Something Old, Something New, Something Borrowed, Something Blue

Jonathan Harper

HOW I REMEMBER THAT FIRST night on the train, face pressed against the glass, watching the silhouettes of trees, their knifey branches, their skeletal frames, whisk by in the dark as I felt nothing but dread. There was an ever-constant feeling of danger or warning, a notion I could not fully understand. Back then, I was a timid boy, one who was easily intimidated by his own shadow, having relied (perhaps too much) on the protection of his older sister. Amelia, sat across from me in our private car, dressed in her new traveling suit, feigning sleep. That night, I felt such a kinship with her. I knew she also felt the dread. Her body was so tightly knitted together that she appeared ready for a brawl.

But I had no idea why she would be so nervous. She had already married the Duke, had already consummated their relationship in our parent’s sullen bed, had already sold off our property and shed all the trappings of our previous home. Amelia was the stronger sibling, a brazen woman, a tough woman, one with the will to survive.

As the train rolled on through the night, I could find no sleep as I felt my grasp on our old life lose shape. I already missed my old village, despite its faults and disappointments. By the morning, we would arrive and be delivered into the hands of the Duke and begin our new life under his roof. What I feared the most was not knowing what awaited us at the end of the journey or how we would eventually be changed by it.

WE CAME FROM A HUMBLE beginning, typical for a story like this. Our mother, a strong-willed farmer, and our father, a stoic former soldier, were long dead. They had taught us well: how to churn the butter, how to pluck a chicken, the best price for grain and how to sell just enough to keep money in our pockets and bread in our bellies.

I should say that I was never meant to be a farmer. I did not have the constitution for it. I was a small boy, a lithe boy, a sensitive child as my mother often proclaimed. And my father, bless him, agreed and did all he could to ease me into the demands of such labor. Thankfully, Amelia possessed the raw strength I never had. She was a sturdy girl, obstinately pretty with a keen eye. When I think of our childhood, I remember those happy mornings saddled next to my mother, helping her sew and to prepare the broth, while Amelia joined my father in the fields. It was she who learned how to shoot our father’s pistol, how to drink harsh liquor, how to laugh at a bruise. So, when we were finally on our own, we both knew she was to be master of our house.

Fate continued to test us after our parents departed this world. Our father’s pension was not as plentiful as we had originally believed and after overspending on farm hands one season, we were unable to afford them the next. Then, two of our fields soured as if the land itself was rejecting our stewardship. We survived off Amelia’s brawn and determination, working until we would collapse in an exhausted heap and still it was never enough.

This all changed when the Duke entered our lives.

After years of training, my sister had developed a reputation for her skills with our father’s old military pistol. She could draw quicker than a field vole could dive in its burrow and with a closed eye she could shoot the cap off a bottle from a field’s length away. Every summer, at the county fair, people would crowd in wooden stands to see her shoot. She always wore our mother’s high-collared dress, her hair pulled back in a single braid, and drew her pistol with lightning reflex, shattering clay doves in rapid succession to the applause of many.

The Marvelous Amelia, they called her. The Pistol Maven, the Lady Sharpshooter with the Eagle Eye. This was how the Duke found her.

He was an older man, a sturdy rugged man with grim patriarchal stature and a surly black beard that shimmered with a hint of blue when the light struck it so. I was sixteen that summer when he came to town, having arrived on his honeymoon, escorting a beautiful black-haired woman, near exotic in her dark features and exaggerated hand gestures. Word around town claimed she was an opera singer, one of great standing in far-away cities.

But my eye had been on the Duke since I first caught sight of him in the open market. They perused the many stands and drank in our tavern. He admired our township with the scrutinous eye of a man enjoying caged beasts in a zoo, while his wife perused little trinkets, what she called, “darling folk art.” And I followed them through the market, observing the Duke almost hungrily. I had felt compelled to do so, felt it in my gut, starting as a spark until it ignited into full infatuation, as if his mere presence nourished me.

It was the opera singer who noticed me first, who suddenly lavished me with compliments of the fairgrounds and asked me about my life in this humble little village. “What a darling little Ganymede,” she told her husband. “Can we keep him, Your Grace?”

As if I were a pet, a little companion dog to follow her about and rest on her lap. For a moment, I was almost amenable to the idea.

There was the same glint of curiosity in the Duke’s eye as he asked what I wanted. But what was I to say? My infatuation had come on so suddenly that I had hardly the time to interpret these feelings. I only wanted to be near him, to catch another glimpse of the blue in his beard. In my frustration, I rambled on about my sister, that she was a performer and they would enjoy her art. I escorted them to the stands and when Amelia took her first aimed shot, the Duke laughed and applauded, and I felt proud that I had somehow brought him joy.

His wife daintily applauded before she pulled him away, for she was tired of the fair. She left, twiddling her fingers at me. It was the last time I ever saw her.

A year later, the Duke returned a widower. Rumor circulated throughout the fairgrounds and we descended upon it like hens to grain. She had died in childbirth, some said, or by sudden illness. It was unclear. But the Duke had been sighted loitering about the market and it was all the town could talk about.

Our farm was hemorrhaging money by then, and in my dim youthful hope, I wondered if the Duke had come to rescue us. My chest rising with delight as if it were full of clouds, I darted out through the crowd searching for him. When found his bulking stature was draped in black, and he stared openly at me with a grim concentration. It was different than the first time. Grief had left him hard as stone. Still, I once again led him to the stands where my sister performed and watched him gaze upon her work with the focus of the devil.

A week later, they were married.

OUR TRAIN RIDE WOULD TAKE us to him, to our new home on the other side of the country by the sea. He needed a week’s time, he said, to prepare his manor for a new bride. And the week had gone by in a such frenzy that I could hardly believe I was sitting in this cushioned train car with ample space, dressed in a coat that was more costly than the entire farmhouse. I should have savored in this newfound luxury, but it was an arduous journey, and I still could not comprehend the world we were entering.

A little distance makes one reminisce fondly over their previous circumstances. I realized I would actually miss the reaping of grain and our yearly jaunts to the summer festival and watching my sister shoot in front of a dazzled crowd. I would actually miss the simple folk and their politeness—even if they had never been my friends, they were pleasantly familiar.

A sense of dread had taken hold. For as much as I desired the Duke, I also feared him, his stern, harsh demeanor and the loneliness his manor would offer. It was well after midnight, Amelia finally asleep, when I decided to spend my time wandering about the cars. Trains are phallic places: long and hollow. I paced in an endless loop, until I caught the eye of one of the night attendants.

The porter was a strange man, thick-bellied with a crooked mustache, subtly flamboyant in the way he grinned every time I passed. He said he recognized me, as if I was someone of prominence now, and after meager conversation, he offered me a touch of brandy to help pass the time. We sat in an empty compartment, one reserved for the night staff to linger away the longest hours. I cannot remember what we talked about, but I cannot forget the crude taste of the liquor, the feverish heat of the compartment. And the porter’s hands: how he fumbled through the buttons of my shirt. Thanks to the benefit of years, I know the tumbling loss of balance, the texture of his mouth, unlocked something intangible within me. And when we were finished, he kissed me softly on the cheek and cradled me gently against his furry chest. I must have felt as if I had entered Heaven. Eventually, I left the compartment, retracing my steps to my sister’s car, where she stirred slightly, feigning sleep, as a small smile crept upon her lips as if she had known all along this night would be temporal for us both.

I HAD ASKED HER ONCE, and only once, if she truly loved the Duke. This was the morning of their wedding, with us standing in the small vestibule of our town’s chapel, Amelia draped in her makeshift wedding gown. How I adored my sister, but how at that moment, I despised her. She had the Duke, and I had nothing.

“He will be good for us,” she replied with such sincerity.

What she could not know was that I had spied on them the night before, that I heard the Duke express such displeasure at the thought of me living with them, how he thought it was my place to stay and manage our family’s farm, and how Amelia boldly declared she would never abandon me, that their marriage was contingent upon my presence.

“I will always look out for you,” my sister said in her soothing tone, as if cooing a cholic babe, and I resented it. All of it. No one wishes to be seen as feeble. No one prides themselves in being either bride-price or burden.

IT WAS MID-MORNING WHEN THE train finally lumbered and stalled and came to a halt. As we gathered our pitiful luggage, my eyes kept darting in search of the porter but he was nowhere to be found. Part of me imagined he would emerge at the last moment and embrace me tightly, offering to let me stay aboard as his steward so the two of us could continue traveling together. A juvenile fantasy, this I know, but I was so inexperienced in the ways of the world.

WE TRAVELED BY CARRIAGE, PASSING through dismal towns and fields, until we could smell the salt of the sea. Situated near the cliffs, the Duke’s manor was bloated and bulging, perhaps once a simple house but successive, competing owners over the years had erected ever-more ungainly rooms and walls and eaves. One small crack in the foundation and the whole structure could crumble apart and tumble down into the open mouth of the ocean waters below. Awaiting us on the grand steps, the Duke stood with his entourage of servants flanking him in a long militant formation, a full artillery row of housemaids and groomsmen, all dressed in black. They bowed and curtsied, their eyes creased suspiciously at. Amelia and myself were tired and disheveled from overnight travel. Only as the Duke gently kissed Amelia’s hand did they temper their grimacing faces. It was real, the act told them; this was the new lady of the house.

Once ushered inside, I found myself pulled by the wrist and into the bosom of servants, escorted through the majestic foyer and up the grand staircase to what would be my quarters: a large bedroom, roughly the size of our cottage back home, with two windows overlooking the sea. I was bathed and dressed by these strangers, who I kept pushing away in hopes of some privacy, but their grip was relentless in preparing me for the afternoon. I emerged in a stifling shirt and jacket and led down to the parlor, made to sit on a chaise lounge where a small tray of coffee and tea sandwiches awaited me. I had marveled at the intricate patterns on the plates. My first encounter with real china! My cup was trimmed in gold leaves to match the saucer. To merely sip from its rim was a fretful act—how could I bear witness to such an elegant and fragile thing as it toppled from my clumsy fingers and shattered apart?

Looking equally frazzled, Amelia was escorted into the room. She wore a draped champagne-colored dress that had obviously been thrust upon her, as she kept adjusting the fabric in agitated fashion and shooing away the lady’s maid who hovered by her side. For nearly an hour, we sat in silence nibbling at our sandwiches—for how could we talk openly when her maid leered over us?

Finally, the Duke emerged with a stern formality to his entrance. He glared at us for a moment.

“When I enter, it is custom for you to stand,” he said, and we did as he poured himself a cup of coffee and sipped. “It’s cold,” he grumbled.

A butler materialized to collect the silver urn and returned promptly with another.

Only once the Duke had settled into a few sips did his mood improve somewhat.

“I should say welcome to your new home,” he said as he turned to Amelia, giving her the faintest of smiles. “I’m sure you are tired from your journey, but there is much to do. We must get you acquainted with the staff and your new responsibilities in running the household.”

Then, he turned to me with an uneasy look in his eyes. “And you will also require some tutoring. You have much to learn about the expectations of your station here.”

I nodded, making eye contact at first, but then my head dropped submissively, for I was felt paralyzed by his penetrating gaze. I’m sure he appreciated my submission.

Our moment was interrupted by yet another maid, who came holding our father’s pistol wrapped in a piece of linen and placed it in the Duke’s hands.

Amelia straightened in her seat. “I was not aware anyone would go through my things,” she said.

“Fear not, my dear. We keep such objects locked up for good reason.”

“But what if I want it? What if I’d like to go shooting?”

The Duke laughed. “Then all you need do is request one of the servants or myself, for that matter, to fetch it for you. Or, if you’d prefer, you can try one of our hunting rifles, though it is some time ’til pheasant season.” And then, as if to discourage any further conversation, he added, “We keep such things locked up when they are not in use.” And to seal off the matter, he rose from his chair and began our tour of the house.

The manor was impossibly large, a central house with two wings, each full of rooms and passages, some of them practically hidden from view so servants could effortlessly move undetected. We were introduced to various entertaining rooms: the parlor, the drawing room (which should not be confused with the morning room), and the formal ballroom designed for large parties in contrast to the library specifically designated for only the family and elite guests. The lower levels contained a large overbearing kitchen and larders, along with a fathomless wine cellar and the butler’s office. The upper level of the two wings contained endless rows of unused guestrooms, suites, and nurseries. Some rooms had remained closed off for so long that even the Duke could not remember their purpose and did not bother unlocking the door. At first, the tour was overwhelming, as I felt we were being led through a decorative labyrinth and one false step would have me lost among the corridors.

Our last stop was the west-wing gallery a poorly lit rectangular chamber that existed almost as an afterthought, with plenty of old stonework suggesting it was an original section of the home with little renovation. Despite being an interior room with no windows, we could still sense the presence of the nearby sea, and the narrow rug was so faded and moth-eaten that it did little to absorb the cold rising from the tiles. Drapes of cobwebs existed in every corner. Both sides of the gallery featured rows of framed portraits, each canvas dating back through the generations of the manor’s inhabitants. The Duke droned on about his various ancestors, mentioning that our portrait would soon be added to the collection.

And then he lingered over the last in the row, a portrait of the voluptuous opera singer dressed in a long scarlet gown, posed serenely next to the Duke with his stoic eyes and blue beard. I had anticipated it but not its sibling, a canvas with the Duke standing with a humble blonde woman dressed in a powder blue dress that was frightfully ill-fitting. And next to it was yet another: the Duke looking impossibly young, his face covered in blue stubble, proudly standing next to a short boxy woman in a silver dress, her eyes bulging in delight. I stood there, methodically examining each portrait until the Duke was suddenly beside me, placing a hand on my shoulder (My heart! It felt like it would leap out of my chest!).

“Yes. I have loved and lost more than the most men will do in their entire lifetimes,” he said almost distantly. “This house has seen much grief.”

“There will be happier times, Your Grace,” Amelia said, though I could hear the uncertainty in her voice.

The last thing I should mention of the gallery was the lone door at the far end, one in such perfect harmony with the stone around it that a careless wanderer might pass by without ever noticing it. It was made of thick wood planks and rusted brass trimmings, and was far too heavy for an interior door. Curiosity compelled me to approach, and when I made the effort of pulling on the handle, I found it locked.

“That area is not for you,” the Duke said. And with that, he led us out of the gallery and off to the banquet hall for supper.

WE HAD ONE WEEK IN the manor, one week to orient ourselves to our new life, and the Duke ensured that our time was well-managed. Those first few days passed in a dizzy intoxicating spell that left me disoriented. Each morning, I awoke before dawn as some unseen servant was lighting the hearth in my quarters. I would fight off the sluggish residue of sleep before a groomsman ushered me out of bed to bathe as a breakfast tray was laid out for me. I rarely had time to finish my meal before I was again collected to be poked and prodded by tailors assigned to make me suitable clothes; an hour-long tutorial followed with the elderly groomsman so I would understand how to speak and eat with etiquette, to know the difference between the cocktail fork from the fish fork, followed by the relentless quizzing on the names and histories of the neighboring aristocratic households. Then, to the music room, where I received my daily lessons on the piano, for if I could not engage in conversation, I must be able to entertain guests in some other way. Every day at noon, our lunch was served in the drawing room, where we ate from silver trays coupled with a tasty treat of port wine to warm the belly, followed by a walk along the cliffs overlooking the sea. Then, we were forced to dress in our formal attire and sat in front of the grand salon’s mantle while a tired-looking artisan began the long and tedious process of our portrait: the three of us standing together in a horrid hushed silence. An entire day of being jostled between instruction and activity would go by, and I was quite relieved that we received no visitors. But then in the afternoon, when there was no obligation, I would find myself alone with nothing to do but count down the remaining hours until dinner.

EACH EVENING, THE THREE OF us ate alone in the cavernous banquet hall, hovering over an obsidian stone table. By the end of our meals, we retired to the library for whiskey as the servants appeared to bid us farewell for the night. Where they went, I did not know, but they left in unison from the property not to be seen again until the next morning. And it was there, in the library where the evenings grew most grueling, that Amelia was expected to retire earlier than the men of the house, and she would strangely obey, leaving us alone. It was the only time when the Duke would acknowledge me directly, offering me books that I could barely read and forcing upon me glasses of sharp whiskey that I could barely drink. Those nights were my most conflicted. I felt hungry for him, starving even. Yet when I caught his eye, he gave me a menacing glare, judging me harshly until my mind flooded with the sense of trespass.

THERE WAS ONLY ONE RULE in the house: that lock doors remain undisturbed. And the only door I found locked against me existed in the back of west-wing gallery.

IN THE DWINDLING AFTERNOONS, WHEN I was left on my own, I learned quickly that I was quite adept at moving about unnoticed.

WHEN YOU ARE YOUNG AND inconsequential, it is like existing under a cloak of invisibility. I spied on the servants in their own workspaces, sometimes following them throughout the narrows access halls, and marveled at how long it took them to notice my presence. Once, I surprised the head butler in his pantry and the poor old man thrust upon me his own stash of sweetened oat cakes as if to bribe me into silence … but silence over what? Another time, I wandered into the Duke’s private study, observing him peruse his papers, ashing a cigarillo, before I was clasped by the wrist by some maid and forced out. Often, when I was someplace I ought not to be, I was gently escorted back to an appropriate room where I would be more “comfortable”, as they put it. I ended up back in that bloody parlor so many times I began to resent the room altogether .

One such afternoon alone in the manor, I made my way down to the cellars into the kitchen, where I startled the poor chef, who erupted into boisterous laughter. I liked him immediately. He was a jolly, pot-bellied man with a red beard, and unlike all the others, actually welcomed me into his domain. Maurice was his name. Jolly Mr. Maurice. He was a new hire, he explained, and currently the only chef at hand without even the benefit of a scullery maid to assist him, something he did not seem to mind except that the kitchen was rather lonely throughout the day.

By mid-week, I gave up my haunting the other servants in favor of heading directly to the kitchen where Maurice had tea waiting for me, anxious for any gossip I had acquired and eager to share his own. We never broached any topics of sensitivity, but we did talk at length about our own lives as I began to assist him with dinner preparation. I figured as time went on, this would be a way for me to make myself useful. That, and there were moments when I caught that glint in his eye that was reminiscent of the train porter’s. I even let my hand brush against his during one of his cooking instructions and we grinned at each other.

But when I leaned into him, simply to feel that brief connection, he quickly retracted and created space between us.

“Sir, we must be careful not to get too comfortable with each other,” Maurice said. “After all, you are technically one of my employers.”

I buckled and felt my face flush bright red. Embarrassment overtook me so that I excused myself as quickly as I could to get dressed for dinner.

I still thought of it later that night in the library, long after Amelia had gone to bed, and I was alone with the Duke. We drank our whiskey and pretended to read and observed each other in a wordless confrontation. I daresay, with my nerves, I drank too much, and when the hearth embers began to fade, I found I could not lift myself from my chair, having almost fallen sideways into the side table.

A haughty laugh erupted from the Duke—a swollen belly laugh, which only increased my frustration, so that when he reached for my arm, I shrank away.

“Don’t help me!” I yelled, my voice cracking with some undeveloped will of masculinity, enough to startle him into a backstep. And, horrified by my own insolence, I slurred out, “I must do this myself.”

If the Duke took offense, he did not show it, but instead hooked his arms around me and pulled me to my feet where I fell deeply into the heat of his robes, the curve of his belly, and to steady myself, I wrapped my arms around him. This was first time since the train I felt that same urge and anticipation.

If not for the drink, I would have gushed into a flood of apologies and excused myself out. But, in that moment, I found myself helpless, and the Duke was well aware of my state. He escorted me up to my room in genteel fashion and began to undress me with the tenderness of any trained servant. But he did not leave. I can remember my head against his chest, the rhythm of his heartbeat, the musk of his undergarments, the slow creak of my bed, the curvatures of ceiling medallions above us, and our collective sigh of relief when we were finished. And then, he was gone, as if the manor house had swallowed him up.

I tried to tell Maurice about it the next day. My mind had been so foggy, delirious with drink, that I still questioned what had actually happened. Yet, I found myself unable to articulate the experience and Maurice, as if sensing a deep confession, hushed me with a slice of cake, his eyes showing temperance.

Later that afternoon, I walked the halls alone and settled in the west-wing gallery. The locked door stood sentinel. It beckoned me and I shuddered.

AT THE WEEK’S CLOSE, THE portrait was finally completed. Amelia appeared pale and distant. I looked nothing but an imposter, a farm boy masquerading in a gentleman’s suit. The Duke was his bold self, painted to be the very emblem of all he projected. As I stared at the finished product, I thought solemnly about my act of infidelity with the Duke and wondered if Amelia was suspicious.

THAT EVENING, WE FOUND OURSELVES alone in the banquet hall, formally standing until the master of the house was seated. When the Duke arrived, he was not dressed in his formal dinner attire, but his traveling clothes. Even Amelia gave him a confused look.

“I have received a telegram from my accountants back in the city,” the Duke said. “I have urgent matters to attend to of the most sensible nature and must leave tonight.”

It was Amelia who spoke with her usual confidence. “Then I shall pack my things. I can be ready within half an hour.” My stomach plummeted and then rose again—the thought of being alone in the manor with Maurice felt like an unearned prize.

“No, my dear,” Duke replied. “These are financial matters I would rather close and be done with altogether.

I would rather expedite this process on my own. And I should not be gone long, a few days at most.”

He looked at me.

“And I think you two should have some time together. I’m afraid my life here is a quiet one, perhaps not suitable for a growing family, so perhaps you both can spend this time plotting on how we can all reemerge in the public life ....”

The way he looked at me gave me shame. I despised him now; yet I still desired him. I did not know what to do with these feelings.

“There is one last thing,” the Duke finally said, almost absentmindedly, and produced from his pocket a brass ring full of keys. “While I’m gone, I entrust to you my keys, as this house is as much yours as it is mine and you shall have full control of its access.”

So many keys, one for each lock in the entire house. Huge oval-headed keys, silver keys with crooked teeth, tiny square keys for lock boxes, some of them old, rusted, almost Baroque. He singled each one out to explain its function. There were keys to the front doors, the spare bedrooms, the china cabinets, the keys to his office … the list went on. The final key was smooth and fragile, as if carved from bone. For a moment, he looked ready to remove it from the ring and swallow it whole, but he left it there.

Amelia observed everything with her keen eye, but did not say a word, so I did it for her.

“Your Grace, what is the last one for?” I asked.

The Duke narrowed his eyes. “Nothing to be concerned with.” An oddly-placed smile crept upon his lips as he placed the key ring firmly in Amelia’s hand and helped her fingers envelope it. “That final key is to a room at the end of west-wing gallery, just a private study I keep in an older part of the house. To you, it would be a stuffy bore, but for me, it is my one secret place, the sole chamber I can sit in on my own, for those rare moments a man requires solitude, and can pretend he is not married.”

“Call it a bachelor’s chamber, if you will,” he said with a chuckle. “We must all be allowed one secret.” He gave me a narrowed-eyed wink.

Then, he fixed his gaze upon his bride, my sister. “You may use any key in the house. Use, touch, play with anything you like … but that last key, I beg you not to touch. That room is mine alone, and this is all I ask of you.”

The valet entered like clockwork and announced the carriage was ready. The Duke was leaving already, giving his farewells and within moments we stood outside on the front steps, bundled in our coats, watching his carriage depart down the winding road. But my mind drifted to the keys, or specifically the final key to the final room in the west wing.

The evening lowered its shroud upon the manor with a cooling touch. Servants appeared in their odd processional to clear our plates and start the library hearth and within moments, they were bidding us goodnight, anxious to be away to their own homes. And still, my mind remained singularly focused on the key. By now, I knew the Duke kept secrets and if we were to survive here with some semblance of happiness, I felt strongly that we should know them.

In the library, after Maurice had bid us goodnight and we were finally alone, Amelia sipped her whiskey and said, “Thank goodness they’re all gone.”

I was worried that there would silence, that the week had created a deep wedge that separated us further, but this was not the case. We talked pleasantly for a while, though I knew my sister well enough to know when she was concealing her unhappiness.

“Why would you marry a man you barely knew?” I finally asked.

“Because I understand sacrifice,” she said. “Come on. I hate this room—let’s walk.”

We moved through the darkened manor by candlelight, crossing through the rooms and remarking on how we would repurpose them. Amelia would occasionally remark on some tiny feature that reminded her of home, of the farm, and the yearly fair. But my mind was settled on the locked door as much as the keyring in her hand.

I led her there, or at least she allowed me to, through the many painted rooms, until we stood in the west-wing gallery with its long rows of family portraits standing sentinel to greet us. Our portrait was now at the end, our morose faces staring in solidarity with those who had come before us.

I knew I would come here the moment it was possible. As I moved to the back door, Amelia paused. “We should not be here. It was his only rule.”

“Then let’s break it,” I said. “And maybe he’ll send us home.”

I took the keys from her hand and strangely enough, she did not resist. The bone key slid into the lock as quick as a hot knife through butter. And I twisted it and turned with the care of a lover as the lock clicked and the heavy door pushed open.

IT WAS A VESTIBULE THAT opened to a lone staircase, unlit, descending into darkness. I was drawn into its spell, hypnotized by the dark, feeling pulled by invisible strings. I held my candle close and moved downward and the stairs ran deep, deep into the bowels of the manor, further down than the basement kitchens and the larders, until I entered a room of medieval stature. Once my eyes adjusted to the dark, the horror became as clear as mid-day. Instruments of torture, long racks with cords and wheels, shackles fit into the walls, shelves holding vials and metal instruments, the kind that cut and cleave and pierce, surrounded me. My eyes went to the solid image of the metal case, almost a coffin, erect—I recognized it only from old tales—the iron maiden.

The dim light allowed only one or two details of focus at a time and I was overwhelmed, and uncertain where I stepped and what truly lay within arm’s reach. But the iron maiden captivated me most, almost whispering to me, begging me to investigate it further. With trembling fingers, I pried it open and thrust my candle through the crevice.

It was the body of a woman, almost perfectly preserved, impaled not by one but a hundred dreaded spikes, having long bled out, her gown stained in rust and blood. Her face was instantly recognizable: the opera singer, the previous wife. I should have screamed or fallen back. I have always been a fragile boy, and though I had witnessed death before, never with such violence. Even in the dulled glossiness of her pale eyes, there was the unrecognizable shock, a sign that she had not believed this could happen to her. My fascination briefly turned clinical. Her skin was spongy and cold to touch. How long did it take to die in such a monstrous contraption? Had she been dressed up in silk in preparation for this act?

The other wives were not hard to find.

The second wife lay out on a table, draped in what could only be a withered bedsheet, her body preserved, perhaps embalmed, the red, cauterized slit across her neck stitched back together, one final kindness.

Unlike the first wife, less care had been taken with her. I recognized her only by the withered, rat-eaten dress strewn upon what I suspected was her skeleton.

The first wife, had she been an experiment? Had she been an accident? I asked these questions to no one in particular, because I assumed I was alone in what could only be the hellmouth of the Duke’s estate.

“We should not be here,” Amelia said.

I had no idea how long she stood beside me, but there she was.

She held no sign of fear in her voice, no tremble in her step. Her hands calmly cradled the candleholder, her brow creased in observation. She made a short tour of the room, enough to know what fate had befallen her predecessors, before clutching me by the wrist. “We need to go now.”

And so we did. We dashed back up the narrow staircase with such speed that our candles flickered and almost extinguished, and soon we had resealed the door, locking it tight behind us. And then, we ran through the halls to the main foyer, Amelia clutching my hand with such a grip that my wrist might have shattered beneath it. But I paused there.

“Come on, there’s no time to dawdle,” she commanded. “To my room we must go. There are jewels there. Rings, bracelets, necklaces, all heirlooms from the Duke, all gifts that could be sold.”

“We can leave tonight,” Amelia said, “even if we have to walk the treacherous road until dawn.”

“I need to get some things, too,” I said as I pulled away from her. “Trust me.” And I rushed off through the house.

When I returned, I found her in her room, hastily stuffing everything she could into her suitcase with grim determination. “Are you almost ready?” she asked.

“Almost.”

But our plotting was interrupted by the loud gong of the dinner bell and we froze in place.

“Maurice?” I wondered aloud, but knew instantly that we could not be that fortunate. For Maurice was already gone for the night, sleeping snugly in his own home, and besides, for an entire week, the gong had never rung once.

It sounded again, casting its evil echo throughout the house followed by a hideous laughter.

The Duke.

He was already back, or else he had never left. And then, I wondered if this entire night had been well choreographed, a simply-plotted play with a rushed last act.

Amelia and I stared at each other morbidly, before the gong rung a third time.

The Duke was summoning us.

“I will go,” I said.

“Of course not. We will face him together.”

But I knew I was the one who had opened the door, that I had already betrayed my sister in so many ways. And whatever should happen next, I knew that I was the weaker of the two and where I would fall, she might still survive. Perhaps, after such a brief tepid life, I was ready to be brave and that such bravery did not mean great feats, but to simply act in the way that is necessary.

“I’ll go down first,” I said and thrust my things into her hands. “This will buy you some time. Trust me, please.”

And with that, I left her standing there and turned down the hall with a solemn determination to meet my fate head-on or off … whatever the Duke intended.

He waited in the central foyer, still in his traveling clothes, a large saber strapped to his side, his beard a cruel blue in the pale light. He was smiling, a menacing wide-mouthed smile, the kind that showed the whites of his teeth, his eyes lit with demonic jubilance. I knew now that he was a fiend himself, or under the control of one, that there was nothing human left within him.

“One night between the two of you,” he said. “I’m so pleased with this experiment. The last one took four months to cross the threshold.”

I had reached the end of the stairs, still in possession of the key ring. “Amelia is innocent,” I said in a whimper.

“My bride is no more innocent than you and those who came before her.” His smile wide, serpentine. I suspected a forked tongue. “Come here,” he said, and an extended a hand.

“Are you taking me down to the torture chamber?”

The Duke’s grin did not bend. “It is usually reserved for the women, but for you, I feel I could make an exception. Would you like that?”

“If you will it,” I said, my heart racing in my chest.

I did as I was told. I went to him, the way I would go to anyone, to feel the embrace of a lover and a murderer and to not know the difference between the two.

He left his saber at his side and took my hand, caressing it sweetly.

The first tear budded in my eye, and yet I could not wipe it away when he was so tenderly stroking my palm. And for a moment, I wondered if he would actually spare me.

Such gruff hands fitted so tenderly around my neck.

“The chamber?” I muttered, and the Duke shook his head. I wondered if he’d do me the courtesy of snapping my neck in one swift motion, or if I would smother there under his blue beard. His smile remained demonic. As his fingers began to tighten, I wondered if that cruel mouth could widen and unhinge and attempt to swallow me whole.

But the end did not come.

There was movement in the background and the Duke froze, his eyes tracing the lines of the staircase to the descending figure of Amelia, dressed in her traveler’s coat, her face hard-lined. And the Duke looked back at me with the first trace of fear.

For it was at this moment when he must have realized that I, too, had a keen eye. An eye for details, an eye for numbers, and wits to remember them. And when you underestimate a person and reduce their worth, you overlook the fact that they move quite undetected, that they observe and remember such things like where you keep a trusted pistol and the combination to the lock. For during that brief time of separation from my sister, I had moved effortlessly through the hidden servant passages, collected our father’s gun, and delivered it to Amelia.

And he too must have realized that there was time enough to load the chamber.

Amelia called to the Duke once so that he raised his head in abject horror as she took aim. One shot fired. One shot was all that was needed.

I felt the spray of blood and brains coat my face, as the split skull of the Duke balked in a silent howl.

The whole manor was alive with its sound.

ONCE ALL THE LEGAL MATTERS were finalized and the bodies properly buried, we made plans to leave the manor forever. Amelia inherited all. I will not detail the following weeks for they were tiresome. Extended family and society members appeared in droves with palms out, demanding their share of the fortune and Amelia appeased them as best she could. We kept very little from the manor, for it was difficult to fall in love with treasures that were never yours to begin with, but we managed a few crates and pieces of furniture, and a modest amount of money that would last us the rest of our lives. We sold or donated the rest until we came upon the west-wing gallery one final time and a historian offered to take the portraits for the sake of prosperity. Our own portrait we would have preferred to burn in a magnificent blaze but were content enough with leaving it for academia to add it to the records of history.

In the end, the manor was closed up and sold and Amelia used the proceeds to let the servants go with full pensions so they could start anew elsewhere, without fear of scandal.

All except one. Maurice, our wonderful cook, another lost soul among the wreckage. When I informed him that we were leaving, I asked if he wanted to come with us.

And surprisingly, he did.

The three of us returned to our small town, able to repurchase our farmhouse and hire the appropriate farmhands to tend our fields. We were welcomed back with open arms and sly looks and plenty of gossip, for Amelia was now a young widow with considerable funds. Suitors arrived with great urgency, coming and going with the yearly cycle of the summer fair. But she never re-married. She was a different creature now, hardened yet still gentle, with her keen eye that could shoot the smirk off a man’s face from a mile away.

I used some of our assets to open in town a proper tea house, a modest little building that I stocked with ceramics and silver from the old manor. Maurice served as the cook, and happily baked confections that drew in visitors from across the county: happy women who came to admire the golden leaves on the china, who came to eat and gossip while their husbands and children ate their fill. And each night, Maurice and I retired to our little apartment above the shop, eager to forget the horrors that originally brought us together.

We grew old and plump. We prospered.