The Bride of Ashbyrn House Read online

  “Where is it?” I shout, reaching for her neck again.

  She flinches and lets out a terrified whimper, but I force her against the wall and then I crouch down, leaning closer to her sobbing face. After a moment she raises her hands, as if to hide behind them. Pathetic. She could at least fight back.

  “This is the last time I shall deign to ask you,” I say firmly. “Think carefully before you answer. Where is the painting?”

  “Katinka -”

  “Where is it?” I scream.

  “Don't hurt me!” she sobs. “Please, Katinka...”

  “I told you to leave it in this room!” I sneer, tilting my head a little as tears stream down her face. “I warned you, and you disobeyed me! Now you will tell me what you have done with it!”

  I wait for an answer, but none is forthcoming.

  “Now!” I scream, leaning closer.

  “It's in the outhouse,” she gurgles. “Katinka, please, I am your mother! You cannot treat me this way!”

  “I can treat you however I wish, in my own home,” I continue. “You should be thankful that I have such restraint, otherwise I would administer such a beating to you, one from which you might never recover!” I pause for a moment, recognizing the weakness of her whimpering sobs. “How did you even get the painting to the outhouse, anyway?” I ask. “You're a pathetic sack of meat and bones, you couldn't carry that painting more than a few feet. Who helped you?”

  Hearing a faint bump nearby, I turn and look toward the doorway, where Charles is standing.

  “I thought you'd left!” I hiss.

  “I came back for my hat,” he replies, his eyes wide with shock. “Katinka...”

  His voice trails off.

  I pause for a moment, before getting to my feet. I give my sobbing mother one final kick, enough to elicit a final cry of fear, and then I straighten my dress as I make my way back over to my fiance. Mother is whimpering behind me, but she is no longer worthy of my attention.

  “You must forgive me,” I tell Charles, “but she tries my patience most terribly. I shall be glad when she has gone to Goostrey, and it will be just you and I alone here at Ashbyrn House. Just the two of us.”

  “Yes,” he replies, his voice trembling with fear, “that does sound... marvelous. But...”

  “But what?” I ask. “Charles, I have a great many things to do today, and I simply cannot stand here talking about inconsequential matters. In fact, I -”

  Suddenly Mother lets out another pained sob.

  “Quiet!” I hiss, turning to her, before glancing back at Charles. “Ignore her,” I tell him. “She only wants attention.”

  He opens his mouth to reply, but no words come out. Instead, his bottom lip flaps slightly, reminding me rather of a guppy.

  “What do you want , man?” I continue. “This quarrel between Mother and I need not concern you. If you have found your hat, perhaps you should be on your way, and we shall not see one another until our wedding on Saturday. Do you not have any business left away from Ashbyrn House? Nothing to which you must attend?”

  “Of course,” he replies, “but...”

  He looks past me for a moment, toward Mother's sobbing form on the floor.

  “Don't worry about her,” I say with a sigh. “She will be gone after the wedding. And did you hear? Pippa's murderer was caught and marched straight to the hanging post in town, so even that matter has been dealt with. My most pressing concern now is my dress, which is almost perfect. You want me to make you proud on the big day, do you not? Charles, I shall be the most wonderful bride any man ever saw. Of that, you can be assured.”

  He opens his mouth to reply, but something seems to be holding him back. There's fear in his eyes, but there's also something new, something I'm not sure I've noticed in him before.

  Doubt.

  “Marry me and you get Ashbyrn House,” I remind him. “Well, you get to share it, at least. Fail to marry me, and you shall fall into poverty. Would you like to end up behind bars, Charles? You have a great deal of debt. You have need of a wife who possesses a fortune, and I have need of a fine and respectable-looking husband. I am upholding my end of that deal. Please, promise me you will uphold yours.”

  Again, I wait for a reply, and again he seems uncertain.

  “I should remind you,” I add, “that I take a very dim view of people who back out of agreements. Very dim indeed.”

  “Of course,” he stammers, and it is clear that he understands the truth. He has no choice but to marry me. “You have my word.”

  “Then see to it,” I continue, adjusting his collar slightly, “that you look the part on Saturday. We have many guests coming, and it would be a terrible shame if the wedding were to appear in any way imperfect. Don't let the side down, Charles.”

  “Of course not.”

  He offers a faint smile, before mumbling something about attending to business, and finally he hurries along the corridor.

  “And Charles!” I call after him.

  He turns to me.

  “Do not fret,” I continue, “if you are overcome by a sense of your own inadequacy. That is something that I shall work on, once we are married. By hook or by crook, I shall make you a better man.”

  “Of course,” he stammers, and then he hurries away.

  Stepping over to the window, I watch as he heads out of the house. He's clutching his hat, and there's a hint of fear in his eyes, but I know that he'll be back on Saturday for the wedding. Given his precarious financial situation, he has no choice, and the man's stupidity has limits. And then I shall, indeed, begin to mold him and turn him into a satisfactory husband. He definitely has potential.

  Behind me, Mother is still weeping on the floor.

  “Oh, stop that awful noise,” I mutter, still watching Charles as he heads to the gate. “You bore me, Mother. I honestly don't know what Father saw in you.”

  I turn to her.

  “I shall be a better wife to Charles than you ever were to Father,” I add, allowing myself a faint smile. “But first, I shall be the perfect bride. And if anybody tries to stand in my way again, I shall deal with them accordingly.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Owen - Today

  “No!” Vanessa screams suddenly. “Stop! Owen, help!”

  Sitting up suddenly, I realize I must have fallen asleep at my laptop. I can hear someone bumping against the wall in one of the upstairs rooms, but it takes a couple more seconds before my sleep-addled mind clears and I remember that Vanessa is here.

  “Owen!” she shouts. “Help me!”

  Getting to my feet, I hobble out of the room and over to the stairs. I have no idea what's going on up on the next floor, but it sounds as if Vanessa is throwing herself around the bedroom. Despite the pain in my leg, I limp up to the landing and then along to her door, only to find that it's locked. I try the handle a couple more times, before realizing that I didn't even give Vanessa a key. There's no way she could have locked herself inside.

  “What's wrong?” I shout, as I hear what sounds like a struggle on the other side. “Vanessa?”

  “Help me!” she screams. “Owen, please!”

  I try the door again, but still it won't budge.

  “Open the door!” I yell.

  “Help!”

  Realizing that something must be very wrong, I take a step back and then I throw myself shoulder-first at the door. To my surprise, I manage to break through at the first attempt, although I'm unable to keep myself from crashing to the floor. I let out a cry of pain as I land on my damaged left leg, but I quickly sit up and look over to the bed, where Vanessa is shivering with her back against the wall.

  “What is it?” I stammer, crawling toward her and then slowly, painfully, getting to my feet. “What's wrong?”

  “She was here,” she gasps, with tears streaming down her face. Her terrified eyes dart around the room, as if she expects to see someone at any moment. “Owen, she was right here!”

  “Who?” I ask, t
urning but seeing no-one.

  “Who do you think?” she sobs. “I saw her! I woke up and I saw her silhouetted against the window! She was looking out at the garden, but the moonlight was...”

  She hesitates, as if the memory is too horrific. After a moment, she reaches up and touches her fingertips against her face.

  “I saw her,” she whispers. “And then she... Owen, she turned to look straight at me.”

  Limping over to the bed, I sit next to her and put a hand on her shoulder.

  “I think maybe you had a nightmare,” I explain. “I know these things can seem very vivid, but you have to stay rational here, Vanessa. You just -”

  “It wasn't a nightmare!” she spits back at me, before looking past me toward the window and pointing. “She was right there!”

  I look over my shoulder, but all I see is the window with a patch of moonlight cast across the floor.

  “She was standing there,” Vanessa sobs, “and then she looked this way, and then she turned and stepped toward me. She was holding flowers in her hands, and she had the veil over her face, but she walked to the bed and then she made her way around and...”

  Again, her voice trails off as she looks past me, as if she's remembering the sight of the bride walking past the bed. I've never seen Vanessa in such a terrible state before, but her whole body seems to be trembling and fresh tears are rolling down her face.

  “You have to believe me,” she continues, reaching forward and clutching me in a strong hug. “Owen, I saw her! I saw Katinka Ashbyrn!”

  “I'm sure you think you saw her,” I reply cautiously, “but there really can't have been anybody in here. The door was locked, and I don't even know how you managed to do that. I don't have keys for any of the doors up here!”

  “She hates me,” Vanessa whispers.

  I can't help sighing. “You don't -”

  “She put glass in my food,” she stammers, pulling back until I can see her tear-filled eyes again, “and then she came to my room! Don't you get it? It was her! I don't know why, but I think she hates me! I think...”

  She pauses, staring at me with a growing sense of realization.

  “It's because of you,” she adds finally.

  “I'm sorry?”

  “Katinka Ashbyrn was a jealous, vindictive woman,” she continues. “That's what I heard, anyway. I think she hates me because she sees me as a rival for...”

  Again, her voice trails off. She seems genuinely shocked by some realization.

  “Right,” I say cautiously, starting to understand where she's coming from. “So you think there's a ghost here, and she's fallen in love with me, and now she's jealous because you showed up?”

  “You don't know the story of Katinka Ashbyrn,” she stammers. “I do! I heard about it when I was in the town earlier. The woman was insane, she was driven by this need to find a man and have the perfect life together. I don't think it even mattered which man, just so long as she got what she wanted. I'm sure you're more than enough for her.”

  “I'm sure even the most deluded soul would understand,” I reply, “that being dead is something of a disadvantage when it comes to social climbing.”

  “We're getting out of here,” she continues, scrambling to get dressed. “I know you, Owen. You're obstinate and you don't change your mind easily, but you can see reason! You might have refused to learn about the history of Ashbyrn House, but -”

  “I refused because I don't want to fall into this paranoid trap!” I hiss.

  “And what about now?” she asks. “Why are you refusing now?”

  “Because it's nonsense!”

  “It's because you're scared!” she shouts. “I can see it in your eyes! You know there's something here, you've seen it, but you're still hiding behind this insistence that there can't possibly be anything hiding in the shadows! Deep down, you know that the ghost of Katinka Ashbyrn is still in this house, but you just can't bring yourself to face the truth!”

  She turns to me, and I can see the fear in her eyes.

  “You're so worried about seeing ghosts when they aren't there,” she adds, “that you can't even see when one's really in the house with you.”

  I open my mouth to tell her that she's wrong, but she quickly pushes past me, hurrying out onto the landing.

  “It's midnight!” I call after her. “You can't drive away at midnight!”

  “You're coming with me!”

  Sighing, I head over to the doorway. Looking out to the landing, I see Vanessa hurrying toward the top of the stairs.

  “This is my home!” I shout. “Why can't you just accept that I've moved on?”

  “There's a monster here!” she yells, turning back to me. “Katinka Ashbyrn was an evil, jealous bitch when she was alive, and she's still an -”

  Before she can finish, a scream fills the air. Horrified, I watch as a blurred figure rushes toward Vanessa and shoves her back, sending her toppling down the stairs until she falls from view. A moment later, I hear a crashing sound down below as she slams against the hallway floor, and at the same time the ghostly bride turns to look directly at me before finally fading into thin air.

  “Vanessa?” I stammer, too shocked to move before finally I start hobbling forward. “Vanessa, say something! Vanessa!”

  I stay well clear of the spot where the bride was standing. I keep telling myself that she wasn't really there, but my heart is pounding and I think I might be way past the point of denial.

  “Vanessa!” I shout. “Are you okay?”

  As soon as I get to the top of the stairs, I see why Vanessa hasn't replied. Her crumpled body is down in the hallway, with her head twisted at an ungodly angle. I open my mouth to call out to her, but suddenly I hear a faint gasping sound over my shoulder. Just as I'm about to turn, I feel something slithering against my shoulders, and I look down to see two pale arms wrapping themselves around me from behind. Bony hands press against my chest, as if I'm being hugged. And then, finally, I hear an old, hungry voice whispering in my left ear.

  “Mine.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Katinka - 1859

  “Mine. All mine.”

  I cannot help but smile as those words leave my lips. This time tomorrow, Charles shall indeed be mine, and I shall be his. My lifelong ambition to become a wife will finally be complete, and I feel certain that Father is watching down upon me with great pride. He must have seen the terrible ordeals to which I have been subjected, and he must understand that I have done my best against the prevailing current. I have been surrounded by fools, yet I have stuck to my guns and I have won.

  “Mine,” I whisper again, savoring that word.

  Charles might have his rough edges, he might require a great deal of work, but he is at least the basis for a good man. A wife has many jobs, and one of them is to take what she marries and mold it, to improve it, and I feel absolutely certain that Charles – with my help, of course – will eventually become a fine and upstanding figure in the local community. People will admire him, just as they once admired Father.

  Well, almost.

  No man can ever be quite as fine as Father. I still remember how I used to hide just outside the door to his study, and how I used to peer around the edge and watch him as he worked. Father always looked like a great man, but never more so than when he was at his desk. I am no great believer in the need to analyze one's own mind, but I am sure that Father is the reason why I so esteem a man who writes. Why, any time I see a man at a desk, I always feel a faint stirring in my heart.

  Charles never sits at a desk.

  Perhaps he shall, in time. Especially after I offer Father's desk to him as a wedding gift. Perhaps he'll take to writing at the desk, the way Father wrote there. And if he does not, I shall train him to sit there anyway. Even now, I feel a shudder pass through my chest at the mere thought, and for a few seconds I lose myself in a kind of waking dream. I see Charles at Father's desk, and I see him writing something dreadfully important, and I don't eve
n realize at first that I have begun to grin like an absolute fool. A moment later, a tear even rolls down my cheek.

  My bible rests next to me. The bible Father gave me all those years ago. The bible that will be used for my wedding, just as I have always dreamed.

  Forcing myself to focus on the task at hand, I dip my fingers into the glass jar that rests on my dresser, and I get back to the job of applying my beauty regimen. The paraffin makes my face feel so soft and gentle, but I must admit that I'm not yet fully enthused about Mrs. Whitaker's fat-and-gooseberry concoction. As I sit at my bedroom mirror, I see no real improvement to my complexion. If anything, I look rather pale and waxy, but I suppose I must give it a few more tries. The wedding is tomorrow, and I feel certain that I shall look radiant.

  Once the various lotions and potions have been applied, I get to my feet and head over to the mirror. I hesitate for a moment, before untying my corset and letting it slip away. I instantly flinch as I see the thick, bloodied wounds on either side of my waist, and it is clear that I have not healed as rapidly as I might have hoped. The wounds are red and pink, with pockets of yellow, and I fear that they might leave scars. Still, who sees a woman's naked body? Nobody but herself. Even Charles will have to make do with his imagination.

  And I shall never kill again.

  Looking down at my shaking hands, I feel immensely proud of myself for holding back with Mother. She was so infuriating, so utterly awful, that I was sorely tempted to bash her head open against the fireplace. And yet I composed myself and refused to yield to my darker desires, and Mother still draws breath. I am not a murderer. What I did to Pippa was a dreadful shame, but it was also very necessary and everybody has their breaking point. Still, I shall hurt no-one else, not now. I am a better person than that, by far.

  I take a set of bandages from the dresser and start wrapping them around my waist. Nearby, my wedding gown waits for tomorrow, with its perfect white veil resting on one of the shoulders. All that's left is for me to sew weights into the hem, so that the gown hangs properly in case of a breeze, and then I'll be ready.