Noctambulist
When it came time for supper, Jocelyn dutifully made her way to the room set aside for their meals, but she paused outside the door and stepped behind it when she heard her name.
“Do you believe Jocelyn knows of Mr. Brandon?” Leonora asked.
“I cannot see how,” Claude responded.
“Are you not afraid?”
“You are simply too nervous.”
“I do not want the girl harmed.”
“Nothing untoward will happen to her.”
“But the letter Mrs. Marlow wrote described a man that fits Mr. Brandon’s appearance,” Leonora argued.
Jocelyn thought Leonora’s wording unusual. Why did she not say “Margaret,” if they were friends?
“All we require is another week.”
A servant opened the door at the end of the hall, and Jocelyn tiptoed away, circling through several other rooms before returning to the supper room.
She wished to ask of the conversation, but she did not.
Fortunately, the meal was essentially quiet, and they all retreated to their respective quarters earlier than usual, avoiding the necessary conversation in the drawing room.
*
Hours later, Jocelyn still stood at her bedroom window, looking out over the estate grounds.
“Dare I?” she asked the quietness. She had wrapped her arms across her and had rocked herself back and forth on her heels as a means to soothe her disquiet.
“Each day I am here, I want nothing more than to return home. I can change my habits and instead travel to the theatre early with Margaret, and all this madness will disappear.”
Without again considering where her feet meant to carry her, she caught up her cloak from the back of a chair and made her way down the servants’ stairs to exit in the main hall, which was dark, except for the moonlight streaming through the high windows.
Margaret and Desmond had thought she would be safe in Yorkshire, but the unknown danger had followed her to the countryside.
“I cannot know my course until I know the real danger,” she murmured.
“I cannot go back to London nor might I stay here.” She wrapped her cloak tighter about her.
“I also cannot ask Leonora or Claude for assistance.” Tears misted her eyes as she left the house through a side door and crossed the garden to step out onto the lane leading to the exit.
She laughed at herself. It would be impossible to walk back to London, her mind announced, but she did not turn around. Her feet had a mind of their own.
“I am trapped,” she told the cold night air. “I cannot fight what I cannot see. Nothing but secrets upon secrets. There is nothing tangible with which to struggle. All I can do is wait.”
She stopped suddenly and looked about her.
She had, without realizing it, returned to the river.
This time, a mist covered the ground, swirling about her skirts.
Now, it was close to the bank and the vegetation, but within an hour, it would likely overtake the Shard House garden and its lawn.
She turned to look back towards where the estate stood.
The misty fog crawled across the ground as if it was one of the plagues of Egypt.
The mist swirled with the gentle shift of her skirt and cape.
Jocelyn walked around a clump of trees to the now familiar path to the river.
From this new position, she could view a small pier, built out over the water, she had not seen previously.
She could smell the damp, rotted wood, while a ray of moonlight attempted to pierce the black waves.
The thickly growing mist hung over the surface of the water.
She did not know how long she stood mesmerized by nature’s elements—her mind lost to the mysterious hand of God.
No one knew where she was, and it was the first time she had felt at peace in weeks, for she had the choice of walking into the steady stream or returning to her quarters.
At length, she turned towards Shard House and found herself suddenly aware of how dark it had become and how oppressively alone she was.
Nothing moved through the shrubbery. Not a rabbit or some other of God’s night creatures.
No sound came from the river. She remained perfectly still.
Listening. Every nerve in her body tensed for reaction.
A cold breeze rustled the leaves remaining on the trees.
She stood waiting and wondering how she had come to be so far from the house.
Jocelyn wanted to take that first step of her return, but her legs would not move.
Nor could she rid herself of the idea that someone watched her.
Her first thought was to run, but which way? The mist was turning into a heavy fog. She thought to scream for assistance, but no one in the house would hear her. As she waited, the moonlight escaped the clouds and sent a shaft of light along the lane, as if pointing the way.
She made herself take that first step. Then another. And another. Within seconds, she was scampering. Sliding. The mist made the cobblestones slippery. When the glow of a small fire appeared off to her right, Jocelyn stumbled to a halt.
A pipe, her mind announced. “Who’s there?” she called, but there was no answer. No sound of any kind. Not even nature. No movement.
Jocelyn’s breath raced from her lungs as she stood heaving, and tears streamed down her icy cheeks.
Whoever it was who watched her was as still as was she.
“Who are you?” she cried out. The answer was not one Jocelyn had expected.
The ghostly sounds of a team of horses had her turning around in a circle and expecting to view a carriage barreling towards her, but there was nothing.
Nevertheless, she hiked her skirts and ran.
There was a noise off to her right as if someone else was also running, paralleling her steps.
All Jocelyn knew was he was her enemy. Dark and faceless.
A woman’s cry fell heavy on the fog-covered landscape.
Jocelyn was surrounded by cries of sorrow and darkness—the very air she swallowed laden with fear and…
the odor of a man. She heard the sharp intake of a breath and belatedly realized it was hers.
She no longer knew in which direction Shard House sat.
“I cannot stand here forever,” she murmured.
The mist was nearly knee high as she stepped out again on what she thought was the lane.
She knew whoever was following her was still there.
She could sense his presence, and, as odd as it would be to say the words aloud, she could see him, dressed all in black. Black upon black.
There was a noisy snap of a twig being crushed by a foot, but she kept walking, all along believing someone was following her. She flexed her fingers to know her body was truly moving.
The black form paralleled her movements.
Her skirts rustled with a scratchy rhythm. Her escape seemed tenuous, at best. Then it happened.
A rabbit appeared in a lance of moonlight.
The conservatory stood in a circular clearing, though it was partially concealed by the growing fog.
However, she now knew where she was, and she now knew for what she had been searching.
The woods behind her grew silent. Her mind announced that she had known a nightmare, though she was confident she was fully awake.
There was no one with whom Jocelyn could share what occurred next, for Margaret was in London, and no one in Yorkshire would believe her.
However, as she climbed the steps to her quarters, an image of Mr. Brandon formed behind her eyes.
Her mind said she should not trust him, even so…