In the Shadows (The Blaisdell Chronicles) (2 page)

A knock from the door broke my thoughts. Mum entered, groaning aloud at the lack of light in the room. She found the switch.

I briefly squinted against the
brightness, as Mum leaned her head against the doorframe, slipping one stiletto foot behind her other leg. “I’d like to talk about your sleeping problems.”

I looked down at the carpet, already aware of where this was heading.

“I’m glad you were able to nap in the car, but you were talking in your sleep again. Are you still unable to remember what happens in the dreams?”

I shook my head. Of course I knew what was happening, but I couldn’t tell, else I would be carted away to an asylum. My fingers squeezed the scarf tightly, almost wringing it with frustration. I should be able to deal with this better. After all, it had been three years since all this started.

The first time, I’d seen through the eyes of a young girl with long, curly brown hair picking daisies in the field. She wore a lemon dress with a lacy trim. I was able to sense her parents were nearby, but I couldn’t see them. There was happiness, and choruses of laughter, as I felt warm hands encompassing mine, twirling me around in the sunshine. As I grew older, so did she, and the images changed into her daily life at a large estate, although something inside my gut told me she wasn’t as happy now. That first night, Mum had come into my bedroom, wondering why I was talking in my sleep. I remember her worried expression. She believed it was a side effect of everything that had gone on. The dreams didn’t happen often, but when they did, she’d sit there on the bed, mumbling to herself that it was all her fault. I didn’t want her to feel guilty, so I told her dreams had stopped, but she wouldn’t believe that anymore.

She took a few steps forward, her hands resting on my shoulders.

“Perhaps...it’s time you saw someone. You know, Derek found a leaflet at the Doctor’s surgery.”

Great, now Derek was also seeking out a miracle cure. Why couldn’t she understand talking about it would make things worse?

Mum’s voice was pleading. “She’s had good reviews from other people who’ve seen her. I could call her—”

I jerked my body back, as though her touch had suddenly become painful.

“I’m not crazy!”

“I didn’t say—
”

“I don’t care what you or anyone else thinks. I’m fine the way I am.”

I could feel my emotions rising, almost to the brim.

“We’re worried about you, pet. I know things haven’t been easy, but life’s different now. We’ve got a new home, a man who takes care of us, and money’s no longer a problem. We only hoped you’d be better too, but you’re not.”

I shoved past Mum, threw my scarf into the dresser drawer and slammed it shut. My lips narrowed, as I fought the urge to cry. I couldn’t do that in front of Mum or anyone. It was a sign of weakness. I was fine. I had to be.

Feeling her burning
gaze, I glanced over, only to see her pained expression quickly masked. “OK, pet. Sorry to have disturbed you,” she said, before quietly closing the door behind her.

My shoulders sagged, as I already began to regret my outburst. I knew she had my best interests at heart, but her worry was suffocating me. I slumped down onto my bed, needing to relax. I picked up my copy of Pride and Prejudice. I stretched out on my bed to read the book for what seemed like the hundredth time. I’d fallen in love with Mr Darcy on first reading. Time had changed the male species. Guys didn’t possess those old fashioned gentleman-like manners anymore. The memory of Mum’s
words came back to me. No guy would want to date me anyway whilst I still had problems. I’d probably only hurt them in some way, like I had just now with Mum. She was the one person I hoped never to upset. But I had. Again.

With a heavy sigh, I closed the book and tucked it under my bed, and saw the letter I’d brought upstairs. Sitting up, I tore open the envelope and read. I could feel the frustration rising,
bubbling my skin, and making me crush the letter in my hands. I swallowed hard, trying to fight back the tears. But I wasn’t strong enough to stop them falling.

“Come here, child. Your father wishes to see you.”

My maids wake me early to meet my father before breakfast. The news is a surprise, and as I make my way to see him, I start wondering why after all this time, he finally wishes to see me. I walk down the stairs and along the corridor, my steps slowing, yet my heart is racing. There is nothing on these walls but the elegantly painted crimson wallpaper, and a darker patch where my mother’s portrait used to hang. My hand reaches out, but the sound of a door opening makes me stop. A maid leaves my father’s study, rushing past in such a hurry. The door is slightly ajar when I reach it. I peek around, finding him engulfed in almost darkness; albeit from a thin stream of sunlight, beaming down onto his desk from a gap in the drawn curtains, dust motes gently swirling. A hand moves into the light and reaches for the wine bottle. Slipping inside, I edge closer, swallowing hard. My eyes grow accustomed to the lack of light, and it is here I notice his chair with the carved wolf’s head on the back, glaring at me, angry at me, ready to snap. Pouring himself another glass of wine, he replaces the cork and stands, moving slowly around the front of the desk, his eyes drawn to the wall.

“The Briggstow Ball was quite a success last night, do you not agree?”

He does not wait for my reply.

“Apart from the arrival of that man I cannot call a gentleman. How dare he show his face in my respectable home.” His nose twists. “No matter. He now knows he’s not welcome in our society.”

My curiosity is piqued. I want to ask, but my father continues.

“So you finally danced with the Earl of Kernow last night?”

I slowly nod. “Yes, my lord.”

Swirling the liquid in his glass, he watches it carefully. “How did you find him?”

This is the conversation that usually occurs via servants. I have no desire to marry, least of all to a man I barely know, just to replenish my father’s wealth.

“The dance was satisfactory, my lord.”

“The Earl of Kernow, child!” His tone is frosty; his eyes glazed yellow, like the stones in the wolf’s eyes. “Will you marry him?”

My fingers twitch in agitation. I know what my answer would mean. My head drops, silently praying that someone would interrupt us, but nobody comes.

The Earl of Briggstow leaps up and hits the wooden table, which vibrates from the force of his fist. I slowly peek up, to see him come towards me, fury etching his face, before counting on his fingers the number of suitors I’ve refused.

“Why will you not be obedient? You must marry!”

“Father, I beg of you—”

His nostrils flare, he closes his eyes briefly to calm himself and exhales deeply. He turns back to the table, his lean back blocking the view, but I hear the trickling sound of wine being poured. Facing me again, he watches me a moment. One half of his face is shrouded in darkness, the other half revealing his scowl, illuminated by the glow from the window.

“Very well. You will not marry the Earl of Kernow. But marry you must. I have received word only this morning, which is of great timing. Your coming out at court has been impressive. The Prince Regent has kindly suggested the new Earl of Sulis as a suitable husband. The man’s inherited everything from his father, who’s recently deceased. Alas, there are no more eligible gentlemen offering for you, after hearing how you treated the other ones.”

I stare at my feet, unable to meet his strong gaze, which I can feel upon me. It hasn’t mattered they’ve either been double my father’s age, made me endure stomach-churning poetry, or have an inability to keep their eyes from my décolletage. I shudder in revulsion, but my father doesn’t notice.

“I am holding a masquerade ball five days from now, where you will meet him. I
strongly urge you, child, to make yourself as amiable to him as possible. Rest assured, I have taken note of your reasons for dismissing the others. But he should be more than pleasing. Sulis is but a few years older than you. He is athletic and a favourite amongst the ladies, or so I’m told.”

Finishing his wine in one full gulp, he returns for more.

“Father, please do not make me marry someone I don’t love.”

He throws his head back in laughter. “What a foolish child! Love does not come into it. You must find a husband and produce an heir. That is your duty!”

“You loved my mother.”

Pain whips across my cheek as the imprints of his remaining two jewelled rings mark my skin. Tears run from my eyes, the saline stinging the fresh cut. His face blanches and he offers his hand, his eyes black as night, but I cannot hold his gaze. He tries to say something, and stammers. Instead, I get to my feet unaided, and run to the door. When the handle turns, I waste no time in leaving. The sound of my father’s rage echoes through the halls, chasing me. It only disappears as I lock myself in my bedroom, drowning myself in tears.

Bolting upright, I woke the next morning, my eyes still moist and a stinging on my cheek. It was at that moment I realised I could hear my heartbeat in my ears. Pressing my hand to my chest, I inhaled and exhaled deeply, trying to calm myself. It was not real. It couldn’t be.

When my heartbeat returned to normal, I dressed and after breakfast, I went back to my bedroom, debating what to do for the day. A crunching noise made me look under my foot. The letter I’d read last night. I winced, as I relived the words.

Dear Lucy,

I don’t know why I write this now, since you haven’t responded to my past letters. Perhaps the offer of accepting the visitor pass was frightening because of where I was at the time? I am writing to you one last time in the hope that you will understand my hurt feelings and that you will agree to see me. I was released from prison just a few days ago and am now back living in our old house. It needs a little work since the fire, but I think I can get it sorted myself. Unless of course you would like to help me choose colour schemes, as I know that is what females like to do. I don’t expect an immediate forgiveness, but please understand that prison has changed me. I want to speak with you and hope, in time, you can trust me. Christmas is not far away. I would love for you to come here for dinner. But I am getting ahead of myself. I apologise. Please can you come to the house on Friday 1
8th. We can talk and I promise there will be no pressure. If you do not show, I will leave you to live your life.

Forgive me,

Dad.

Numbness filled my insides. If I continued to ignore him, I could carry on as if nothing had happened. Or I could summon the courage and brave visiting him. He said he’d changed. Was that true? My mouth suddenly became dry. I knew Mum would be against the idea. The turmoil started to fade as the curiosity began to wash all over me. But the resentment resurfaced. I threw my head back on the bed and stared at the familiar cracks in the large open white space of the ceiling above my head. I always intended to fix them. I just kept putting it off. If I did allow Roger to re-enter my life, then I would have to confront him. But was I ready for what he’d tell me?

As I paced my bedroom, a squeak beneath my feet made me stop. Remembering what was underneath, I pulled back the carpet and lifted the loose floorboard. Underneath was a small shoebox. I scraped my arm over the dusty surface and found a brown stained label with ‘Lucy’s’ stuck to the lid. Thankful the door was still closed, I removed the lid and held my breath. A mesh bag of marbles, although only a few remained. A small rag-doll, with wool for hair and buttons for eyes, but the threads were loose and the fabric on the dress had faded. Underneath, I found a brown leather-bound book that was all too familiar to me. I flicked through to the beginning.

Dear Diary,

Today, Mum and Dad told me I was going to be a big sister. I told Sarah I’d be a big sister like her now, but she said my life was over, as I’d get less attention and I’d have to share things with the baby. Is this true? I hope not.

I read a later extract.

Dear Diary,

Since finding out there will be a new baby, Dad has been working longer hours and Mum is too tired to take me out like we used to. I hate this. Sometimes, I wish this never happened.

I forced myself to read on.

Dear Diary,

Mum says I won’t have a brother or sister anymore. I don’t understand how a baby can just disappear. It was there in her tummy when she went into hospital yesterday. You could hardly miss it. She says he’s now with Grandma in heaven. He? Mum is only just out of hospital, but she looks so fragile, like she could easily break. She doesn’t want to talk about it anymore. I ask where Dad is. She just shakes her head and locks herself in her bedroom, forgetting that she hasn’t given me breakfast. Nobody will tell me anything. I want to cry.

Hands clenched around my heart. I closed the book, dropping it back in the box. Fingernails dug deep into my palms, the sharp pain leaving crescent moon imprints. I’d thought it was my fault for the baby not surviving, since I’d said I didn’t want it anymore. But it had been the jealousy of a ten year old that made me feel that way, and it was only now I realised my words couldn’t have caused my sibling’s death. Just saying or writing something can’t make it happen, no more than wishing can.

I searched the box again, and saw something colourful.
It was the friendship bracelet Sarah had made me for my eighth birthday. I placed it on my palm. The red, yellow and green threads were now fraying, and the bracelet would no longer fit my wrist, no matter how hard I tried. Ready to close the box, I found one last thing at the bottom. Our class photograph. Although it had been taken a few years later, I’d continued to wear the bracelet. Sarah and I, as did the rest of the class, were smiling for the camera, but then I noticed someone wasn’t. Not far away, I saw Rachel’s hostile glare in my direction. Earlier that day, she’d taken a disliking to me. She’d teased me after I’d fallen asleep in Spanish class, mumbling nonsense. The teacher hadn’t been impressed, and even though I’d apologised, as usual it was Sarah who had stood up for me.

“Lucy didn’t sleep much last night,” she’d claimed, although she would have had no idea about that. “I saw her yawning on the way into school this morning and asked her. I’m sure falling asleep was an accident.”

Rachel’s jaw had dropped, anger quickly replacing her shock. Being the daughter of two former models, she was popular and very beautiful, but also vain, and couldn’t believe that anyone would challenge her, but Sarah didn’t care.

Thinking about Sarah again had made me head to the coffee house. I opened the door and stared at our usual booth. I could see Sarah there, her bl
onde hair peeking out from under her usual pink baseball cap. It didn’t matter what time of year it was; her orders were always the same. Strawberry ice cream covered in strawberry sauce. Catching a whiff of her familiar vanilla perfume, she turned and looked straight at me. I wanted to join her, but she appeared confused when I approached her table. Only when she spoke with a different voice, did I realise the girl wasn’t Sarah. Ignoring her snigger, I stammered an apology and headed towards the counter, struggling to remember what I wanted to order. As I waited to be served, a giggle made me look up. The waitress was chatting animatedly with the guy in front of me with the long back. When it was apparent he wasn’t ordering, I cleared my throat. Both ceased talking and turned towards me. The waitress pouted at the interruption. The guy, on the other hand, smiled brightly, dimples appearing in his cheeks, like someone pushing their fingers into a sponge cake. Heat prickled my skin, and I suddenly forgot what I was going to say.

“Are you here about the job?” the waitress asked, picking up a Danish pastry with her tongs.

“
Job...
” I breathed, unable to look at the guy again, although I wanted to.

“Oh, good. My name’s Je
n.” She held her head high, proudly smiling. “I’ll be conducting the interview.”

Panic shot through my core, as my eyes quickly found the advertisement in large, bold letters taped on the patisserie glass counter.

WAITER/WAITRESS WANTED. REASONABLE PAY. APPLY WITHIN.

“I-I-Interview? Oh, no.”

I’d only hoped to taste some nostalgia and have some of the café’s famous strawberry cheesecake. “Best of luck,” the guy said, as he passed the waitress some coins and accepted the coffee and Danish pastry, now in polystyrene cup and brown paper bag. I saw his face, and gripped the counter for support. He was a few inches over six feet, with broad shoulders and dark blonde hair, in a messy, carefree style, which despite appearing as if he just rolled out of bed, still held that look which girls would find appealing. When his hand ran through those locks, my heart didn’t just skip once.

With Jen’s back turned to the till, the guy leaned in close.

“I should warn you, though. She’s already turned away several applicants. But I’m sure you’ll do better.”

I gently cleared my throat, sensing my voice would be hoarse. “How do you know?”

“I’ve been here when she’s met some of the other hopefuls. Half were told the position had just been filled, and the rest were asked to leave their CV. But none were ever looked at.”