Chapter 4
May 1st, 1881Asheford Hall, Cornwall, England
What a wretched story it was.
Henry shut Frankenstein and set the book aside. It was beyond him why he read about grotesque monsters. With a huff, he wandered toward the fire to warm his hands.
The flames burst into a thick blaze in the depths of the stone fireplace.
He ambled to his bookshelf and trailed his fingertips over the leather-bound spines of his collection. What had he not read? Perhaps a better question was, which book would distract him enough until his eyes grew heavy with sleep? Ever since his return from London, a good night’s rest had escaped him, and he considered whether to pray to God for sleep to come. But what good would that do? His prayers were never answered. He would once have resorted to medicinal interventions like laudanum to soothe his insomnia, but he hoped to never return to it.
A week ago, in London, he had been a hair’s breadth away from succumbing to his once-prevalent addiction. Once upon a time, the drug had been a godsend. It had allowed him to sleep, to think, and essentially, to live again. Until it became a dependency. When it became a problem for him to function throughout the day without it, he swore off the drug and chose to wean himself clean. It had been a little over a year since that decision. Now, he was not so sure whether his sobriety had given his life any more value. Yes, he was clear of mind. But he was also plagued by memories, suffered bouts of anxiety and was lucky to catch four hours of sleep at night. Still, he would keep trying to change his luck, even though he was starting to consider himself an idiot for holding on to false hope.
As for this evening, maybe he should read a story of adventure? No, he wasn’t sure he could bear reading about a character’s exhilarating freedom. A story of love? That would give him more reason to be envious. At twenty-nine, he was a lonely bachelor with no romantic prospects in sight and he was inclined to believe it was his fault; a self-inflicted wound, if you will. Despite wanting love, he could not bring himself to subject his wife-to-be to his world of terror. In his world, a wife did not mean love. It meant another person to protect, another pawn for his father to extort, a mother to his children who would continue the ghastly Asheford lineage. These were all thoughts that frightened him.
Henry’s finger landed on Volume One of Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque,a collection of short stories by Edgar Allan Poe in which terror, horror and madness are monsters that terrify the protagonists. He could not feel envy for those characters. Their tragedies would temporarily take his mind away from his own sad life. He wondered whether finding pleasure in the suffering of others made him a morally corrupt person. No matter the answer, he did not have the energy to dwell on that now.
He slid the book from the shelf and settled in his armchair. Propping his feet on a padded footstool, he opened the book to The Fall of the House of Usher and began reading.
Soon enough, the warmth of the fire seeped into his bones. The blazing wood crackled softly. His half-lidded gaze lazily traced the printed words.
Sleep would come at last.
A quiet, undisturbed slumber…
“Terribly sorry to intrude, master,” a voice said, ripping him out of the comforting darkness.
Henry’s muscles seized. He jolted awake and looked at his manservant in the study doorway.
“Yes, what is it, Abbott?” Henry muttered.
“I wish to speak with you about the Asheford Rose supper,” Abbott said. “Since Miss Asheford is not available, of course.”
Henry blinked and straightened in his chair. “My sister will return in three weeks’ time. Can it not wait until then?”
“I am afraid that we must order supplies this week to ensure their timely arrival.”
“Timely arrival.” Henry shook his head. “The supper is in early July.”
A flustered look crossed Abbott’s face. “Sir, the event was pushed forward by a month. For early June. Were you … were you not aware?”
“Early June? Who approved this change?”
“We had a command from Mr. Asheford, your father, sir.”
Henry’s gut twisted. “My father?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Damn him to hell.”
“Sir—”
Henry tapped the arm of his chair. “Is this not my estate to run?”
“It is, sir.”
“Am I not the one in charge of inviting guests and planning event dates?”
“You are, sir.”
“Then why are you taking orders from my father?” Henry shouted.
Abbott’s face paled.
Henry was not in the habit of shouting at his staff but when it came to matters involving his father, his temper always drowned his sense of propriety.
“With all due respect, sir, Mr. Asheford mentioned that you were made aware of the changes to both the date and the guest list,” Abbott said.
“I beg your pardon?” Henry said. “Changes to the guest list too? Abbott, it is in your best interest to tell me every damned name on that list this instant.”
“I … I don’t know the names off the top of my head, sir.”
“Then fetch me someone who does!”
“Shall we speak of the party arrangements first?”
“No, we shall not! Order what you must, inform Mrs. Byron that she has free reign over the dishes served, and decorate the halls in whatever colour you wish,” Henry said, gathering his thoughts. Then, the horror that his father may have invited potential marriage prospects dawned on him. It was not an unusual thought, given his age and bachelor status. “And promise me, Abbott, that you will not, under any circumstance, decorate the guests’ rooms with flowers. Is that understood?”
Several seconds ticked by as they stared at one another.
“Is that understood, Abbott?” Henry repeated more sternly.
“Yes … yes, sir.”
“Say the words,” Henry insisted.
Abbott’s face reddened. “I promise that we shall not decorate the guests’ rooms with flowers.”
“Good. Bring the guest list to my desk within the hour. You are dismissed,” Henry said, but Abbott remained in the doorway. “Why do you continue to stare at me so?”
“A letter has come for you.”
“And you tell me this now? Good God, hand the blasted letter to me and leave at once!”
Abbott hurried over and handed Henry an ominous grey envelope. After bowing, he hurried out of the study. A deep-purple wax seal with the Asheford family crest secured the envelope shut. On the front was written Henry Alexander Asheford in sloppy black ink, as if the writer had wasted no effort in writing the words.
Henry’s lips curled back as he tore it open.
To my most beloved son,
For this year’s Asheford Rose Supper, I have taken the liberty of scheduling the event a month sooner. It will begin on June 3rd. I do hope this will not interfere with your agenda. Furthermore, I have invited Ada Davenport and her lovely daughter, Fanny. I do not believe I need to mention who the Davenports are, since they are quite famous in New York.
I expect that you assert your full attention to our new guests. I sincerely hope you understand the potential consequences if you do not comply. News of our in-person meeting will arrive shortly after.
Your ever-loving father,
Edwin Asheford
P.S. How is my darling Charlotte? I hope she fares well.
A surge of heat shot through Henry’s body and he crumpled up the letter. With a guttural roar, he picked up a vase from the mantelpiece and smashed it against the wall.
Jagged porcelain shards fell across his boots.
His heart was thudding so hard, he could scarcely breathe. His imagined horror about a marriage prospect had come to life like a monster from a Poe short story, and as always, it was a command forced upon him beneath the guise of threats against his sister. How much longer could he live this way? Why did he allow this sad existence to continue? Josiah was right, he was nothing but a prisoner within his own castle walls.
A sick feeling unravelled in his gut. This had to change. He had to do something. His gaze went to the wooden trunk next to his writing desk.
The trunk had been a gift from his mother when he was a boy. Even after all these years, the wood had maintained its rich, navy-blue colour. As an adult, he barely used it. It was merely a vessel for mementos of a past life. But since his arrival at Asheford Hall a week ago, he had hidden Cooper’s briefcase in it.
He flew to the trunk, retrieved a key from his pocket and turned it in the lock.
Lying amid his mother’s jewels, his brother’s miniature portrait and his grandfather’s hat, the briefcase was a bright light, drawing Henry like a moth out of darkness.
He removed it and set it aside. Just as he went to close the trunk, the painting of a large ship on the inside of the lid caught his attention. It had been hand painted by his mother. The work of art displayed a three-masted, white-sailed merchant ship on an aquamarine sea, against a background of the night sky speckled with hundreds of stars. She had written May Your Ship Always Sail in elegant, white cursive across the sea’s deepening blue.
His throat tightened. He ran a finger over the brushstrokes. Each line of colour told a story of a mother’s love for her son.
All anger dissolved.
Indeed, he would set sail as soon as he thought of a rational plan.
He shut the trunk, locked it and took hold of his father’s letter. Without further thought, he threw the crumpled letter into the fireplace and watched as the red-hot embers ate through the shrivelling paper. A flutter of ash soon surrounded his father’s threats. With every passing second, his family crest melted further into a dirty puddle of dark-purple wax.
***
An hour later, he was staring at his belongings on his bed. There was a suitcase and a briefcase. One receptacle contained clothing, a shaving kit, a hunting knife and his pipe. The other was the hopeful key to his freedom. That’s all he would need at Bondieux House.
There was an uneasy hollowness in his chest as he stared at his reflection in the washstand mirror. His eyes bore the dark rings of lack of sleep, and their sunny, blue colour had faded to an ashen grey – a clear sign that the joyful innocence of youth had sadly extinguished.
“Time you got on with it, then,” he whispered.
Taking hold of both cases with a firm grip, he left his bedroom.
Before leaving Asheford Hall, he would inform his staff of his departure, since it was the polite thing to do, and he was not in the habit of leaving unannounced. As it was suppertime, they would be in the kitchen.
Approaching the servant’s quarters, hushed whispers echoed down the hall and Henry stopped in his tracks.
Abbott’s gruff voice came loud and clear. “He’s terribly moody today.”
“Hush now, it isn’t wise to gossip about the master,” Mrs. Byron said.
“It isn’t gossip if it’s the truth. He cannot scold us like children, and I am not a horse he can whip into submission.”
“But you’ve got the countenance of one,” William said, and muffled laughter followed. “Ouch, why did you do that?”
“A deserved smack of the head for the fool you are,” Abbott muttered.
“It isn’t foolish words if it’s the truth,” William said. “Like Mrs. Byron said, it isn’t nice to speak ill of Mr. Asheford. We all know how he has suffered terribly since the death of Mr. Corbyn and Mr. Rhys.”
“Bless their souls,” Mrs. Byron said.
Henry’s face fell as a familiar sorrow coiled around his heart. The deaths of his grandfather and brother were hardly a secret, but he couldn’t help feeling a distinct jab at the unexpected reminder.
“Mrs. Byron, the accident was five years ago. It’s hardly a reason to be cross with the entire world. Does he intend to continue living out his days in total depression? He should smile once in a while.”
“Have you experienced the loss of a loved one, Dan?” William interjected.
“No, but I—”
“Then it isn’t your right to speak on the topic,” William said.
“Is it true they were murdered?” another woman asked.
Her tone of excitement twisted Henry’s nerves into a tangled mess, causing his heart to beat like a drum. He wanted to leave this hallway and disappear forever, but a weight anchored him to the ground.
Mrs. Byron raised her voice. “Miss Mary Greenfield! An improper statement, even from a woman of your reputation. Let us please stop this conversation at once.”
“Yes, I heard the accident had been a hit against Edwin Asheford’s heirs,” Abbott said.
“Mr. Abbott!” Mrs. Byron gasped. “Will you both stop this madness?”
“The carriage exploded, did it not?”
“Exploded?”
“I suppose that’s what you get for being a swell mob.”
A crash came forth. The gossip was muted.
“Aye, that got your attention, didn’t it? Keep on wagging your tongue and I’ll hit you with the pan next,” Mrs. Byron shouted.
A chair scraped. “Good God, look at you all. It is no wonder I prefer the company of horses,” William said.
Footsteps came toward the hallway and Henry shrank back but it was too late. William appeared in the doorway and his green eyes widened as they met those of his master.
William forced a smile. “Mr. Asheford.”
The kitchen gossip sputtered to nothing.
Henry blinked away his blurry vision. Overheated and slightly queasy, he somehow walked forward in a calm, collected manner. It was too late for anyone to run from the kitchen.
Upon entering the room, all his servants stood, their dishes clattering like a miserable marching band. As always, his presence ignited tension, and no one would look at him directly. No one but Mrs. Byron.
Mrs. Byron set her frying pan onto the counter. “Mr. Asheford, is there something I can help you with?”
Henry cleared his throat. “I’ve come to inform you all that I’ll be at Bondieux House until the party, and I would ask no one to disturb me under any circumstance.”
“Yes, of course, dear,” Mrs. Byron said. “Will you arrange your own provisions?”
“Naturally,” he responded stiffly.
“If it pleases you, I can prepare a basket of goods for this evening.”
The corners of his mouth twitched. “Please.”
Julia Byron was a kind woman. Despite her advanced years, she continued to potter about the kitchen with a homely smile on her round face, determined to dote on those she admired with warm words and even warmer pastries. She was not just the longest-employed cook at Asheford Hall, she had helped raise Henry’s sister, Lottie. Henry regarded Julia as a grandmotherly figure.
Mrs. Byron whirled around the kitchen, humming softly as she stuffed a wicker basket to the brim with freshly baked goods.
Her humming calmed Henry and he focused on the sound instead of looking at his cowardly staff. Since his mother’s passing, he hadn’t often heard music, and he sometimes wished for a better invention than a phonograph. He had listened to one playing a record at a party once, and the noise it produced had not convinced him to invest in the technology.
“Here you go, dear,” Mrs. Byron said, offering him the basket.
“Thank you, Mrs. Byron,” he replied. “I truly appreciate it.”
He turned to face his staff, who continued to glare at the table. “I apologize for interrupting your supper; I did not intend to cause a ruckus. Oh, and I cannot believe I have to mention this, given that you are all respectable adults, but it isn’t sensible to speak ill of the dead. Good evening to you all.”
Henry met William in the doorway. “Walk with me,” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
They walked down the hallway and into the front entrance.
“While I’m gone, I’m putting you in charge,” Henry said.
“Me, sir?” William said with a look of surprise. “But I’m only your stableman.”
Henry gave a half-smile.
William Clare was much more than a stableman. Born at Asheford Hall three years before Henry’s sister, Lottie, William was the only child of Edward and Anne Clare, loyal staff members who cared for the Asheford horses. When William was five years of age, his mother had died after a lengthy bout of tuberculosis. When he was fifteen, his father had passed away, effectively rendering him an orphan.
At around the same time, Henry was given the estate to run and had offered William the position of stableman. It had been the right decision. After all, William had been like a younger brother to Henry. Moreover, since William and Lottie had grown up together, they were extremely close. Knowing that William cared for Lottie as he would his own sister, eased Henry’s troubled mind.
Henry placed a hand on William’s muscled shoulder and gently squeezed. “Don’t play coy with me. You know I trust you more than anyone to monitor things at the Hall. More importantly, Lottie will soon arrive from France and it would please me if you could distract her until my return.”
William’s face reddened. “How can I distract a girl who’s as fickle as a bird?”
“You give in to her every demand.” Henry chuckled as William’s expression grew more unsure by the second. “I plan to work on important matters at Bondieux House and require all the quietude I can get. She cannot know where I am, do you understand?”
“Yes, sir. No distractions.”
“No distractions,” Henry repeated and tapped William’s shoulder. “Thank you, William, and try not to fall for any of my sister’s wicked tricks.”
He half-smiled and moved to the front door.
“Sir?” William faltered.
Henry paused and turned to glance at William.
“I apologize for what you heard in the kitchen,” William said.
Henry drew in a breath. “There is no need to apologize.”
“But the horrible things that were said—”
“Think no more on the matter, William. It has already left my mind.”
William’s mouth twisted. Henry knew that the boy wanted to say more, and it stirred an emotion in him he did not want to face. He hated to be pitied.
“Truly, the words have already been forgotten.” Henry forced a smile.
With a final nod, he walked through the front entrance, pulled the door closed and descended the wide stone steps. After making his way across the gravel courtyard, he briefly stopped at the edge of the vast meadow that overlooked the Asheford property.
The sun was now low on the horizon, painting the rolling hills in a subdued orange. Pockets of wildflowers added to the serenity of the country landscape, and the surrounding woodland danced in the early spring breeze.
For a brief second, his spirits rose. They always did when he went to Bondieux House because that tiny white cottage teetering on the edge of a cliff acted as a personal beacon of sunshine on his cloudiest days.