The Forbidden Room

The Manor

The ride to my new home is a long one. The folding top of the landau protects us from the rain but it is a city carriage which does not cushion the bumps of the country road we take to reach the Ashton Estate. More than once, I have to hold on to the leather seat when we hit a pothole. Every time, my husband reaches out from his seat opposite me, ready to grab me in case I come flying his way.

After the third time this happens, he says with an annoyed frown, "You'll have to forgive Sam. He is the worst driver in the whole empire, I'm afraid."

I bite my lip, because to me this is rather funny and he doesn't seem to think so.

"Roads are always a bit perilous in winter," I say.

He grunts and looks outside the glazed door. "We're almost there."

I follow his gaze as we enter the estate through a narrow dirt road marked by two tall stone pillars. The road is lined with yew trees and after two turns I catch a glance of a chapel amidst overgrown vegetation. As we come nearer the main building, it becomes clear that the park is unkempt and neglected.

The house itself appears into view after another turn and I lean closer to the window to survey it. It is a very large country house with turrets and elaborate stone carvings around the arched windows.

"My father built the mansion," my husband says when he sees me staring. "He loved the Gothic Revival movement."

His tone is bored. Or bitter. I can't tell.

As the carriage draws near the house and stops by the entrance porch, it appears that what used to be terraced lawns in front of the building are now a meadow with wild grass. Beyond, hundreds of bare trees fill the park, like dark skeletons in the distance.

"What's this?" I point at a brick wall covered with bare branches of ivy.

"A walled kitchen garden," my husband replies as he opens the carriage door and steps outside. "We don't use it anymore."

He extends his hand to help me out of the landau. I gather my skirts and take it before I go down the two steps. I wrinkle my nose as the soles of my delicate flat shoes hit the gravel.

When I look up, Sam, the driver, is standing next to the horses and patting one on the neck. He is wearing a grey over-coat and black boots that are wet and splattered with mud. He isn't much older than I am.

"Please, come in," my husband says as he leads me inside the house.

I follow him, grateful to find myself out of the rain, but I'm surprised to enter a dark and cold entrance hall. I can barely see the grand staircase leading upstairs and the wooden floor under my feet, until my husband lights a candlestick and I give a start at the tall mirror on my right.

For an instant I have a white apparition before my eyes until I realise it's my own reflection I am staring at. I do look even paler than usual in my white outfit.

As my frantic heartbeat calms down, I take off my hat and gloves and we go into the first room on the left, which turns out to be a dusty parlour.

"I rarely use the rooms on this floor," my husband explains. "I live upstairs most of the time."

"Why is that?"

I'm afraid to touch anything for fear of leaving a stain on my white clothing.

"As I have mostly lived alone here," he says as he starts a fire in the hearth, "I have found that it's easier."

The logs in the fireplace are catching fire and I ask before I can stop myself: "Where are your domestics?"

I bite my lip. I have been rude. But he stands up without any sign of annoyance. "I only have two servants. Sam is my butler, my footman, my stable-boy and anything else I need him to be. I also have a cook, Mrs Edwards. We'll have to hire a housemaid for you."

"That would be most kind." I smile.

I love the sound of this. I have always dreamed of having my own housemaid.

The next half-hour is spent touring the rest of the house. A big bunch of keys in his hand, my husband unlocks countless doors and leads the way into a myriad of unused rooms, from the large dining room filled with cobwebs to the music room and its abandoned piano, from the sitting room with its shutters closed to the study with high book shelves covered in dust. We go up and down flights of stairs, down to the cellar and up in the bedrooms, and everywhere there are dark corridors, unused furniture and velvet chairs where no one has sat in ages.

"I'm afraid I'll get lost," I say as we turn onto a landing and I find myself unable to recognise my surroundings.

"You'll learn to find your way very soon," my husband replies with a reassuring nod, "this is not the labyrinth it appears to be at first. We are back on the ground floor here."

He is holding the candlestick between us as he talks. I can't decide on the colour of his eyes and it bothers me. All I see is the reflection of the flame in his irises. I take a step towards the last door at the end of the corridor.

"What's over there?"

"Another unused room," he replies, before adding quickly, "shall we go upstairs and have a cup of tea?"

I frown at his sudden impatience. A moment ago he seemed eager to have me visit every corner of the mansion, including its cobwebbed broom closets. But my feet are hurting and I wouldn't mind a drink to warm my frozen limbs.

"I would love a cup of tea," I say with a smile.

"This way." He nods in the opposite direction.

I follow him, glancing one last time at the only closed door that I didn't go beyond today.

***

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