Siyao's Short Story: Behind Closed Doors

Behind Closed Doors

                 “Excuse me, pardon me!” Lydia Monet chanted over and over again as she pushed through the crowded station. Her trunk smashed repeatedly into her legs as the mob of passengers pushed her slight form this way and that. Ducking past a red-faced gentleman with a rotund stomach barely contained by his straining waistcoat, Lydia finally managed to extract herself from the sea of people and off the platform. Shielding her eyes from the glaring sun, Lydia gazed around at the lively streets of London, England. Well, I made it, she thought, now what? Her self-imposed question was answered presently by the appearance of a young man.

“Would you happen to be Miss Monet?” he asked. Upon receiving a hesitant nod, the man introduced himself as Charles Hardcastle and explained that he had volunteered to escort Lydia to her new home on behalf of her employers. With a rather ostentatious sweep of his hat, he guided her into a waiting carriage as the driver loaded her suitcase in the back. 

“How’d you know?” Lydia blurted out before she could stop herself. Mr. Hardcastle raised an inquiring eyebrow, seemingly unfazed by her abruptness.

“How’d you know who I was?” She elaborated as the carriage jerked into movement.

“It wasn’t all that hard,” he replied; face breaking into a grin, “you were the only young lady standing alone outside the station with a lost expression on her face. If you don’t mind me saying so, Miss Monet, you also have that air of a foreigner about you.”

“Oh, I see. Well, that can’t be helped.” Lydia tugged at a lock of curly, pale blonde hair that had escaped the confines of her bun and turned her attention to the window. She watched as they turned onto a dirt road lined on both sides by waves of green. “Is [town] far from London?”

“Only a couple of miles,” he answered, “but I should warn you that it’s quite rural, nothing like the city.”

 “Why do you suppose that my employers chose to settle down there then?”

“To escape the hustle and bustle of London, I expect. As noble as their lineage may be, the Crawfords have always been a….queer lot. I believe they enjoy the isolation from high society. After the tragedy of the previous year, they have very nearly boarded themselves up in their manor. In fact, you’re the talk of the town because of it. A new addition to their private household and a foreign girl at that; the news has gotten all the old ladies talking.”

“Tragedy?”

“Haven’t you been informed?” Charles Hardcastle looked taken aback. Then, he launched into a vivid retelling of “The Incident” as he had dubbed it.

Lydia listened avidly as he described the morning in which Lord Crawford had sent for the local physician to examine his wife for, as the lord kept repeating, “She would not wake.” According to the physician, it was too late and Lady Crawford was already beyond his help. Charles story was constantly punctuated and thereby lengthened by Lydia’s various questions, but he finally managed to conclude with: “The coroner announced that it had been an accidental death but –”

“What? But what?” Lydia cut him off for the umpteenth time, her blue eyes sparkling at the prospect of something far more exciting than an accident.

“Ah.” Charles looked amused. “We’ve arrived, Miss Monet. I’m afraid that my story must end there.” Indeed, the carriage had, without Lydia’s knowledge, entered [town] and stopped in front of a mansion that made all the other residences in the town appear no better than shacks in comparison.

He laughed at her disappointed expression. “Cheer up, Miss Monet. My tale can’t possibly compare to getting the real story straight from the horse’s mouth, right?”

Lydia sighed, but jumped down and took her bags from the silent driver with a word of thanks. Charles gave Lydia a farewell wave and with a snap of the reins and the clatter of hooves, she was alone again, facing the entrance to her new home with sudden trepidation.

“Hello?” she called out, craning her neck in an attempt to find a guard or the like. When no response was forthcoming, Lydia took a deep breath, reached out, and pushed.  The huge, gleaming, wrought-iron gates swung smoothly forward to allow 19 year old Lydia Monet cross into a new chapter of her life. [ I apologize for the cheesiness, couldn't help myself :) ]

“About time you showed up!” Lydia was met at the doorway by an old woman whose face was lined with wrinkles. Wrinkles that Lydia immediately guessed were the results of a life full frowns rather than smiles. The woman introduced herself as the head housekeeper and gave Lydia an once-over, barking out. “My lord, you are a right mess. Your dress is full of wrinkles, your shoes need a good polish, and don’t get me started with your hair. It looks like your sporting a bird’s nest on the top of your head!”

                “I’m sorry…” Lydia murmured, though she could feel indignation flare up inside her. The feeling morphed when she stared around at the grandeur of the entrance hall and then looked down at her plain, slightly muddied attire; the contrast between the two was mortifying and she could feel her cheeks flaming. 

                “Never mind that for now. Follow me.” The old woman harrumphed and took off at a brisk pace after motioning for a valet to get Lydia’s luggage. Lydia hurried after her, head still lowered in shame. 

                “This is the entrance hall, the first door to your left leads to the dining hall, third door to the right leads to the east wing where guests stay. That door leads to the lord’s study and that one to the parlor…” the lady droned on and on at a pace faster than her walk until Lydia’s head spun. Finally, the old woman came to a halt and rounded on Lydia.

                “I hope you aren’t as dumb as you look girl.” she snapped, “For I’m not repeating that again. Here are your quarters. You’ll be sharing them with the other maids. Well, go on in. They will explain your duties once they have finished with their own.”

Lydia shuffled in obediently without a spark of the liveliness that had filled her during her journey. She looked around, noting the numerous cots, candle stubs, and plain, wooden furniture that comprised of her new room. Hardly first-class, but what luxuries could I have expected as a scullery maid?

Feeling the old woman’s eyes burning holes into the back of her skull, Lydia moved forward and set her things on the only empty bed. She began to unpack mechanically as the door slammed shut and footsteps retreated down the hall. When she was sure that the woman was gone, Lydia dumped the rest of her things onto the folded piles and flopped on top of the mess. Who cares about that horrid woman, she tried to consol herself, I am Lydia Monet and I have never stood to be humiliated in such a way before. But, a cruel, little voice in the back of her head interjected, that was before. Now, you’re all alone and desperate enough to take a post as a maid. Lydia stood, willing the tears to go away. I need a distraction. She returned to the door. Carefully, she turned the handle and peeked out into the seemingly deserted hallway. She was just about to step outside when she heard people coming down the corridor.

When the maids entered their shared room a few minutes later, they found Lydia carefully arranging the last of her possessions, a highly polished frame containing a picture of a beaming, middle age couple swinging their child between them, near the head of her bed. The tallest of the girls stepped forward with obvious authority and looked Lydia up and down.

“Hullo, you must be the new girl. I’m Elizabeth. This is Rebecca,” Elizabeth gestured to her right, “and on her other side is Anne. The redhead is Mary.”

Each maid nodded politely as she was introduced. There was a long pause, then Rebecca took up the conversation the others were having before they entered the room. Though they tried to include Lydia, the newest among their ranks claimed to be too tired and climbed into bed. It is quite easy, Lydia realized as she closed her eyes, to drown out their mindless chatter about how once upon a time a butcher’s girl was supposedly engaged to the son of some high-ranking official or lord. There was only one logical explanation behind their sudden and immediate wedding…

                The monotonous days blended into weeks and weeks into months until the morning Lydia woke up to her 92nd day in the Crawford’s residence. Her daily routine had permanently ingrained itself into her brain. Wake up, get dressed, make breakfast, clean, clean, clean..., she recited dully to herself as she pulled on her uniform and hurried to the kitchen.

                “Lydia, my dear,” the cook, Martha, greeted cheerfully. “You’ve arrived just in time. Would you mind taking this to the master and his guest? They’re in the parlor.”

                “Guest? At this time?” Lydia accepted the tray with care; she had already dropped one too many cups in her time here.

                “Yes, Ms. Wesley has deemed it appropriate to visit yet again.” The cook’s expression betrayed her disapproval. “Not a care about her reputation at all…”

                Lydia quickly exited before the cook could go into yet another one of her rants of how the younger generation was these days. She did wonder, however, why Ms. Wesley was here before breakfast. Martha’s right of course, she admitted as she made her way through the manor, the gossip mongers would descend upon  the single mother like vultures if they knew of her random and often untimely visits to the widowed Crawford so soon after his wife’s death.                

                “I….aware….murder…calm down…”

                Lydia froze at the door to the parlor with one hand poised to knock. The voices on the other side rose even louder with anger and she was able to make out the words: “You know as well as I that she did not die of an overdose. Your wife, my sister, was murdered! Are you honestly going to stand there and pretend that all is well?!”

                A second voice, this one distinctly male, murmured something and Lydia pressed her ear against the wood.

 “Keep your voice down, Jane. I am not going to let my wife’s death go without retribution, but I believe we have already decided to approach this with delicacy. You, screaming bloody murder in the middle of my estate, are just about as subtle as a bull in a china shop.”

                Lydia’s eyes widened and her thoughts flew back to the day of her arrival. “The coroner announced that it had been an accidental death but –” Those had been Charles’ words and now…oh, I wish that I hadn’t interrupted him. What had he been about to say? Did Lord Crawford suspect foul play as well? What did he know? Murder of all things! Why hadn't he told anyone? How did Ms. Wesley fit into it all? What did she mean by “sister? Lady Crawford was an only child, right?  Each question led to another question and to another until Lydia’s head spun. She managed to firmly push down her raging curiosity just in time to hear Lord Crawford heave a huge sigh and say, “Then we are agreement?”

                “We are.” The other replied. There came the sound of skirts rustling. “I should go.”

                Lydia immediately lurched away from the door and darted back down the hall, clutching the tea tray for dear life. In her haste, Lydia smacked right into Arthur, the butler, who was just turning the corner. He reached out and steadied her with one gloved hand, the other balancing the tray with a skill honed from decades serving the Crawford family.

                “My lord!”

Lydia groaned as the familiar voice rang through the halls. The aged housekeeper bore down on Lydia, her face a mass of wrinkles contorted into that infamous scowl. “What were you thinking, running down the halls in such a manner? From day one I knew you lacked the grace to be a lady but I believed you had the sense not to race around like a headless chicken. You should thank the gods that Arthur was there or else you would have broken yet another set of tableware!” 

Lydia’s face hardened but she managed to keep her temper in check. “I apologize.” she said stiffly, reaching up and retrieving the still loaded tray from the butler.

“Oh, give me that.” The housekeeper snatched it from Lydia’s hands. “I’ll deliver this myself. Lord knows if you want something done properly; you have to do it yourself.”  With those departing words, the housekeeper left.

“I am sorry, Arthur.” Lydia repeated, this time with genuine repentance. “I should have watched where I was going.”

“No harm done.” He waved away the apology. “Why were you in such a hurry anyways?”  

“I just remembered that I was late for a…I-I had to…the umm…the library.” Lydia finished lamely, gesturing at the nearest door which happened to lead to said room.

“Ah, yes. Books are rather demanding masters, aren’t they? Better hurry, you wouldn’t want to keep them waiting.” the butler’s eyes twinkled with mirth. 

TBC