Thornton; he’s always done right by us.”
“You think highly of him, and yet you spread this sort of gossip about him?” Frank asked, not mollified.
“Most folk in town don’t truly believe he did anything,” the barkeep countered. “And even among those who think he might have, the general feeling is that if he did, his hand was likely forced.”
Frank’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
“What you must understand, sir, is that Gerard Way was…strange. Touched in the head, most of us thought, if not all his life, then at least after his parents died.”
“Why would you think such a thing?” Frank asked, but he was already thinking back to the picture he’d seen of Gerard, of the lost, startled look on his face.
“Well, the way he behaved,” the bartender explained. “He was the older son, but when he grew up, he left the running of the estate to Lady Helena while he stayed in his room and amused himself. I could count on one hand the times I saw him in town doing any sort of useful business, but he used to hang about the churchyard and ask the vicar all sorts of strange things. And when he got older, we never saw him at all--he stayed shut up in the manor, and according to the servants there, he barely ever left his bedroom.”
Davies spoke up again, taking over the explanation. “Ask anyone who knew him before his parents’ death and after—and there’s a good number of people in this town who used to be in service at the manor, who were dismissed after Lady Helena’s death—and they’ll tell you Gerard Way was never the same after his parents’ death. And they’ll also tell you that if he wasn’t mad while his grandmother was still alive, her dying pretty well did him in. No one knows for certain what happened, no, but most of us don’t find it too unlikely that he might have tried to do some mischief to his brother or himself.”
“So—” Frank paused, swallowing hard. “So you think if Michael…did anything, it was an accident? Or self-defense?”
“Something like that, sir,” the barkeep said. “Lord Way’s a good man, everyone in Thornton knows that, but even a good man might do something desperate in a desperate situation.”
Frank left the tavern quiet and thoughtful, more disquieted than he liked to admit. It was all a falsehood, surely—Michael could never have done such a thing—but even as he attempted to assure himself of that, he remembered Michael’s reluctance to discuss his brother, and of the way he always kept his private and public lives separate, hardly ever inviting friends from the city to the manor or discussing his affairs there with them. Even now, with Frank in the house, Michael kept himself to himself, with locked doors and long hours spent alone in his study.
It was one thing to think him secretive and occasionally unsociable, however, and quite another to suspect him of foul play. Frank told himself this, and attempted to banish any thoughts to the contrary, but was not as successful as he would have liked. When he and Michael met back in the square, his troubled thoughts must have shown on his face; once they were on their way back to the manor, Michael asked if there was anything wrong, and Frank’s denial was apparently less than convincing, for he smiled wryly.
“Someone’s been telling you awful things about me, haven’t they?” Michael sounded somewhat bitter, but not greatly surprised. “I had a feeling they might.”
“You—you know, then?” Frank asked. “The sort of things they say about you?”
“Of course I know,” Michael said lightly, looking out the carriage window. “Thornton’s not the sort of town that keeps secrets well, as you may have noticed, and many of the servants at the manor have family there. That’s why I thought it would be useless to try and keep you from hearing some of it eventually.” He glanced over at Frank, raising his eyebrows a little. “You don’t believe it, do you?”
Frank often had difficulty knowing if Michael was trying for a joke or not, and this was certainly one of those times. He decided to treat it as though it weren’t a joke, and shook his head firmly.
“Of course not. I’m just surprised you put up with that sort of rumor-mongering.”
“What else is there for me to do?” Michael asked, his eyes returning to the passing scenery outside. “People talk. If I tried to put a stop to it, that would only give them more to talk about.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Frank agreed reluctantly, and they both lapsed into silence for the remainder of the journey.
It was a few days after that that Frank found the drawing.
He had finished The Monk, and had selected The Mysteries of Udolpho, another book he hadn’t read before, to begin next. When he opened the book, however, he was distracted from reading it when a folded square of paper that had been tucked between the pages came loose and fluttered to the ground.
Frank bent to pick the paper up and unfold it; it was a drawing sketched in pencil on slightly yellowed paper, a landscape of flat, open country with rolling hills on the horizon. There was something familiar about it, and when Frank turned towards his bedroom window, his suspicion was confirmed—it was the countryside around the manor, as seen from the northern side of the house.
He showed the sketch to Michael at tea that afternoon, thinking perhaps he might have left it in the book. Michael took it with an odd look on his face.
“Oh,” he said softly, examining the drawing. “This is—Gerard did this, I think.”
“Was he an artist?” Frank asked, before it occurred to him that Michael might not like to talk about his brother. But Michael didn’t seem at all bothered by the question, and simply nodded.
“It runs in our family, I suppose you could say, although it passed me by.” He gestured to the painting of his grandmother as a young woman, explaining, “Both my maternal grandparents painted, and my grandfather had a certain amount of success as a painter—I doubt many people would recognize his name today, but he was fairly well-known in his own time, and that painting was part of my mother’s dowry.”
“I can see why,” Frank said sincerely. He had often stopped to admire the painting in question when he was in the parlor. “It’s beautiful.”
“As for my grandmother, she did that painting of my mother, and the one of Gerard and I as children,” Michael went on. “When my grandfather died, my grandmother came to live with us here, and then, of course, she raised us after the accident. Gerard studied under her.”
“Are there any paintings by him in the house?” Frank asked, only to catch the subtle change in Michael’s expression that meant he was starting to be ill at ease with Frank’s line of inquiry.
“Not on display,” Michael replied. “He was often nervous about showing his work to anyone outside the family, so his paintings were rarely ever framed or mounted. I believe most of them are still packed away in his studio upstairs.”
Frank was aware that it was, in all likelihood, a bad idea to go upstairs in search of Gerard’s studio. It was nosiness, and prying into areas of Michael’s life that he hadn’t been invited into, and going behind his back to do it.
The trouble, of course, was that the more he thought about all the reasons he shouldn’t do it, the greater his curiosity grew—curiosity not just about the paintings themselves, but about Gerard, about this part of Michael’s life that Frank had never known existed until he came here, and that he could only glean information about from the things Michael’s brother had left behind. And there would be no harm in it, surely; he was just going to look for some paintings, and it wasn’t as if Gerard was on hand to object to their being seen any longer. Besides which, Frank wouldn’t be surprised if he gained the upper stories only to be confronted with more locked doors, in which case it wouldn’t matter.
It was late afternoon, and Michael had left his study to discuss something with Schechter, showing his usual disregard for propriety by going downstairs rather than summoning Schechter upstairs. There was no one on the second floor but Frank, affording him an opportunity to steal up the wide staircase in daylight without attracting Michael’s notice. His conscience gave another slight pang as that thought occurred to him, but nonetheless, he left his room and crossed the hall to stand by the staircase, one hand on the banister, glancing up. He paused, listening for any signs of someone coming up to the second floor, and, hearing none, began to climb.
The third floor hallway was quiet and still, dust settling thickly on the floor. Frank found himself feeling compelled to walk softly, not only to avoid making enough noise to be heard downstairs, but because it felt wrong to disturb the silence, as it would have in a church or a mausoleum. The first door he tried was locked, as he had expected, but before he could try another, something else caught his notice.
There were clear footprints in the dust on the floor, some of them undoubtedly his own, and something he had failed to take into account in his plan to come up here without anyone noticing. But he was distracted from worrying about that by the fact that there were other footprints, made by someone with larger feet than his own, leading down from the fourth floor and then back up.
He walked back to the staircase and stood there, peering up, but all was dim and silent above him. After a moment, he started up, moving with the same cautious quiet he had employed in the hallway. The fourth floor, when he reached it, was much like the third had been—with the exception that a door at the end of the hallway was standing slightly ajar.
Frank hurried forward before he could think to check his curiosity, pushing at the door gently. It gave a slight creak as it swung open further, and he froze for a second, biting his lip, but hopefully the noise hadn’t been loud enough to be heard all the way on the first floor. The room beyond was dark, the windows shuttered so that only a few scant traces of daylight leaked in. There were shapeless masses that were likely furniture covered with cloths, and, across from where Frank stood, another door.
He started to walk forward, only to freeze again as he felt something across his face and realized he’d walked straight into a spiderweb.
Spiders were one of the few truly irrational fears Frank had. Not that there was anything so irrational about fearing them, he would be quick to point out to anyone who mocked him for it, but for him it went beyond rational concern and into blind panic. He backed away from the spot quickly, pawing wildly at his face and hair. The cool, wispy feel of the strands was, on its own, enough to send shivers down his spine, but if there had been a spider in the web—
In his panic, Frank stumbled into one of the large, cloth-draped objects in the room, stirring up an unpleasant musty smell and a thick cloud of dust. Before he could think to try and shield his face, Frank caught a mouthful, and then he could only cough and cough, struggling to clear his lungs while still trying to fling the last remnants of the spiderweb away. The state of panic he was in only served to make the coughing fit worse—he couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe.
There was a split second where he recognized the blackness that was rushing up to envelop his senses, but by then he was too far gone to keep it from claiming him.
II
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Date: 2009-06-12 06:42 pm (UTC)I also have to say that - was a little tickled when I saw the tintypes mentioned. Everyone talks about Dagaurreotypes, but no one thinks about tintypes or ambryotypes.
Wonderful so far!
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Date: 2009-06-12 06:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-06-13 10:04 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-06-24 05:10 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-30 06:21 am (UTC)i'm not usually one for victorian era stuff, but i'm loving this. the narration is quite beautiful, and the tone is lovely. =D
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Date: 2011-10-04 01:41 am (UTC)