Chapter 11 #3
Surprised, I peer into his eyes. He’s serious. Lethally so.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Exactly what I said. If you open that door, dreadful things will happen. Don’t force my hand, Sybil. Don’t ruin this. Promise me.”
My mind is racing, my emotions churning. How can he demand this of me? What could possibly be in there? “Have you killed someone, Beresford?”
“I will not answer your questions. I am simply asking you to leave that one door locked, out of all the other doors in this fucking house, Sybil. Just that one. Please.”
“Please, or else, you mean.”
He groans in frustration and turns away, the keys jangling in his hand. “You said we could keep secrets.”
“Yes, but I only have a few, and you seem to have so many.”
Beresford whirls, glaring. “Are you prepared to disclose yours? Do you believe that our relationship would remain the same if you did?”
I open my mouth, but it’s dry, and the words won’t leave my tongue.
There’s a weary satisfaction on his face. “That’s what I thought. Please do this for me. I have given you everything else—my love, my house, my fortune, my body… my very fucking soul. Leave this one door unopened, I beg.”
It’s the I beg that does it, because when he speaks those words, his voice breaks. My transgression of this rule would shatter him and destroy us. It’s a risk I can’t take.
“I won’t touch the blue door,” I tell him.
“And I can trust you?”
“You can trust me.” Four words, and I hope they’re true. For now, I mean them with all my heart, and I meet his gaze openly, guilelessly.
“Good.”
He appears satisfied, but he doesn’t touch me again, except for a brush of his fingertips against my palm when he hands over the keys. I meander through the game parlor while he packs his bag, and then we descend to the entry hall, where he bids me goodbye and blows me a kiss.
I follow him to the front door and stand on the steps, watching him mount his horse and depart. His farewell was unsatisfying. There was no intimacy in it, no final passionate kiss, no protestations of how much he’ll miss me.
He’s leaving his new wife alone in this mansion, not even one week after the wedding.
He won’t say where he’s going. Does he have another wife somewhere, another family?
Is his business something terrible? Piracy, thievery, slavery?
Maybe he trades in banned substances, like addictive powders and pills.
Maybe that’s what is hidden behind the blue door.
I try not to think about it—really, I do. I return to the little safe behind the painting and extract some money, and I speak with Mrs. Nanterre about having a dinner party the following night. Then I send one of the footmen to fetch my mother and my sister for a visit.
Anne arrives alone and lets me know that Mama is watching Essienne’s children, one of whom is ill.
“She doesn’t have to take jobs like that anymore,” I tell my sister. “Beresford and I can provide for you both.”
“That’s sweet of you.” Anne squeezes my arm fondly. “But Sybil, we’re going to want to make our own money, too. Work isn’t just a burden, it’s a privilege. I enjoy the sense of purpose and accomplishment I get from it, and I’ll enjoy it even more now that we don’t have to worry about surviving.”
I understand her point, and I can see how, after a time, life in this mansion could be dull without some sort of productive work to do. Once I’ve had a few weeks of relaxation and indulgence, I’ll need to find something to occupy my time—something that contributes beneficially to the world.
“I know what you mean,” I admit. “But let’s not talk about work right now. Come inside. I want to show you everything.”
My sister and I run up the stairs and through the halls, hand in hand.
We test every plush armchair, fling ourselves onto every bed, twirl through every doorway.
Despite the gray autumn sky, we are both in the highest of spirits.
We drink Beresford’s wine, eat his food, read his books, and play his games all day, until at last, full of a good warm supper, Anne announces with a satisfied groan that she should be heading home.
“The servants have already gone to their house,” I protest. “I don’t want to bother one of them to take you home. Why not stay the night?”
“Mama is probably back by now. She’ll be wondering where I am. I don’t want to leave her alone in the house overnight.”
Something in the way she says it alarms me, and I sit upright on the library sofa. “Has something happened?”
“Over the past few days, things have been creeping out of Wormsloe,” Anne admits. “The creatures you summoned—they’re leaving the forest, scattering into gardens, orchards, and other nearby forests. It’s almost as if they’re running away from something. Like something is driving them out.”
“Have you seen it? Do you know what’s frightening them?”
She shakes her head. “But we’ve felt things.”
“Felt?” I frown. “What do you mean?”
Anne gazes into the fire, the dancing flames reflected in her eyes.
“It’s not really a sound or a vision so much as a presence.
Just the past day or two, really. At first it wasn’t noticeable from the house…
you could only sense it from the road. But this morning I felt it in the front garden.
I think it’s getting closer. Spreading outward. ”
Her tone is brittle, hollow, a faint singsong like she’s talking to herself, like she barely knows I’m here. I reach over the arm of the sofa and grab her hand where it lies limply on the arm of her chair. She startles a little and glances over at me.
“Anne, do you need me to come home?”
“You can’t.” She gives me a weak smile. “You’re married now. Don’t worry about us. We’ll be all right. We’ve weathered plenty of odd events, haven’t we? This one will pass as well. And perhaps it’s only the strangeness of your absence. Perhaps we’re imagining it.”
“The demons leaving, though… that’s not your imagination,” I point out.
“No, but it could be a natural event, especially with winter coming on and food being scarce. Maybe they can sense that the weather will be more severe or something, and they’re migrating in anticipation of that.”
Her theory doesn’t really make sense, but I have no better ideas to offer, so I leave it be.
“I’ll go to the servants’ house and ask a couple of the men to take you home,” I tell her.
“I’ll ask them to check the house and garden, too, and make sure everything is safe.
Tomorrow I’ll commission new fencing and gates, and extra locks for the doors. ”
If Anne is right, and there is some malevolent presence leaking out of the woods, fences and locks won’t provide much protection. But the idea seems to reassure her.
I send her off with two footmen and return to the dark, gloomy hallways of my enormous house. All the fires have gone out except for the ones in the library and in my bedroom, and those have been banked up for the night.
I prepare for bed, but I don’t feel tired.
Another glass of wine would probably send me off to sleep, but I’m too restless to sit down and drink it.
I stand on the rug before the bedroom fire, clad in my lacy nightgown, holding the ring of keys in my hand, watching the light play over gold, bronze, iron, and silver.
“Stop it, Sybil,” I tell myself sternly. “You promised.”
After another long moment, I yank out a drawer of the nearest bureau, drop the keys inside, and slam the drawer. Then I leap into bed and shut my eyes tight, determined to sleep.
But I can’t.
Finally I roll over and wriggle my fingers into my panties, picturing Beresford’s massive, gorgeous body and thick cock.
I imagine that I’m a fine lady traveling through a forest, and he’s the highwayman who attacks my coach.
Highwayman Beresford finds me so irresistible that he forgets all about the treasure he planned to steal.
He’s desperate to fuck me, right there on the road…
But images of golden keys and blue doors keep intruding on my fantasy. With an exasperated sigh, I give up and lie there wide-eyed, plagued by questions.
My husband should be here with me right now. Why did he leave? Where did he go? What does he do to make so much money? What is he hiding behind that door, and why would those secrets ruin our marriage? Is his love for me really so fragile?
If he didn’t want me to use the key, why didn’t he take it with him? Why place it in my hands at all? Maybe it’s some kind of test. The idea of him testing my compliance is almost as infuriating as my curiosity.
“Where are you, husband?” I say aloud. “What are you hiding?”
Flinging off the covers, I leap out of bed. Moments later I’ve got a lamp in one hand and the key ring in the other as I’m hurrying down the hall.
My whole body buzzes with latent panic, and guilt roars in my mind. Why are you doing this? You told him that he could trust you. You’re breaking his trust. You’re ruining everything.
But if whatever is in this room could ruin everything, shouldn’t I know about it? No secret should have that much power over my happiness.
He told me which key it was. Warned me what would occur if I opened the door. And then, when I promised not to touch it, he trusted me completely. He left for his business, whatever that is, and he left me here, counting on me to keep my word.
I’m betraying him, but not because of idle curiosity. He made this such a huge and terrible thing that I can’t not look. I owe the truth to myself. I am responsible for my own sanity and peace, neither of which will be attainable while this secret gnaws at my brain.
If I don’t look, I will be endlessly wondering.
The vision of that door will rob me of sleep.
Every morning, I’ll wake up with that hallway in my mind.
Whenever I open a different door, I’ll see the scratched symbols on the blue surface of the forbidden one.
Each time I use the key ring, the forbidden key will catch my attention.
And when Beresford returns, the mystery will pop into my head at the most inopportune moments.
While we’re eating dinner, I’ll be thinking, What is behind the blue door?
When he’s fucking me, right before I come, I’ll wonder what’s in that room.
While I’m playing duets with him on the piano, my questions will fit themselves into every melody: What could he be hiding? What is in that room?
It was unfair of him to extract such a promise from me. I need to know.
I’ll look inside, then re-lock the door so he won’t be aware that I broke my word. Whatever I see, I’ll keep it to myself. Maybe it won’t be that dreadful. Maybe things can continue the way they have been, with cuddles and walks, meals and games, wine and sex, shared baths and sleep.
Maybe he’s wrong, and whatever is in there won’t impact our relationship at all.
I walk faster, afraid that I’ll talk myself out of doing this. If I turn back now, I’ll only go through the entire cycle again in an hour or two. Better to end my mental suffering.
There it is. The blue door.
Halting before it, I hold up the lamp and inspect the symbols again.
Maybe there’s witchcraft involved. Maybe he is some kind of sorcerer, and he thinks I’ll be afraid of him.
If that’s the case, I can find ways to reassure him that I’m no stranger to supernatural or inexplicable things.
I won’t tell him that I peeked, but I’ll subtly build his confidence until he shares the secret willingly, not knowing that I stole it first.
I set the lamp on the floor and sort through the keys until I find the little golden one. It feels oddly warm in my hand, maybe because I’m nervous.
I fit it into the lock and turn it. The click seems to resound through the house, and for a second I feel the terrible conviction that Beresford will immediately realize what I’ve done.
But there’s no way he could ever know.
I take the key out of the lock and drop the key ring into the pocket of my nightgown before pressing the door handle, which swings obediently down.
And I, the disobedient wife, pick up my lamp and open the door.