The Artisans (5 page)

“Might as well get this over with, old man,” I say to Edgar, as I heft the strap of his carrier over my right shoulder. My purse and two duffle bag straps hang at awkward angles over my other arm as I make my way to the front door. Heavier than anticipated, the weight of my luggage affects my balance. Good thing I’m in my black, military boots. I waddle to the front stoop and drop all but Edgar in a heap at my feet.

The door swings open while my finger is poised at the bell. A stout woman in a conservative blue dress greets me. “Mercy me, child. Why didn’t you ring for help?” Her cheeks are bright pink. Scratch that, her whole face is pink, arms too, like she’s allergic to air. She’s huffing and puffing as though she ran to the door, and her eyes match the color of her dress. “I’d have sent Mr. Jamis down to fetch your bags straightaway. We’re all so excited you’ve come to stay.”

Yeah, I’ll bet, though her smile is genuine enough. “It’s no bother,” I say. “I’ve got it.” Perhaps I will have one ally here, after all.

“Miss Weathersby, I presume. So nice to meet you, my girl, I’m Jenny. And who’s this little nugget?” She squeaks, bending to peer inside the pet carrier. “Oh, well I never. What a little lamb you are. Hello, pussycat.”

Never mind she just referred to Edgar as a lamb, she’s nice to my cat. It’s official. I like her. She motions me inside with instructions to bring Edgar and leave my bags. I obey. My heart pounds as I step through the doorway. Dark, hollow, the foyer swallows us like a great throat. The place seems different somehow, now that I’m to stay instead of confronting Gideon and leaving like the last time.

“This way, dearie,” Jenny says. “You have quite a walk, but I dare say you will manage the distance far better than I will.” I follow her plump form up the creepy stairs I viewed during my first visit, to the smaller, creepier stairway veering to the right. “You’re on the third floor.”

My brow creases with my confusion. “Up there? But I thought—”

“What? That you’d sleep in the servants’ quarters with ‘ole Jamis and me downstairs?” Not exactly, I’m thinking more like a damp basement or freezing dungeon. “Master Maddox gave detailed instructions concerning you. Your rooms, work area, and study are all together in the eastern part of the house. No one will bother you there.”

I’m not worried. Okay I am, but presently, I’m more curious. My status is prisoner. I don’t care what other name Gideon is claiming to hide his indecent proposal under. We pass no one on our way. I’m wondering where everyone else is in this enormous house, and I say as much.

“Oh, there’s no one else stays here but me and Mr. Jamis, now. There was a time, of course, before the Master passed away … Well, never mind about that. Mr. Maddox keeps to the west wing for the most part. You’ll not be going over there, mind you. Don’t forget. And the cellar, under no circumstances should you go into the cellar, nor the attic. If you need anything ask me.”

She peers over her shoulder, searching my face for a response, I guess, so I nod. The last place I want to be is near Gideon or in some dreary cellar. Hell, I didn’t even know anyone had a cellar in the lowlands. Any basement would be underwater, wouldn’t it?

My breathing increases with my steps. The panting coming from Jenny up ahead reminds me of a freight train. How she goes up and down these stairs every day without keeling over, I don’t know. Maybe she doesn’t.

The older woman turns lights on as we pass. The elegant furniture lining the hallway is covered in dust, and cobwebs connect the arms of crystal chandeliers dangling from molded ceilings above.

I glance at huge black and white photos in walnut frames. People I assume are ancestors of the Maddox family adorn the walls. They’re placed intermittently between various oil paintings and gilded mirrors. In one, an older gentleman stands in the yard outside next to a big white horse, in another a middle-aged man poses with his gun and black and white hound.

As I pass one of a young boy with dark hair, his handsome face engages my imagination.
Who were you?
I wonder. Something about the image gives me an eerie feeling. Big and sorrowful, his life-like eyes seem to follow me. In most of the old photos I’ve seen, the subjects look stern or bored, but most of these people appear startled, even shocked. Edgar’s meow is deep and guttural, setting me more on edge. Oh yeah, we’ll sleep like babies in this museum of nasty curiosities.

At the end of one hallway, I stop dead. This frame is larger than the others. The woman in the photo is young and very beautiful with curling hair, a full mouth, and large, expressive eyes. Though the picture is done in black and white, her chenille halter dress is modern, chic—and looks expensive.

“Ah me,” says Jenny. “Did I lose you, dearie?”

I glance up. “I’m sorry. A lot to take in, I guess.”

“Of course, I understand. There will be plenty of time for that later.” She follows my line of sight back up to the photograph. “Mrs. Maddox, before she left us.”

“Gideon,” I clear my throat, “Mr. Maddox was married?” I thought him way too young, but who knows with these freaky people.

She purses her lips. “I’m referring to Mr. Maddox senior, Nathan. The woman in the picture was my mistress, his second wife, Desiree.” Her eyes narrow and her lips pull back in a sneer. The idea the housekeeper didn’t care for her former mistress seems an understatement.

Mistress? I can’t believe she just said the word mistress. Good Lord, I’m stuck in an episode of Downton Abby. Though more sophisticated, Desiree doesn’t appear a whole lot older than me.

“Mr. Maddox was a hard man, but we all grieve his passing. Oh, but pardon me, it’s wrong to speak so of the dead. You’ll forgive the musings of an old woman.”

“Mr. Maddox is dead, too?” When Gideon said he ‘ran things,’ I should have put it together. No wonder he thinks it’s no big deal that I move in here with him. No daddy around to monkey with his decisions.

“To be sure, miss. Gone four years last August, and broke his son’s heart, poor lad. Shall we press on? There’s much to do before dinner.”

“Yeah, sorry. I got distracted, I guess.” Why hadn’t his father’s obituary shown up on my Google search? Dane hadn’t mentioned it. Maybe he didn’t know. So, Gideon is an orphan, like me. Well, sort of. I do have Ben. What would Gideon have done to Ben had he come for the meeting instead of me? How can someone as young as Gideon already be so ruthless, so full of hate? The housekeeper’s description of ‘poor lad’ confused me. It hardly fit with my opinion.

“Don’t be silly, my dear. Curiosity is natural in young people. But you are here to work, are you not? The rest will come in time, at least I pray so.” I’m not sure what she means by the last comment, but I let it pass.

On we walk until she stops at an arched oak door at the end of the last hall. It looks like eight others we passed on our way here, but who’s counting. I’m never going to find my way back downstairs. If a fire breaks out in this tinderbox, color me crispy fried bacon.

Raven
…

I slow. Glancing over my shoulder, I’m sure someone called my name from the stair. “Hello?”

“What is it, dearie?”

“I’m sorry, did you call me?”

“Why no, miss.”

My head swivels behind me once more and back to Jenny. “I swore I heard someone calling.”

The old maid clears her throat. “Old houses make all sorts of odd noises. Not to worry. Come and see your room.” Jenny fiddles with a heavy-looking ring of keys. “I did the best I could on short notice. Mr. Maddox says I’m to expect a list of supplies from you. Once you get settled, you can give it to me, and we’ll get you started. Dinner is downstairs every night promptly at eight. Remember, stay out of the west wing, the rest is yours to explore, only don’t leave the grounds without informing someone.” Jenny stops trying keys, giving me her pointed ‘I mean it’ look again. “Mr. Maddox is quite adamant.”

I’ll bet he is. “Got it. No leaving the grounds without permission.” Does she find my moving here as weird as I do? She gives no hint if she does. Maybe working for arrogant killers makes a person numb to strange circumstances. I have no idea. Sweet as she seems, I doubt she knows all her employer is up to.

“Found it!” Jenny opens the door to a suite of rooms, one opening to the left and one to the right off the larger main.

New carpet smell wafts off the plush cream shag beneath my feet. Light, airy bedclothes cover a queen-sized bed in the center of the main room—white on white on cream on white. The maple furniture is sparse but tasteful. A few steps forward and I notice a theme. Feathers. Massive wings are carved, one folded over another, to make up the four posters of the bed. The design is echoed in the pattern on the quilt and again in the ironwork over the brick fireplace. Cream, fur throws, and pillows sit on a chair and ottoman. They have the carefree look of careful placement by someone with exquisite taste. I stand dumbfounded at the view.

“Is the room to your liking, miss?” Jenny asks.

“It’s the most beautiful room I’ve ever seen.” As confounded as I am, I’m thankful not to be chained to a cot in the basement.

“Excellent. Mr. Maddox will be pleased.”

Will he? I wouldn’t think Mr. Maddox gave a damn.

Jenny points. “Through there is your work area with two sewing machines. That way is the bath and dressing area. Eight o’clock sharp for dinner, please. I’ll leave you now … unless there’s anything else I can get you?” Her face looks frantic. If it’s just she and Jamis waiting on Mr. High and Mighty for dinner, I imagine she has better things to do than stand here and hold my hand.

“No, you’re fine, go, go.” I wave her off. “Thanks for showing me around.”

She smiles. Her lips part as if she intends to say more but thinks better of it. She bows with her retreat.

I stare at the lavish room, flabbergasted, until a soft mew snaps me out of my stupor. “Edgar!” I open his crate and lift him out hugging the breath from his tiny little lungs. He meows again, annoyed with me. Too bad.

Strange surroundings, sounds and smells, the idea I will be here, all alone, for the next twelve months runs me over like a Mack Truck. Who cares how fancy my room is if I’m cut off from everyone and everything familiar to me. My knees shake, and I slide to the floor still cradling my cat.

Ben. I miss him. I miss my friends. How can I explain my fear, and how I’d rather be curled up in my sleeping bag on a hard storeroom floor than in this gigantic house?

My breathing comes hard and fast. I fear I’m hyperventilating as I bury my face in Edgar’s soft fur. Oh, God, you have to help me. Get us out of here.

But God doesn’t answer as the first of my tears hits the back of my hand.

A knock on the door has me bolting upright. Perfect. I guess I fell asleep. Edgar slides off my back to the floor and glares at me. Sorry, boy. “Come in?”

The door opens with a creak and Jamis pokes his head inside. His eyes bug. The old guy works quickly to regain his composure, but I saw him. I’m guessing he’s not used to teen girls, that, or I’m witch-scary after my nap on the carpet. Wiping the drool off the side of my mouth, I say, “Can I help you?”

“Dinner is served, miss.”

Right. “Listen, as you can see, I’m not ready. Do you think I could eat in my room? Actually, I’m not even hungry. I think I’ll just pass tonight.”

“That is ill-advised, Miss Weathersby. You are expected.”

I don’t care if I am or not, until I think of Jenny. The trouble she’s probably gone to in preparing a meal for my first night. She’s the only one who’s nice to me. I don’t want to lose that. “Yeah, all right, just a sec.”

With no time to change, I fly into the bathroom and gasp, both at the size of the joint and my image in the mirror. Wavy, black hair juts out all over my head. My lanky body, pale skin, and tear-stained eyes make me look like an old store manikin that’s past her prime. The jeans are fine. I tug the back of my sable jacket down with one hand while pulling my new burgundy corset up with the other.

My fingers smooth my wild hair into place, then rub across my cheeks in an effort to erase the layers of smudged eyeliner that stain my face. Whatever, good enough. I doubt Jenny cares. I whirl, nearly hitting the copper, claw-foot tub to my rear.

Jamis stands like a toy soldier in the doorframe. If he entertains any thoughts about my post-meltdown appearance, he doesn’t voice them. On the way downstairs, we pass the old photographs. The eyes in every picture seem to follow me down the hall. The butler offers no conversation as we make our way to the dining room. Good, I don’t want to talk to the old prune anyway.

Room after room, I follow him through parts of the house I’ve not yet seen. I’m certain I’ll never find my way back when we enter a last set of heavily carved, wooden doors. Though clean and free of a moldy wedding cake, the dining room reminds me of Miss Havisham’s from the description in Dickens’ book
Great Expectations
. I read the novel in English last year. Loved it, actually. The old maid in the story wore her wedding dress every day for years until it disintegrated. She wouldn’t clear the wedding decorations after she was jilted at the altar, and eventually, she lit herself on fire and burned to death. There’s something terrible and hypnotic about that sort of crazy.