Chapter 6
Morning light filtered through the fraying curtains, casting strange shadows across the room.
I sat up, momentarily uncertain of where I was.
As my memories returned to me, I settled back into our bed.
Jacob was gone, but in his place a long-stemmed wildflower sat on the pillow.
I picked it up with careful fingers, a giddiness spreading through me.
Clutching Jacob’s gift, I took in the room in the light of day. The view from the bed was so different from that of my childhood bedroom. The peeling cream wallpaper was a far cry from the neat blue walls I’d grown up with, and the room felt devoid of life.
In fact, the entire house did. Except for the occasional close of a door or the patter of distant footsteps, the house seemed uncomfortably silent. I swung my legs over the edge of the bed. Part of me wondered if I stayed here, hidden away, this house would all turn out to be a strange dream.
The hinges of the armoire squeaked as the door swung slowly open and I startled.
“It’s only old furniture, Hazel,” I scolded myself, and placed my feet firmly on the floorboards.
“I suppose you’re trying to tell me to get up?” I said to the armoire with a laugh. Of course, it made no response.
“Only one day here and already I’m speaking to furniture,” I grumbled as I stood.
A whisper of movement brushed against my ankle. I shuddered.
“Rats,” I murmured, scanning the floorboards around the bed. “Of course, there’s rats.”
I placed Jacob’s flower on the dusty vanity, a bright reminder of budding hope against a marred world.
My clothes were still packed away in my case, so I knelt and pulled out the dress on top—a checkered black and white print on a simple skirt that I hoped would show I was humble, practical. I needed to show my husband—and his wives—that I was trying. That I would be the perfect plural wife.
I cocked my ear toward the door as I did up the buttons on my bodice.
There were no sounds, no children squealing or running, no mothers scolding or teaching.
Surely, there were many people in this house?
But Jacob had never spoken of his children, or even formally told me the names of his wives.
And I’d been too afraid to ask, even now.
But one of them stalked my door last night.
The door of the armoire moaned again. I jumped.
This was my new reality. Staring at myself in the dusty, cracked mirror, I raised my chin.
“I can do this,” I recited to myself.
Based on the light pouring through the window, it was late in the morning.
I rushed toward the door. The other wives would certainly dislike my delay.
Or perhaps they never spoke to one another and wouldn’t notice me at all?
Even though they were forced into the same house for the last year, Mother ignored Aunt Emma as much as possible, leaving her to tend her own children and household as if they didn’t share the same four walls.
Sucking in a breath to fortify myself, I stepped out into the hallway. There was only one way to prove myself in this strange house.
“Jacob?” I called out softly and waited. No one responded. “Jacob, are you there?”
Only the floor creaking beneath me returned my call.
A line of doors mirrored one another down the hall until it veered off into another wing.
Sunlight streamed through the twin set of windows at the end of this wing of hallway, providing some light in the absence of gas lamps.
A yellowing carpet covered parts of the floorboards, though it appeared pieces of it had moldered or been ripped away.
I shifted back toward my own room, which was closest to the stairs.
A door shut loudly somewhere down the hallway and I whipped my head around.
“Who are you?” a tiny voice said.
I looked down at a small boy, no more than four, in front of me. His hair was matted on one side as if he’d only recently woken from sleep, his clothes disheveled like he’d fought as he dressed. He stared up at me with wide blue eyes—Jacob’s eyes.
“Oh, hello.” I tried to make my voice sweet and calm as I’d heard my mother do. “My name is Hazel. I suspect I’m your new aunt.”
I bent down to his eye level with an even smile.
“Hmm,” he responded, rubbing his hand in his eye as he studied me. “Like the other.”
“Yes, like your other aunts.”
There was something odd in the way he stared at me, like he couldn’t believe I was there. His unblinking eyes and solemn expression were unsettling in a child so young.
“What’s your name?” I asked. By virtue of being the eldest daughter in a plural family, I’d spent most of my years caring for younger children. I enjoyed their little minds and quirks, though this child struck me as rather particular.
“Edward.”
“Edward, nice to meet you.” I stood slowly, extending my hand toward him.
Squinting, he poked at my palm with a single finger.
Yes, a very particular child. I smiled again, though strangeness wrapped around me.
“Edward, do you think you could show me to where the others are?” I asked.
He nodded and started down the stairs.
The steps squeaked and sagged beneath my feet as I followed him.
Below, the entry appeared the same as the evening before, only empty and teaming with sunlight from the high stained-glass windows.
Mosaiced diamonds filtered the light in a variety of colors but did little to bring life to the stale room.
What should have been a place of welcome and respite was oddly bare and uninviting.
Mother would’ve hated it. I bit my tongue to keep from laughing, or perhaps crying, at the thought of her circling the room with a severe frown.
I looked up at the chandelier above, more rusted than sparkling, a hundred unseen eyes scrutinizing me in its tarnished jewels. Edward grabbed my hand, tugging my gaze away from the foreboding entry.
“You’re slow, Aunt,” he stated.
I resisted the urge to stick out my tongue like I would with my little brothers. “Maybe you’re simply too fast, little sprite.”
That seemed to please him and he grinned, dragging me across the entry to the doorway the other wives had disappeared through after our strange introduction the night before. We walked down a hallway lined with fading floral wallpaper until it opened into an expansive room.
“Is anyone here?” My voice echoed off the high walls. The only response was another tug of my hand. This time I followed even more slowly, allowing myself a moment to take in the room.
Despite the expectation of grandeur, this main parlor lacked what I envisioned for a fine home.
Fraying and mismatched furniture cast the room into chaos, as if the family had gathered every scrap they could find without thinking of how it would look assembled together.
There were two high-backed red chairs with fabric so bare it almost looked white, a large rocking chair beside a small one, a once-elegant checkered pink sofa with a wood-tipped back, and an assortment of embroidered stools all bearing different stages of age.
Three side tables of various sizes and wood colors sat here and there among the seats.
All of it begged the question—exactly how many people lived here?
And when was the last time they all gathered in this unkept room?
I couldn’t help thinking of Ammon as I brushed over the many footstools to the fireplace. He always loved a place to stretch out his lanky legs. Perhaps one day he could come and visit to try them out. The thought didn’t balloon into hope, though, only a vague dread.
The hearth was massive, an impressive arrangement of brick and stone beneath an ornate beam. A row of books lined the mantel, though it looked as if they hadn’t been picked up in some time. It seemed almost blasphemous to see such lovely books settled within a layer of dust.
A few framed pictures hung on the cream-splashed walls of hand-drawn nature scenes, but most hung askew, and none were family portraits. No heirlooms or bobbles or treasures adorned the empty spaces. There was nothing at all really to distinguish Manwaring Manor as belonging to its own.
“Do you usually spend time here as a family, Edward?” I asked, not taking my eye off the gaping hearth. If I wasn’t thinking sensibly, I would think the fireplace yawned like it could swallow me into its depths. Still, hair rose on my arms.
The boy shrugged, prodding me toward the next doorway.
“No, it likes it quiet.”
I swallowed. How strange his words struck me. What should’ve been the heart of the home was unnerving. Unnatural.
At last, I followed Edward through the next doorway.
A large dining table took up most of the space.
Long rows of mismatched chairs ran along the table, each more out of place than the next.
Some were cushioned and well-used, others wood with fading stain, and one appeared to be a repurposed armchair.
“Ah, the dining room,” I said as my mind flooded with memories of the dining room back home. My mother’s home, I corrected.
“We spend a lot of time here eating,” Edward said. “It doesn’t mind that. Usually.”
It?
“I’m glad to hear you eat then. I was worried.” I laughed nervously, but he didn’t join me. “Where is everyone this morning?”
“Here.” He pointed to one of two further doors. “You’ll find the other.”
I nodded.
“Good morning, is anyone there?” I asked as I approached, my voice hoarser than I anticipated.
The door thumped. Someone was inside, but there were no voices.
“Edward, are you sure?” I turned back, but the young boy was gone, a giggle reverberating as he disappeared back into the depths of the house.
“What a strange child,” I whispered, pushing the door open with a creak.
A ferocious bath of sunlight stunned me, stopping me in the doorway.
When I regained my sight, no one greeted me.
The room was empty. I released a slow exhale.
The boy had played a trick on me. Heat twinged in my ears.
It was silly of me to follow him in the first place.
Perhaps the whole family was in on the joke.
Fighting the sudden urge to cry, I looked around the room. It was small with two windows stretching nearly to the ceiling. Judging from the shape of the room, this must’ve been the base of the turret I’d seen outside yesterday.
A loudly ticking, standing clock counted out the moments as I studied the room.
Shelves took up most of the walls, each covered with haphazardly placed tomes and curious items. Leftover cups and dark transparent bottles of liquids that by strict definition shouldn’t have been drunk in a Mormon home lay between stacks of books and rolled-up parchments.
But not all adhered to the Word of Wisdom health code exactly—even prophets and apostles—so I couldn’t judge their use.
Riding gloves sat with empty glass jars, and what appeared to be a discarded long knife.
More thin dust layered over it all. The only part of the room that appeared cared for was the line of black and brown books of scripture on the highest shelf.
A heavy desk consumed the center of the room.
Two well-worn brass oil lamps suggested a lot of late-night readings.
A map of what appeared to be a mine took up a majority of the desk’s surface and was surrounded by three high stacks of paper.
A quill and ink lay askew as if dropped in a hurry.
All of it left an unsettling knot in my stomach.
This had to be Jacob’s personal study.
I ran my fingers across the dated globe beside me.
It grunted and protested, unable to spin.
Retracting my hand, I turned to the only frame hung in the room.
The probing eyes of the prophet Brigham Young glared back.
Even in portrait, he saw straight through me.
It was strange Jacob didn’t have a single picture of his family in his study, only this man.
This disordered space contrasted peculiarly with the gentlemanly manner I’d seen from my new husband, and none of it was welcoming. In fact, it felt forbidden. What if he discovered me snooping around his private things? Surely, this place was off-limits.
The floor was solid beneath me and yet somehow unstable. It felt like I stood on a piece of earth that shouldn’t have existed. Even the air tasted off, sharp with a tang. This room was … wrong. The urge to leave and never return pumped through my veins.
I took a step back toward the door, but a dance of light flickered across the highest shelf.
Without thinking, I reached up and ran my fingers along the line of holy books.
I lingered on the last black spine. A shock sizzled in my fingertips and I yelped, drawing my hand back to my side, both amazed and confused at what had just happened.
All at once, cold slipped down my body like I’d jumped into an icy river. I gasped and stumbled back until I flattened against the door. Frigidity settled in my bones and I shivered uncontrollably. I fumbled for the doorknob.
“This isn’t real.”
I nearly fell as I thrust open the door and spilled back into the adjoining room.
Warmth spread through my iced veins. I blinked around the dining room, needing to recall where I was.
Slowly, my breathing calmed and my memory of the unexpected freeze dissipated into a moment of silliness. But my heart didn’t settle.
This massive house was—peculiar. Frightening. Intoxicatingly strange.
Or perhaps I was the strange one. This was my husband’s house and all I found were faults.
I moved toward the last doorway in the dining room. For the first time all morning, I heard familiar voices. My chest tightened. At last. I needed to stop wandering and see to my duty. The other wives were on the other side of this door.