As the men at the ball danced with me, they complimented my dress (praise which I palmed off on the tailor), my elegance, my “radiance” (a term I always suspected referred to the perspiration that bloomed on one’s face as an evening of dancing progressed), and my nimble feet, but inevitably their conversation soon turned to the house itself. Such a gorgeous house, they would say, as they held me in their arms; what a grand estate, what a glorious ballroom, they would remark as the hand on my back nudged me in the direction they wished; and I knew that in their eyes I was a part of the house they coveted, that when they looked at me, when they clutched me close, they thought of my inheritance and wondered whether they might seduce me into giving them Lockwood itself.
If I told them about my bad nerves, if I called it madness, would that only make them want me more? I thought darkly; would they think that they could shut me up somewhere and have free rein of the house for themselves?
It was easier when I was younger, when the men my age had not yet turned their thoughts to property and legacy and women as parcels of land or crumbling estates that needed only their expert financial guidance to recover, when attraction was what mattered, the frisson of a hoped-for dalliance later that night.
No doubt there would be quite a few illicit dalliances taking place that night, couples roaming out into the gardens looking for a private corner or tiptoeing upstairs to take advantage of the many empty rooms. It was something I had done myself a few times at parties at other houses, in those handful of years after my nerves had improved enough that I considered myself almost well, and before my mother and grandmother died; met young men and danced and later slept with them, though I always woke up regretful and cross in the morning, feeling that it was not worth it for an unsatisfactory fumble. But I had only once tried to take a man to my bed here at Lockwood, in an aborted first attempt at intimacy.
My parents had thrown a twenty-first birthday party for me, and my mother had made sure to invite many eligible men, nonchalantly dropping their names into conversation in the weeks before, while my father, who said I was surely too young for all that, glowered and mocked the caliber of the young men available, their weak chins and schoolboy mustaches. I heard them fighting about it, my parents, over breakfast.
“You’ve only given me one child,” my father said in answer to my mother’s shriek of frustration at his jeering, “and now you want to rush her to grow up and leave us. Or are you living vicariously through her, hmm? You think you could have done better than me, better than Lockwood, from where I plucked you from?” I was sure worse followed, but I scurried away because I couldn’t bear to hear them be so cruel to one another.
I had been in no hurry to marry—the idea of tying myself permanently to a man was unfathomable, almost frightening—but like all other girls I wanted to be admired, to have my fun. And so, after descending from my rooms after some champagne with a friend, the both of us swathed in silks and furs, diamonds glinting in our ears, I duly danced with every boy and man that asked, flirted back with the ones who were the least objectionable, and later found myself standing on the terrace at the rear of the house with one boy a year or so younger than me by the name of Charles. Lanterns lit the gardens in front of us as couples walked among its greenery, searching for somewhere quiet, and I was listening to Charles speak of a holiday he had taken on the south coast and watching, in an almost detached manner, the way he looked at me, his gaze lingering on my mouth before flicking down to my chest; the way he kept swiping a tongue across his dry lips when he listened to me speak; his face a picture of yearning, of youthful sincerity.
I asked him if he wanted to see the view from the roof outside my rooms up in the west turret and he nodded enthusiastically. We made our way through the house, his hand hot on my back, and then took the stairs to the first floor and walked down the long corridor to the west wing, our footsteps quiet on the thick carpet, nervous excitement (I assumed) making his movements a little stilted, before he stopped a few steps away from the spiral stone staircase that would bring him to my bedroom.
He said that he would just be one moment, that he needed to use the facilities, and seemed so embarrassed that I did not offer him the use of my own bathroom. I sat on my stairs, tucked away from the hall as I waited for him and pictured what was about to happen in my bedroom, how his hands would fumble on the buttons of my dress, how he would be eager and appreciative, how the act itself would be uncomfortable and strange but that I would get my first time over with.
But when he had yet to return after fifteen minutes, I left to find him. He had got lost, surely; the house could be confusing to a new visitor. I knocked on the door of the nearest bathroom and pushed it open but it was empty, and then I crossed to the east wing and tried the bathrooms there too—the first was empty, the second occupied with two girls who had giggled at my knock.
I stood at the top of the stairs, feeling suddenly ridiculous in the dress that I had adored at the start of the evening, with half thoughts that maybe he had fallen asleep somewhere or perhaps he had found another girl and changed his mind—but that was rather unlikely, when he had been so keen: he had danced with me for half an hour and looked as if he might die on the spot when I invited him to my room.
I waited there for five minutes, twisting on my heels, listening to the hum of the party, and there he was, finally, climbing the stairs. But his cheeks were red and he looked, I couldn’t help but think, absolutely terrified.
“Everything all right?” I had asked.
“I’m sorry,” he had said, voice trailing off. He was trembling slightly and he wiped a sleeve across his forehead. “I don’t think this is such a good idea.”
“What’s happened? Please tell me.”
“It’s nothing. You’re a great girl, I just—can’t.” He grimaced a smile. “I can’t stay here—” he said, biting off the rest of his words and scurrying back down the stairs as I felt my own cheeks heat with embarrassment.
I stood there wondering what on earth had happened—a crisis of confidence? It didn’t seem like it—and then two other figures climbed the stairs toward me.
My mother in her black dress and pearls, white fox fur draped over her elbow, hair mussed as if a hand had run through it, and lipstick faded and smudged; and my father, his bow tie loose around his neck.
“Hello, darling,” my mother said with a bright but tremulous smile. “What are you doing on your own up here; you aren’t waiting for someone, are you?”
“There was a boy, Charles, he wanted to see the family portraits,” I said as my father frowned. Charles had been one of the boys he mocked; a toothless runt, he had called him when my mother pointed out his pedigree to me, the grand estate he would inherit. “He was frightened of something . . .” I trailed off, unable to explain.
“Maybe he saw her,” my mother said with a confidence that could only come from madness, “the woman in white.” Her mascara had bled beneath her eyes, drawing out the dark hollows we both shared.
Maybe it was you, I thought spitefully, clenching my jaw. Maybe you scared him off.
“I think they’re bringing the cake out soon; you should head on downstairs,” my father said kindly. “Your mother needs some rest.” And I watched them leave, his hand tight on her arm, the white fur like a tail against the liquid black silk of her dress, hating her, feeling utterly rotten.
After that, I never tried to bring another partygoer back to my room, feeling bruised and embarrassed, fearing that my mother would make a scene or that they too would be spooked.
Maybe I should find myself a husband with an even grander house, I thought wryly as I smoked another cigarette and watched the crowds in the ballroom, and leave Lockwood altogether. Perhaps it was the house that was at fault—and I thought of the young maid who had left a few months ago, the one I had overheard muttering to Dorothy that even with my mother and her fits gone, she could not bear to stay at Lockwood any longer, that there was something here, a lingering malevolence. Maybe if I left too, my nightmares would not follow. But maybe they would. Maybe it wasn’t the house at all; maybe it was me, and had been all along.
And besides, although I had mocked my suitors for confusing me with the estate itself, it was true that I was tied here, that I felt a responsibility to Lockwood as if it was woven into my very bones; that it was unlikely now that I would ever be compelled to leave, and that I would no doubt join my mother one day in the graveyard just up the lane with all the other Lady Lockwoods—locked up in our coffins, dry hair spilling across our shoulders, nails like claws reaching out toward the packed earth above.