The final door led into a low-ceilinged kitchen. One entire wall was taken up with an old-fashioned wooden stove with cast-iron pots and pans suspended from a rig that wouldn’t look out of place in a sex dungeon. Dark mahogany cupboards lined both sides, with wooden tops scuffed and marked with age. A narrow window above the sink looked out across the back garden and outbuildings, over a bubbling stream and down the mountain valley beyond.
This place is unreal.I’ve stepped back in time.
“Harrison will cut the firewood. The woods around the house are part of our estate, and we also manage the forest on this side of the mountains – thinning the trees is an important part of management, but that’s Harrison’s concern. It’s up to you to monitor the household wood supply and let him know when you’re running low. The oven is wood burning, and there are three fireplaces on this floor, plus one in every bedroom. During winter you’ll need to light the fires in the morning and bring up the wood to the bedrooms. I provide a weekly budget for food and cleaning supplies. All of this is detailed here.” She opened a drawer and showed me a leather-bound ledger, the corners stained with flour-dusted fingertips.
In the center of the room, a farmhouse table with bench seats groaned under the weight of at least ten boxes. Flies buzzed lazily around the pile, and I noticed some weird red stains on the corner of the cardboard leaking onto the table.
“This is the last grocery order. It’s a few weeks old now. We’ve been ordering catering from the village since Clare…” Madame Usher left the sentence hanging. “It is not sufficient. You’ll need to clean this up and make a new order for what we’re missing. The details are in the ledger.”
I stared at the pile, appalled. “You just left all this food here to rot?”
She sniffed. “I’ve been a little preoccupied with preparations for the school year – and the police snooping around the house, asking unsavory questions about Clare’s accident. The other students don’t even know how to boil an egg. They have more lofty concerns. Here are your keys.”
An loop of keys sat on the kitchen table, identical to the ones Madame Usher held. I picked them up, surprised by the weight of them. Lots of locked rooms in this house. Lots of secrets.
Dread settled in my stomach as Madame Usher led me out of the kitchen and down a narrow hallway to emerge from a small door under a grand staircase.Thestaircase where Clare had fallen to her death.
I stood in the entrance hall I’d seen earlier. Thick velvet drapes hung from the front windows, allowing only a sliver of dull light through the gaps. Patterns leaped at me from the floral carpet and the gilded moldings to the painted decorations on the heavy wooden furniture and the faded Victorian wallpaper. From this angle, I got a good look at the portraits crowding the walls. Previous teachers, students, and patrons of the school, judging by the number of fancy wigs and instruments.
Faint snatches of music echoed through the lofty room, snatching at the lifeless details of the house, threatening to bring the patterns to life.
I noticed an empty square on the wall at the foot of the staircase. The wallpaper stood out in vibrant colors – women clothed in sheer shifts surrounding a basket floating in blue-tinged water – showed that a painting had been recently removed.
“What happened here?” I pointed to the empty square. “Did someone take up a career in the evil jazz and have to be excommunicated?”
“That portrait has been sent for repairs.” Madame Usher started across the entrance hall, her skirts sweeping behind her. “Do not trouble yourself with it. Follow me.”
She led me down a wide hallway lined with even more antiques and gilded portraits. My feet sank into a heavy rug. Here, the Liszt grew louder, the sound muddied by another voice – a haunting violin melody from behind a different closed door that rose and fell through the piano, playing a completely different song. The two compositions meshed together into something dissonant and vaguely threatening.
“We have three practice rooms on the ground floor. These must be shared between all students.” Madame flung open a wide door to reveal an azure-blue parlor. Velvet chairs lined the walls, facing inwards to scattered music stands and a second grand piano – a Bösendorfer, by the look of it.Wow, they only make like, a few hundred of those a year. Madame Usher must be hella loaded.“This is the Blue Room. The others – the Yellow and the Red Rooms in the turret – are currently occupied. You may book slots on the sign-in sheets located on the noticeboard in the hall.”
“Wow.” I’d seen the pictures in the brochure, but being here in person, surrounded by all the heavy furniture and gilded finery… all I could think of was how long it was going to take to dust.
“We have lessons and guest lectures in the morning, from 8 until 11 in the Red Room or the Ballroom. At 11AM we break for lunch. In the afternoon, you will have your private lessons with Master Radcliffe. When you are not in lessons, you will be practicing in groups or alone, completing your assignments, or attending to your household duties. We offer regular opportunities for students to perform in the community and abroad, and we also give several recitals, galas, and showcases throughout the year. Many of the top conductors, patrons, and industry professionals will be in attendance, so it is important you participate and that you continue to meet our high standards. At the end of the year, Master Radcliffe and I will choose one student to accept the Manderley Prize. That student will be awarded $200,000 and is practically guaranteed an international career. It is unlikely you will be in the running for this, given your sub-standard education after you left my tutelage. But nevertheless, I believe in equal opportunities, and I’d love nothing more than to award this to Donovan’s child.”
“Gee, thanks.”Because the only thing worthwhile about me is the fact I’m his daughter.
She gave me a withering look but continued without acknowledging my reaction. “These rooms must be kept immaculate. If the housework is not kept up to our standards, you will not be allowed to continue here as a student. I will show you the bedrooms.”
I nodded, the ball of dread inside me spinning faster. The study program she just described would be intense on its own, and I’d have to keep this huge house with all these antiques clean and cook on top of it? It sounded impossible.
Obviously it’s impossible. She’s made it that way on purpose.
As soon as the thought occurred to me, I knew it was true. I had no idea why, but Madame Usherwantedme to fail. But then why was I here? She didn’t have to invite me to her rich school or pay for Mom’s care. She could have just ignored my teacher’s recommendation, pretended she never knew I was still playing the violin. So what was her deal?
I didn’t understand, but I was determined to find out.
I expected us to return to the entrance hall to ascend to the second story. Instead, Madame Usher led me down a narrow corridor, past two wide mahogany doors opening into a grand ballroom with yetanothergrand piano, to a narrow flight of plain wooden steps.
The servants’ stairs.
We ascended to emerge at the end of another long, wide hall. On each door was a gilded plate displaying each student’s name and instrument.
TITUS THIBODEAUX, CELLO, I read as we walked past. Thibodeaux? I wondered if Titus was any relation to Amos and Delphine Thibodeaux, the famous New Orleans Classical duet who injected their Cajun and African American heritage into their performances.
AROHA RAWHIRI, PIANO… Someone inside practiced a dissonant Russian piece. HEATHER DANVERS, VIOLIN… IVAN AND ELENA NICOLESCU, VIOLIN AND PIANO… I wondered why they shared a room. Were they married? Interesting – students usually entered a conservatory like Manderley straight out of high school, or even before they were eighteen. How could they get married so young?
“…expect these ensuites to be tidied and the sheets changed every week. Other than that, the students are responsible for their own rooms. There are guest suites on this floor for parents or visiting musicians, and you’ll need to dust—”
