House in Mourning
Caroline Woollard's first glimpse of Amberley Manor was through a coach window. The immense structure seemed to dominate the moors on which it stood, like a mighty conqueror lording over a defeated enemy. There was no resemblance to the refined, stately and elegant homes found elsewhere in the British Isles. It was, quite frankly, an ugly, hulking behemoth of a house that offered no welcome to the timid young woman who had been torn from her family at an early age and sent to live in an orphanage.
I am here as an employee, not a guest, she told herself as the distance between the coach and the house rapidly decreased.
When she saw the black mourning wreath on the front door, she was reminded of the circumstances surrounding her employment. They were far from pleasant. The master of the house, Edwin Amberley, had recently lost his wife in childbirth, and Caroline was hired to care for the motherless infant.
Perhaps believing that grief and sadness filled its rooms had tainted her impressions of the exterior of the house. On a cold, gloomy day in late November, the manor seemed dismal and foreboding; but on a sunny summer afternoon, with the heather abloom on the moors, it might actually be quite lovely. However, when the carriage drove past the front of the house and she looked up at the intimidating façade, she had serious doubts about remaining at the manor throughout the winter.
No sooner did the timorous young woman exit the coach than the servants' door was opened by an elderly butler whose face seemed to have been carved from the same craggy landscape upon which the house was built.
"You must be the nursemaid," he said in an accent that hinted of Scottish descent. "Mrs. Shackleford, the housekeeper, has been expecting you."
"I thought I was supposed to report directly to Mr. Amberley."
"The master is in London. In his absence, Mrs. Shackleford will explain your duties to you and help you to get accustomed to the running of the household."
"Thank you."
After instructing a footman to take her bags to the third-floor nursery, the butler showed her to the kitchen where the housekeeper was discussing the day's menu with the cook. Mrs. Shackleford's smiling face was the first bright sight Caroline saw at Amberley Manor.
"I thought you might be hungry after your long journey, so I had the cook prepare something for you to eat."
"Thank you. That was very kind of you."
As the young nursemaid sat down at the servants' dining table, Aida, the cook, placed a bowl of stew and a helping of freshly baked bread in front of her.
"I thought something hot would be good on a nasty day like today," she announced with a broad smile as welcoming as the housekeeper's.
Service at Amberley Manor might not be so bad after all, the newest addition to the household thought. If everyone else is as nice as Mrs. Shackleford and Aida, I might even get to like it here.
Once she was done eating, Caroline expected to be taken to the nursery where she would immediately commence her duty of caring for the newborn baby. However, Mrs. Shackleford chose to give her a tour of the house first. As she showed the nursemaid the rooms below stairs, the housekeeper introduced her to her fellow domestics.
"There was a time, not too long ago, when Amberley Manor had a full staff. Now, we're down to just a butler, a cook, one scullery girl, two maids and a footman. We don't even have a stable boy anymore. One of the tenant farmers looks after the horses."
Caroline, who spent most of her childhood in the orphanage, was unaccustomed to the normal staffing of a large country home. She had no idea that normally there was a lady's maid, a valet and a compliment of lesser domestics to care for the house and family.
"Before I take you up to the nursery, I'll show you the main rooms of the house."
Mrs. Shackleford escorted the young woman up the back stairs and opened a door that led to a main-floor hallway. Caroline's first impression was that it was much gloomier than the servants' area. Had it not been for the lit candles in the wall sconces, it would have been difficult to see.
I suppose the somber atmosphere is appropriate, she mused. After all, this is a house in mourning.
The older woman led her down the long hall whose walls were lined with portraits of the Amberleys, going back to the long-dead ancestor who built the manor.
"That's the master," the housekeeper announced, pointing to the last painting in the array.
"How long ago was this portrait painted?"
"Last year."
Caroline was surprised by Edwin Amberley's appearance. She had imagined he would be much older.
"He looks so young."
"He just turned twenty-one."
"And he owns this grand estate?"
"That's because his poor father died at an early age of consumption. Master Edwin was still a boy when he came into his inheritance."
"And his mother?"
"Sadly, she passed on when he was only three."
"So, he grew up an orphan like me?"
"An orphan, yes, but surely not like you. After all, he was the heir to the Amberley fortune."
"And I was raised in an orphanage with close to a hundred other unwanted children."
"Your childhood sounds like something right out of one of Mr. Dickens's novels. Let's hope your story has a happy ending."
Caroline smiled but said nothing. Somehow, she could not see herself being happy in such a depressing environment as Amberley Manor.
"This," Mrs. Shackleford said as she opened a door at the end of the hall, "is the drawing room."
It was a good-sized room, and the furnishings would have met the approval of the finest families in the British Empire. Yet, like the stark exterior of the house, the room seemed cold and remote. It tempted no one to come inside and have a seat beside the fire. Rather, it was as though it warned people to "look but don't touch."
After stepping over the threshold, the nursemaid's eyes were drawn to the huge mirror above the fireplace mantel—at least she assumed it was a mirror. She could not say so with any certainty since it was hidden behind a length of black crepe.
"All the mirrors in the manor are covered," Mrs. Shackleford explained when she noticed where the girl's attention was. "It's a sign of respect for the dead."
"I always thought it was more of a superstition. I was told as a child that you cover the mirrors when someone dies to prevent the soul from being trapped in their reflection."
"Whatever the reason behind it, Master Edwin ordered the mirrors covered when the mistress died, and he insists they remain covered until further notice."
"The poor man must have been devastated when his wife died."
"Let me show you the rest of the rooms," the housekeeper said, not commenting on her employer's grief. "I'm sure you're anxious to meet Miss Pansy."
"Is that the child's name?"
"Yes, and what an angel she is!" Mrs. Shackleford declared, smiling with pride as though she had given birth to the girl herself.
"I'm surprised her father could bare being separated from her then."
The warm smile quickly disappeared from the housekeeper's face.
"I suppose you'll discover the truth eventually, so I might as well tell you now. That way you'll know what to expect when Master Edwin returns from London."
"What is it?"
"He wants nothing to do with his daughter. He's given strict instructions that the little girl be kept in the nursery when he's here."
"That's terrible!"
Mrs. Shackleford nodded her head in agreement.
"He must be out of his mind with grief, " Caroline assumed. "I've heard it said some men blame the child when a wife dies in childbirth. I can only hope he'll come to terms with his loss and realize the baby is not responsible."
"Perhaps. We'll have to wait and see."
* * *
Throughout the long, cold winter, Caroline took care of little Pansy. The housekeeper's praise was not overstated. The child was an angel in both looks and demeanor. Before long, the nursemaid came to love the little girl in her charge. She also developed close friendships with the other servants at Amberley Manor, even the rather gruff Scottish butler.
Despite her earlier misgivings, she was content in her new life. With the arrival of spring, the house and grounds themselves seemed less menacing. When weather permitted, the nursemaid would take Pansy outside in the fresh air and sunlight and temporarily escape the dreary atmosphere of mourning that permeated the manor.
It was on a warm morning in late June, shortly before the noon hour, as Caroline was pushing Pansy in her pram through what once must have been a beautiful garden but was now an overgrown, untended plot of land, that she saw the coach coming toward the house. Although the master had been expected back from London for several weeks, his sudden appearance took the young woman by surprise. In the seven months she had been in his employ, he was nothing but a name and a face in a painting, around which a tragic tale of lost love was spun.
Now, I will actually meet him face to face, she thought somewhat apprehensively.
She watched as the carriage pulled up to the front door and the footman appeared to assist him in getting out. Having seen his portrait countless times, she knew him to be a good-looking young man, but the artist did not do him justice. He was far more handsome in real life than on the canvas.
Caroline had expected the widower to be dressed in subdued attire as befitting a grieving husband, but his outfit was light-colored, more suitable for a picnic or a day at the seaside than for entering a house in mourning. As he ascended the front steps, his voice rose in volume.
"Why didn't someone get rid of this damned wreath?" he shouted and proceeded to tear the crepe and floral circlet from the door and fling it onto the ground.
That poor, poor man, the nursemaid thought with compassion. He's still beside himself with grief, even after all these months.
Maybe the removal of the wreath was a good sign, though. With the master's late wife in her grave since the previous autumn, perhaps Amberley Manor would return to normal. That meant the drapes could be opened and the mirrors uncovered. Ever the optimist, Caroline smiled as she imagined brighter, more cheerful surroundings. It was at that moment, as Edwin was about to enter the manor, that he saw a strange woman in the garden.
"Who the devil are you?" he called out.
"I'm Caroline Woollard, the nursemaid," she replied.
Edwin's eyes traveled from the young woman's face to the pram, and even at a distance, Caroline could see the anger transform the features of his face.
"What are you doing out here? Haven't you been told that she is to be kept out of my sight?"
"I ... I ...," the poor girl stammered, taken aback by his cruelty.
"Well? Haven't you?"
"Yes, sir. However, I wasn't expecting you to come home today."
"Well, I have, so will you be so kind as to return her to the nursery where she belongs?"
It was an order, not a request. He did not wait for affirmation; he simply turned away in a gesture of dismissal and entered the house.
That didn't go at all well, the nursemaid thought as she wheeled the pram toward the back door.
* * *
With the master having returned, the relaxed atmosphere below stairs was shattered. The servants, with the exception of the cook and the scullery maid, scurried to and fro as Edwin Amberley barked orders at them. In the midst of all the commotion, Caroline remained in the nursery with Pansy. When she put the child down for her nap, the nursemaid sat in a chair by the window, picked up a book and read.
Late in the afternoon, Tillie, the scullery maid, who was only two years older than Caroline, brought tea and sandwiches up to the small sitting area adjoining the nursery.
"I thought you might be hungry or at least in need of some company," she explained as she poured out two cups of tea.
"Thank you. You're a godsend! I was beginning to feel as though I were cut off from the world."
"I imagine it will be like this for you until the master returns to London. But don't worry too much. The rest of us will try to come up and visit you regularly."
"Surely once the worst of his grief has passed, Mr. Amberley will have a change of heart toward his child."
A frown appeared on the usually pleasant face of the kitchen worker.
"I don't suppose I ought to be saying this," she began and then hesitated.
"Tell me," Caroline prompted.
"You've got it all wrong," Tillie whispered, despite the fact that the nursery was far removed from the rest of the house and no one was likely to overhear her. "He's not torn apart by the loss of his wife. He didn't love her."
"Why would you say such a thing?"
"Any one of us could tell you," she said, speaking for her fellow servants. "We all saw how the master treated her."
"Did they fight a lot?"
"At first, but then they barely spoke to one another. It seems they couldn't stand each other's company. The master would not even take his meals in the same room as his wife."
"That explains why he's so upset now," Caroline concluded. "He most likely regrets whatever came between them."
"I don't think so. There was never any love in that union."
"Why did he marry someone he didn't love?"
"Master Edwin's uncle—his mother's younger brother—took care of him after his father died. Miss Perdita was his ward. I think the master only married her to please his uncle."
"Regardless of how he felt about his wife, it seems a pity for him to take his anger out on the child."
"I can't agree you with more!" the scullery maid said and finished her tea before returning to the kitchen.
Since Pansy was still sleeping, Caroline went back to her novel, but she could not concentrate on what she was reading. Her mind was too troubled by her conversation with Tillie. Finally, she closed the book and laid it on the table beside the chair.
Is it guilt over the way he treated his wife that makes him keep Pansy at a distance? she wondered.
The focus of her thoughts went from Edwin Amberley to Perdita. She tried to imagine how the dead woman must have felt: a young bride entering into a loveless marriage, being torn from her home in London and forced to live in the desolation of Amberley Manor with a man who ignored her. No family. No friends.
And what kind of life will Pansy have when she gets older? How long will she be hidden away in the nursery, only allowed out when her father is away?
A sudden realization struck her like a religious epiphany.
"I am that poor child's only hope for salvation!" she cried. "It is God's will that I was sent here. It will be up to me to love her, to dry her tears when she cries, to care for her when she is sick, to calm her when she is distraught."
She crossed the room to the crib where Pansy slept and looked down at the innocent face on the pillow.
"I won't fail you," she whispered. "I promise."
Having decided to devote her life to caring for Perdita Amberley's child, Caroline devised a plan of action. Her first task would be to redecorate the nursery to make it a more pleasant environment for the child. Mrs. Shackleford found money in her household budget that she could use to purchase fabric for new curtains and paints to create bright, colorful murals on the stark white nursery walls.
"I want to make the place as cheerful as possible for Pansy," she announced one evening when the servants gathered in their basement dining area for dinner.
"Too bad you can't use your magic on the rest of the house," Aida said.
"Maybe once the mourning period is over, I will."
"Mourning!" the cook echoed with disgust. "It's hypocritical if you ask me. No one is mourning the loss of Miss Perdita."
"Aida," the housekeeper cautioned, "this isn't the proper time or place ...."
"It's the truth, isn't it? None of us liked her, not even her own husband."
"Why not?" Caroline asked, intrigued by another surprising fact about the Amberleys.
"She was born and raised in London and hated it here in the country. And because she was so unhappy, she made life miserable for all of us."
"It's a shame she died, mind you," the housekeeper declared, "and I'm not one to wish harm on any one. But Miss Perdita was a difficult woman to work for."
"She's dead now," the butler advised. "Let her rest in peace."
"That's easy for you to say," Aida argued. "She never treated you the way she treated us. Her and her tantrums!"
"Perhaps Basil is right," Mrs. Shackleford said, hoping to calm the cook down. "Miss Perdita is gone, and our life has returned to normal. It's better, in fact, because now little Miss Pansy and Miss Woollard have become part of our family."
The cook turned toward the nursemaid and smiled, her plump face softening.
"And what a blessing they both are, to be sure" she agreed, gently squeezing the young woman's hand.
* * *
Like Caroline. the other servants were determined to make Pansy's life a happy one. When time permitted, they visited the nursery and played with the child. The cook and scullery girl often brought a baked treat for her at tea time, the maids embroidered her clothes with fanciful designs and Mrs. Shackleford managed to squeeze money from her budget to purchase toys. Still, the nursemaid could not help wondering if the adoration of servants would make up for the loss of love from the child's parents.
Once Edwin Amberley returned to London, Caroline was free to roam the house with the child. However, the household was still in mourning. The heavy drapes remained drawn, and the mirrors were kept covered in black crepe.
Master Edwin may not have loved his wife, but at least he's showing proper respect for the dead, she thought.
When weather permitted, she took Pansy outdoors. Only when it rained did the two seek shelter inside. Such was the case one afternoon, just weeks before the child's first birthday, when Caroline took the little girl to play in the drawing room. Because of the severe storm raging outside the house, the interior was darker and drearier than ever. The candlelight did little to illuminate the room.
"It's silly for us to keep the drapes drawn and stumble around the room blindly. The master is not expected home for another week. He'll never know if we open them up."
The nursemaid walked to each of the large windows and pulled the drawstrings, letting what little light was on the outside into the room.
"It's somewhat better anyway."
Her eyes went to the mirror above the fireplace mantel. If it were uncovered, it would reflect the light and make the room appear even brighter.
"The master insists the mirrors remain covered," she reminded herself, "but I've already disobeyed him by opening the drapes, so what have I got to lose? Besides, what he doesn't know won't hurt him."
Caroline walked to the fireplace, grabbed a corner of the black crepe and tugged. As the fabric gently fell to the floor, the nursemaid covered her mouth with her hand to stifle a scream.
The reflection staring back at her from the mirror was not her own!
* * *
"Are you sure you're feeling all right?" Mrs. Shackleford asked the nursemaid when she came downstairs for breakfast the following morning. "Your face has no color."
"I'm fine! I've already told you that. Why do you keep asking?"
The housekeeper was taken aback by the angry outburst. Caroline was normally such a sweet girl.
"I'm sorry," the young woman immediately apologized. "I ... I don't know what came over me."
"No offense taken, dear," Mrs. Shackleford said, attributing the girl's mercurial mood to what was at the time delicately referred to as women's troubles.
"I was thinking," Caroline announced, her face brightening as she spoke, "maybe we could have a small party for Pansy on her birthday."
"The master will be back from London by then."
"We can have it in the nursery. Nothing fancy. Just us servants."
"I suppose ...," the housekeeper replied hesitantly.
"No supposing. I insist. I simply won't allow him to spoil her birthday."
Mrs. Shackleford stared open-mouthed at the person sitting across the table from her.
What's gotten into her? she wondered. This is more than women's troubles. For a moment, Miss Woollard sounded and acted as though she were mistress of the manor.
Despite the chill of early autumn, the weather over the next several days remained dry. Every day Caroline bundled Pansy in warm clothes and took her out to play in the garden. Mrs. Shackleford kept careful watch over the nursemaid, fearing the young woman might be suffering from a fragile mental state.
* * *
Edwin Amberley returned from London the day before his daughter's birthday—not that he had any intention of celebrating the milestone. The servants assumed that since the date also marked the one-year anniversary of Miss Perdita's death, the house would soon cease to be in mourning. However, no orders were given to open the drapes or remove the crepe from the mirrors.
"Maybe one of us should remind the master that the year is now up," Basil suggested to the housekeeper as the two of them entered the nursery for the little girl's party.
"Don't you think he knows that already?" Mrs. Shackleford responded.
"Then why hasn't he ordered the drapes be opened and the mirrors uncovered? The proper mourning period is twelve months."
"What does it matter?" laughed Caroline, who had overheard their conversation. "Let him keep the damned mirrors covered. A lot of good it will do him now."
"What was all that about?" the cook asked, as the nursemaid made a fuss over the birthday girl. "I've never known Miss Woollard to use such language, especially in the baby's presence."
"She's been acting a bit peculiar lately," the housekeeper admitted. "I think we all ought to keep an eye on her. Living in this dreary old house might be getting to her."
The party, of necessity, was a short one. After the child was given her two gifts, Aida cut into the chocolate cake she had baked for the occasion and gave everyone a slice.
"I'll save a piece for Master Edwin," the cook said, putting a slice aside.
"Why should he get any?" Caroline asked sharply, anger flaring in her eyes.
The other servants exchanged quick looks. All of them now shared the burden of apprehension that the housekeeper had hitherto borne alone.
"It's getting late," Mrs. Shackleford announced, rising from her seat. "Time for me to retire for the night. I have to get up before sunrise tomorrow."
The butler, footman, cook, scullery girl and maids soon followed, leaving Caroline alone with Pansy in the nursery.
"It's time for you to go to sleep, too," the nursemaid said, as she prepared the child for bed.
Once the toddler was deep in slumber, Caroline tiptoed out of the room, closing the nursery door behind her. Rather than cross the small sitting area to her own bedroom, she walked out into the hall, went down the stairs to the second floor and entered Miss Perdita's room.
* * *
Edwin Amberley sat on the drawing room sofa, drink in hand, staring broodingly into the fire. The significance of the day had not escaped him. He knew that it marked one year since his wife had died.
One year, he thought, pouring himself another brandy.
As he put the glass to his lips, he saw the door slowly open.
"Who the devil are you?" he asked the young woman standing on the threshold.
It took a few moments for him to recognize her.
"Oh, that's right. You're the nursemaid."
Caroline said nothing. She merely stood there, silently glaring at him.
"That dress," the master said, his mind trying to function under the influence of the strong brandy. "That belonged to my late wife. Why are you wearing it?"
Her eyes still glowering at him, the young woman walked across the room and pulled the black fabric from the mirror.
"Don't!"
"It's too late, Edwin. The mirror has already been uncovered."
Hatred blazed in the young woman's eyes as she confronted the master of the manor.
"Did you think this simple piece of crepe could keep my soul prisoner forever?" she asked, tossing the fabric to the floor.
"How did you get out? I ordered the mirrors remain covered."
"Your foolish little nursemaid didn't follow your instructions."
Edwin's worst fears were realized. Perdita's soul, which had taken refuge in the mirror when she died, was released when the nursemaid unknowingly removed the crepe. Once the late woman's soul was freed, it took possession of the first living body it found: Caroline Woollard's.
"We have some unfinished business, you and I," Perdita said with the nursemaid's voice.
"So, you've come back for your revenge."
There was no fear on Edwin's face, only grim acceptance.
"You murdered me. When the midwife left the room with my newborn baby, you put a pillow over my face and snuffed my life out. Then you told everyone I died after giving birth."
"You had it coming. You made my life and everyone else's a living hell."
"I never wanted to marry you in the first place. Your uncle was the only man I ever loved, but he already had a wife."
"Yes, but did you have to throw that relationship in my face at every opportunity that presented itself? Did you have to take such delight in reminding me that I was nothing more than a cuckhold and that you were carrying my uncle's child?"
"Shaming you was the only pleasure I had in this godforsaken place! And now that my soul is free at last, I can do so for the remainder of your life."
Edwin put down his drink, picked up the length of black crepe and, reaching high above his head, he draped it over the mirror.
"You fool!" Perdita cried. "What good do you think that ...?"
Her question was silenced by her husband's swift actions. He picked up the fireplace poker and swung. In one swift motion, the poker's pointed end made contact with Caroline's skull. The master of Amberley Manor felt no remorse over the murder of the innocent nursemaid since her death was necessary to rid the world of the Perdita's malignant soul.
When the servants learned of Caroline's demise, they were saddened at her passing but understood what had driven Edwin Amberley to defend himself.
"She came after me with the poker," he told the police inspector who came to investigate the crime. "I had no choice but to take it from her and fight her off. She was obviously quite mad. Somehow, she got into my late wife's bedroom, put on her dress and came downstairs to kill me."
The servants confirmed that the nursemaid had recently begun to act strangely.
"I feared for the poor girl's state of mind," Mrs. Shackleford said, wiping the tears from her eyes with a linen handkerchief. "But I never imagined she would snap like that."
Thus, Caroline's body was taken away, later to be laid to rest in the nearby churchyard. No charges were brought against the man who killed her. For the second time in twelve months, Edwin Amberley had gotten away with murder.
Meanwhile, the servants went about their usual routines. There was a good deal of work to be done in a house the size of Amberley Manor, and now they had the added responsibility of caring for a one-year-old child until arrangements could be made for a new nursemaid.
"I'll go up to the nursery and see to Miss Pansy," Mrs. Shackleford volunteered after the funeral service. "And while I'm at it, I might as well pack up Miss Woollard's belongings and send them to the vicar to be distributed to the needy."
Once the little girl was bathed, changed and fed, the housekeeper walked through the sitting room into what had once been Caroline's bedroom. Tears welled up in her eyes when she crossed the threshold and saw the small, oval-shaped mirror above the dresser and the length of black crepe lying on the floor.
That won't do, she thought, picking the fabric up and draping it over the looking glass. This is a house in mourning—again.
That and all the other mirrors in the house would remain covered until such time as another young woman would join the household as nursemaid and unwittingly release Miss Perdita's and Miss Woollard's souls to seek their revenge on the master of Amberley Manor.
Salem, I don't care how long you stare into that mirror. You're not going to be possessed by Elvis Presley's spirit.
