I.
Like a man waiting to march to the hangman’s noose, my hands desperately searched the remains of the old writing desk. Sweat soaked the stifling collar wrapping around my neck. The salty grains trapped within the fabric chafed against my skin. I reached to pull it away. Anything to grant relief against the hastening breath causing my lungs to ache. The sensation was uncomfortable, yet I knew I had to persevere. For the story I knew I must do something. The tale I had to tell needed to be shared before the coming dawn and I was no longer here to warn others of the dangers of falling for the most beautiful creature in the room.
I tore drawers from their railings, ripped loose panels from their resting places. When my search produced nothing, I muttered a curse. Tears stung the corner of my eyes as I repeatedly questioned how things had come to this. My life was the most ideal any man could ever hope for.
My knuckles turned red from the repeated rapping on the old writing desk. After suffering such abuse, they’d quickly turn from their crimson tint to that of a ripened grape if given the opportunity. The prospect looked highly unlikely if my fate were the same as so many before me.
The relentless banging must have agitated a secret compartment, for I heard a loud crash from underneath the desk. I knelt to see where the panel came from only to find an old journal. Trembling hands flipped open the worn leather cover and I began to read, my breath stalling in my throat with each hastily scrawled word.
The story’s beginning read so much like mine. Frantic turning of pages revealed the recount remained unfinished. The last entry full of the rambling emotions of a person torn and wishing only to return to their lover. I could relate, for I had my own lady who no doubt stared out of her chamber window wondering and praying if I were safe. How I longed to be in her arms and kiss her rosy lips. We were to be married come spring. She the daughter of a wealthy entrepreneur of whale oil and other fine commodities. Oh, what I would say to her if given the chance by some miracle to see her again.
Tears began to fall as I started to write my own demented tale. If only to warn others not to fall for the same trap. Beyond the paned window of my prison, a storm began to rage. A harbinger of the dark fate to come.
The words came naturally as my heart slowly sank into the dark realisation: I was never going to leave this wicked place:
“My story began with a macabre and vague invitation. As the son of a once known author, I’d arrived in London with the hope of becoming a renowned musician. The cello had captured my attention as a young boy and – despite my drunken father’s arguments against it – I would spend all the free hours I wasn’t with nursemaids and tutors to teach myself the intricacies of the haunting melodies the cello wove upon me. Long nights and early mornings went into becoming a requested name in the small village I called home. I began playing at funerals, in Sunday mass, and certain smaller parties hosted by local higher class living in nearby towns. Little did I know that word had spread so far as to reach the ears of a man who would place me on the queer path to things unseen and mysteries no mortal man would believe if he had not seen them himself.”
I took a moment from scribbling to wipe the tears and sweat away from eyes and brow. Recounting these events made me question what manner of madness drove me to accept the invitation. Was it the desire of fame? Fortune? God forgive me, had I fallen for man’s greatest sins yet again? Pen went to page once more to continue weaving my loathsome tale, picking it up on a night much like the one presently raging.
“The messenger should have been the first sign to what waited beyond. He was an older man with a taller than average top hat that bent at the top. The ragged thing looked as old and tattered as something buried beneath the ground for many years.
‘Evening, sir, might you be the young musician folks across the countryside rant about?’ The old man asked in a gravelly voice I took suffered too many hits of the pipe multiple years. He obviously enjoyed his drink and tobacco from the yellowing of his teeth and pungent spell wafting from him.
I might have wretched if I hadn’t been used to the same odour permeating from my father so deeply it leaked from his skin. ‘I don’t know about that, sir. I have played for a few socialites, but I’m not really one to bask in pride or any such sin as that.’
‘Oh, come now. No need to be so modest, lad,” the man said in his thick English accent. “Talent’s a rare thing these days. Best embrace it and all it grants while ye’ can.’ He tipped his hat and smiled an uneasy smile. ‘But you are the one named Robert Moore, son of Andre and Mary Moore?’
Feeling guilty and knowing my good Catholic mum would rap my knuckles for neglecting my manners, I offered, ‘It’s a frightful night. Would you like to come in? Warm your hands a bit and dry off?’
The gnarled gentleman shook his head, shaking raindrops from the grey sprigs of hair sticking out from beneath the brim. ‘Kind of ye’ to ask, sir, but no.’ He titled his hat again.
I nodded uneasily. The longer I stood in this fellow’s presence, the more unsettling the situation became. I knew not why such a feeling overtook me, but I sensed something wasn’t right.
‘Pardon the late hour, but I’m here on behalf of my master.’ He rummaged through a raincoat as tattered as his top hat. Gloves with missing fingertips covered digits resembling old tree roots that shook when the old man reached out a hand containing a strange parchment. ’Word of you ‘as reached his ears and he wishes to invite you to his annual Summer Masquerade ball.’
I took the parchment and examined the crimson seal. The symbol of a rose or some other kind of flower I didn’t recognize had been implanted in the wax alongside the name Pembroke. My heart leapt at the familiar family name. I’d heard of them as patrons of the finest artisans England had to offer. How had he come to know someone from a small village outside of Devonshire?
‘I…I’m sorry, sir, but…perhaps this is a mistake?’ I sputtered while speaking. No one in the Pembroke family would have an interest in such a small talent like mine, would they?
The man shook his head. ‘No mistake, m’lad. You’re Robert Moore, the well-known celloist?’
‘I wouldn’t venture such an assumption to my being well-known, sir.’
‘Andre Moore, the famous violinist. He was your father?’
I soon found myself becoming rather frustrated. ‘Yes. He was. But…’
A bright smile beamed on the old codger’s face. ‘Then sure as the moon rise, it’s you my master wants. Shall I tell him you decline, then?’ The last word raised in tone as though he spoke to a madman. Unsurprising since only an utter fool with any ambition in the arts would turn down such an invitation.
Words froze on my tongue. A knot threatened my throat. My father would turn over in his grave if he knew what I held in my hand. I wanted, no ought to have, said yes immediately. Something held the words back. Perhaps the rising instinct something about the whole situation seemed utterly queer.
The Pembrokes had once held amazing power and prestige in Paris. They left after a bout of the fever took half their remaining heirs and settled in England to continue their patronage of the arts. When another wave of odd deaths occurred in their family, superstition and rumours the family was cursed flourished. It wasn’t until their last remaining heir, Jonathan Pembroke, began investing heavily into the arts and budding trade that the family regained their standing and rose back to high regard in English nobility.
‘I…I’m not sure. Perhaps give me some time to think on it?’ The words sounded insane even as they drifted from my lips. I began rambling like some addled schoolboy. ’The journey would be long, and I need to make arrangements with my lady. We’re to be married soon, you see, sir, and…”
He held up a hand. Thank goodness he did because I certainly couldn’t stop myself amid such excitement. ‘Aye, I understand. Nothin’ more important to a man than his marriage.” A crooked grin crossed his lips. ‘Specially for someone young and full of vigour like yerself.’ The way he observed me with that next bit left me more unsettled than his refusal to come inside. His sudden handclap jarred me. ‘Well, I’ll let me master know then. Ball’s not for another month hence. Gives ye’ time to speak to yer lass and plan should ye decide to come. Have a good night.’ The man tipped his hat again and departed into the night.
My gaze followed him to a carriage shrouded in the rising fog. I couldn’t be sure, but I could have sworn I saw the curtain swing back over the small window. The sight brought gooseflesh across my skin as I eased the door closed and bolted it. I leaned my back against the wood and placed a hand to my racing heart.”
My hand cramped from the frantic scribbling, forcing me to take a short reprieve. Bile rose in my throat, stinging my tongue as I observed what I’d written thus far. Raging thoughts plagued my mind. Questions asking why I hadn’t listened to what my soul told me that fateful night. Listened to the screaming voice of reason telling me to avoid that man at all costs. Any manner of words dripping from such a silver tongue surely contained poison enough to shame the deadly Belladonna. A reasonable man would have sensed such things and fled.
Then…why didn’t I? I couldn’t blame an addled mind nor an overindulgence of drink despite the array of fine wines and elegant champagnes. I’d been perfectly sound when I made the deal that sealed my fate.
Something shuffled outside the large doors barricading me in my gilded prison. I jumped, scrambling to hide in the small space between desk and wall. The task made difficult for a man my size. A knot caught in my throat. My hand shook violently as to make me drop the pen. My time couldn’t be over. Not yet. I wasn’t done. People had to know. I had to warn them. Muffled words came from beyond the door. The racing blood in my ears made hearing what the speaker said near impossible. What I could comprehend and offered little relief was the voice hadn’t belonged to him. My heart lurched behind my ribs, pounding against its bony prison like it wanted to escape its shackles. I waited, holding my breath despite the burning in my lungs. Still, I dared not breathe. Dizziness gripped my blood-drained brain. Fatigue brought on by multiple sleepless nights weighed heavily on my psyche. I waited until the voices stopped and the sound of shifting boards became distant. When all finally became quiet, I risked a well-needed breath. My scribbling began in earnest for sunset wasn’t far away and I needed to tell my story.
