PROLOGUE
Dear Reader,
This story begins on a blustery fall day in London. To picture the scene, you must first know where and when we are. It’s the height of the Victorian Era. The Thames is full of death and decay, wafting its stench through the winding roads. Mud litters the sloggy streets and the gray sky threatens to unleash a downpour at any moment. It’s the kind of day that most would be sheltering inside with their kettles boiling, teacups at the ready. The frosty wind rattles even the sturdiest windowpanes, smacking the faces of those who have braved the elements.
One single silhouette haunts the winding path that loops around an ornate black gazebo tucked away in the heart of the city. You know of her. You’ve been told her story before. Perhaps as a child sitting on a parental figure’s lap or maybe when you’ve scrolled aimlessly across television channels. You’ve come across her in one way or another. She’s been depicted as a cheerful sort. Her smiles easy, her past unblemished. That is not the case and couldn’t be further from the truth. Allow me to set the record straight.
Reader, our heroine in this story is not one that you’re accustomed to. In fact, she holds a darkness within her that lends credence to the word, ‘villain’. Her crisp blue eyes cut men to the bone with just one glance. Her raven locks enchant with each expertly curled ringlet, making men wish they could be the ones to tug them loose. They never suspect her until it’s too late. Her scarlet painted lips match her victim’s blood as it seeps from their gaping wounds.
Beyond this point, you’ll see the world as it happened through her eyes, and… a man’s. Who is this man, you may ask? If I answer that now, I’ll be giving it all away. Instead, allow me this moment of secrecy for the story to unfold as it will.
We meet her in a park. See her just there, beneath the fog looking almost ethereal.
Marigold Peppins walks with purpose, dressed all in black. Like Mary Mack, except instead of buttons- she has a zipper down her back. Her skirt floats around her as if it’s carried by the air itself. Her birds flock closely behind, eager for their next treat, fluttering their feathers in a frenzy. They are always such ravenous creatures, needing constant coddling, which Marigold is more than happy to provide. They know what this trip means, having done it all before.
“Soon, my pets.” She coos, tossing a handful of seed on the cobblestone ground. It isn’t meat, but it will tide them over for now. “Mummy’s going to get you a proper meal.” Her melodic voice sends her crows into a flutter, almost as if they understand her. They squawk at her words, wings flapping with excitement.
The empty park offers a perfect recluse for her on this gloomy day as dead leaves flit across the path in a hurry to follow the wind. Above, the clouds are thick and threatening, but she pays them no mind.
She finds herself a worn park bench and brings out the day’s paper from her carpet coated bag as she sits with her elegant legs crossed. Flipping to the advertisement section, she finds exactly what she was looking for.
In bold print letters, a governess position jumps out at her immediately. The family is in need of one for two young children at Blackford Manor, no prior experience necessary. A wicked grin graces her scarlet stained lips.
“I believe we’ve just found our new position.” A raven swoops down onto her shoulder, craning its neck to look at the paper. She reaches up, scratching its feathered head. “What do you think, Alfred?” She asks, gently stroking her gloved hand down its back.
The animal’s wings flutter in response. “Quite right.” She answers, with a sharp nod.
Standing up - she feels a light drizzle spattering against her porcelain skin. She tilts her head up at the sky tracking a weathervane that takes a sharp turn in the opposite direction.
“Winds in the east.” She murmurs with a hint of a smile as she reaches inside her bag, pulling out an umbrella whose handle is carved out of bone in the shape of a crude birdlike head.
“I think the Blackfords will be pleased to meet their new governess.”
The birds take flight at her words, cawing loudly into the sky.
She opens her umbrella and raises it above her head. “To Blackford Manor.” She commands, clinging to the handle as it lifts her into the air, leaving the deserted park below as she drifts silently into the storm clouds.
Proceed with caution my dearest reader. If you so choose to follow her into the clouds, you might not come back the same.
BARRETT
This house presses in on me. It’s dark. Haunted with memories I wish to forget. The walls hold an echo of what once was. A dusty film in the shape of a rectangle clings to the outline of where a picture of a happy couple once hung. One that I’d burned in a fit of rage in the middle of the night. Ghosts of my past taunt me at every corner. You’d think I’d want to leave a place that brings me such misery, but I can’t seem to let it go. To leave where Harriet and I had been so full of happiness. Where I can still picture her bright eyes and wide smile, seems unfathomable. I can still see us so clearly out in the garden, drinking tea and talking about nothing and everything like we hadn’t a care in the world. Our love was a wild all-encompassing thing. One that sunk its teeth deep into my heart and left it a shriveled husk of an organ when it was snuffed out as quickly as a candle. I found myself still clinging to the embers that remained, though they’d long been extinguished from the moment she took her last breath. When I was young and foolish, I thought love could conquer all. But it couldn’t. It couldn’t overcome death. It couldn’t bring my Harriet back to me. Back to us.
Visions of her bleeding out before me flicker in my mind, her wild scared eyes rimmed red clamping onto me. “Barrett, no.” those two words, her last words, tumbling from the mouth that held my first kiss.
I take a long swig of my drink, shoving the memory away. A nightcap that’s turned into three. A way to numb myself from the ever-present pain. Life chewed me up and spat me back out as a frightful apparition. Merely surviving because I made a promise and full of darkness.
A shrill cry pierces the quiet halls rousing me from my melancholy. I stand from my perched position on the stairs to head up to the nursery. My steps are heavy with insomnia. Tiredness clings to my bones as I shuffle like the drunkard, I’ve become up the steep black steps. I get a glimpse of myself in an ornate gilded mirror that looks as if I’m but a shadow of who I once was. My dark hair is overgrown, curling at the base of my neck. Scruff dots my jawline and my cheekbones have become sharpened and gaunt-like, accentuating their pointed appearance like two crisp slashes down my face. My once bright brown eyes look muddied, hollowed out by grief. Harriet would have hated what’s become of me. I can almost hear her scolding voice as my slippers creak against the floorboards.
When I reach the top, I pause. Hand poised midair between my body and the door handle. The nursery is a place Harriet had poured her heart and soul into decorating, sitting in at least a dozen rocking chairs until she found the right one. It’s shoved in the corner of the room now, cobwebs coating its wooden frame. I can’t bring myself to sit in it.
Sarah’s wails intensify and I finally push my way in, meeting her tear-streaked face and ruddy cheeks. The door’s hinges creak as I shut it behind me.
The children have been restless since I’d fired their most recent governess- the incompetent wretch of a woman. She didn’t even know that you have to check the temperature of the bottle before feeding it to a baby. The agency had promised that she came highly recommended, but clearly, she’s a daft cow of a woman.
I pull at the back of my neck while the baby’s screams echo off the high ceiling. Harriet would have known what to do. She always did. She was a natural when Royland was born. Having a second child was an easy decision. If only we had known that it would result in Harriet’s death, maybe we wouldn’t have gone through with having a second.
I feel a wave of guilt for thinking such a thing as I stare down at Sarah’s face, a mirror image of my late wife’s, as her chest sucks in a breath to continue her shrill cries. It’s as if she knows a part of me blames her, no matter how incorrect that is.
