Masquerade Suite Nocturne

Anastasia rushed to her bedchamber, seized her book, and flung herself upon the bed to read nothing at all, incensed by her own frailty.

The window stood open, permitting the everyday afternoon sounds to follow the cloudy light into the room. She pushed back her hair from her face as she contemplated the world beyond.

She did not even get a chance to respond to Jack’s message before her peaceful existence had been upended by Thomas’ unheralded arrival. With the advantage of knowing her secret, he had cornered Anastasia, rendering her powerless. His demand had been for a place in which to rest and take his laudanum before moving on after winter; yet by acquiescing, she felt she had ceded dominion over her entire home.

The once airy cottage was now oppressive. He claimed the lounge, reclining on the once-immaculate settee, his unkempt attire striking a jarring note against the delicate damask of the upholstery. The mahogany coffee table—an heirloom cherished by her father—was strewn with empty laudanum vials and half eaten food.

She could only find refuge in her by immersing herself in tales of others who had triumphed over their tribulations. Struggling to calm her quivering hands, she sought to direct her attention to the volume that lay open on her lap, trying to ignore Thomas attacking Lucy with a barrage of questions about Jack.

“Of all the bloody places in all the bloody world, what would make him come here?”

“I know not!” sobbed Lucy. “He had a group of men help him set the hedges and then he shut himself behind them! No one knows why!”

“I know why he shuts himself in! Would you like to know?” He suddenly began to wheedle and act as if he had a marvellous secret.

“N—no. I do not think that is any of my busin—”

“Get out, you old witch!”

Anastasia heard a shriek and the slam of the door just before a bottle smashed into it. She slipped from her room and went downstairs to find Lucy weeping in the kitchen.

“Captain Clifton happened to be passing by and I—” Lucy ceased speaking, took up a cloth, and tried to wipe the bench as tears streamed down her face.

Anastasia’s despondency fuelled the anger in her, and she lashed out. “Do you grasp the gravity of the situation should word of this escape?”

“His dreadful brother is here; I believed that—”

“You allowed that… that disgusting man entry, and then invited his brother in to nearly incite a brawl. I doubt you are able to grasp the repercussions of your actions!”

The kitchen door closed with a resounding thud behind her. She stormed back upstairs, and went to her room to compose herself. Before she could, Thomas abruptly entered behind her, his icy blue eyes gleaming in the subdued light.

A smile stretched across his face, skewed just enough to render him unsettlingly assertive. She backed away from his breath, laden with tooth rot and laudanum, into the subtle aroma of aged wood and the vanilla potpourri that scented her clothing drawers.

“My dear Anastasia,” said Thomas with a honeyed tone through misshapen lips. “I must thank you for your assistance with Jack, that could not have been easy. Permit me to proffer the solace of my presence.”

“Mr Clifton, you are a guest here.” Her heart leapt to her throat to try and cut off the words flying out of her mouth. A cascade of fear-induced perspiration trailed down her back, yet the image of Jack’s horror at the situation was overlaid upon the dreadful man before her and rendered her incapable of halting. “You are to address me as Miss Hartford, and you may only enter my bedchamber upon receiving a direct invitation.” She sat down at her desk and lifted a book, just managing to keep her hands steady as she feigned absorption in its pages.

“You would do well to reconsider, Anastasia,” hissed Thomas, stalking towards her.

Her hands went white with the effort of seeming dispassionate as he drew near; Anastasia’s spirit, unyielding and bold, rose defiantly. “I shall not repeat myself. You are to address me as Miss Hart—do not lay a hand on me, Mr Clifton, I would prefer death to your touch.”

Thomas withdrew, snarling, “Do you truly think you hold any power over the heart of my brother? If he were to discover your secret, he would spurn you as easily as you spurn me!”

Somehow, she could almost feel the warmth of Jack's shoulder beneath her hand, flooding her with strength and refuting his claim even as he uttered it. Rising from her chair, she struck his cheek. The sharp slap resounded in her ears, accompanied by a chilling wave of terror for the action she had just taken.

He emitted a pained yelp, clutched his jaw, and swore with evident distress, “You shall regret the day you were b—” There was something in Anastasia’s resolute posture that gave him pause. With a frustrated hiss, he retreated, the shadows in the hall enveloping his defeated silhouette.

Anastasia slammed the door shut, and though the immediate threat had receded, a heavy, suffocating silence descended. Her rigid posture collapsed as the adrenaline that had fortified her spirit soured into the fragility of terror.

Echoes of what might have unfolded struck her. His cold hands not retreating, but ensnaring her in a grip fuelled by madness; violence that could have left her broken, or worse. Her blood, once racing with the courage to defy, now crawled with hopelessness.

Tears overcame the ramparts of her resolve, tracing warm paths down her cheeks. She collapsed upon her bed and wept not only for the frightful encounter that had recently transpired, but also for a future ensnared in Thomas’ malevolent web.

In a tear-drenched soliloquy, whispered to the shadows that danced at the candle’s whim, she confessed a harrowing truth to herself: “I may have stood firm today, but each day hence is a step towards the inevitable—the moment when he uses my secret to bend me to his vile will.”

Lucy suffered Anastasia’s angry words as though they had been a physical blow, and went to bed. As she lay there, listening to the exchange and Thomas’ retreat, she stared at the ceiling, contemplating her future. Was it truly her desire to live a life overshadowed by fear?

Thus far, Anastasia had scarcely uttered a word or partaken of food; instead, she spent her hours seated by the window, immersed in her books, rising only for necessary ablutions and when Lucy insisted upon sustenance. Her sudden resistance this evening signified but one thing: she had discovered strength in Captain Clifton’s presence, even if she were unaware of it herself.

Getting out of bed, she dressed in warm clothing and tiptoed from her chamber, taking care not to disturb the fetid figure slumped upon the settee in the drawing-room. Her heart shook with each step she took, yet as she slipped out of the house into the quiet moonlight, a sense of determination filled her despite her trepidation.

Enveloped in her shawl, she shivered, and it was not solely due to the cold, although the summer heat had not come close to banishing the chill from the night air this year. Her breath formed misty clouds as the gate emitted a loud creak, its sound reverberating through the stillness of the night.

She cast a glance towards the cottage; it was a dwelling she had tended with care, nurtured, and shared with Anastasia. Its sanctity was marred by an insidious interloper whose influence needed to be expunged. To abide in passivity as their lives were dismantled by his deceitful machinations was unacceptable; action was imperative. Fortifying herself against both the night’s chill and the icy grip of fear, she embarked upon her path.

A stray notion fluttered through Lucy’s mind: I never thought that I would be going to a gentleman’s house in the middle of the night at my age. She almost allowed herself a laugh but stifled it as fear caused her emotions to flicker like the flame within the pocket lantern she carried.

The journey seemed eternal. Each rustle in the darkness sent her heart thumping. With her destination drawing near, her steps became increasingly hesitant as a swarm of doubts assailed her mind. Was she on the brink of making an irrevocable error? Could she be imperilling Anastasia’s well-being or even risking her own safety? Adjusting her shawl while dismissing these thoughts, she pressed onward, resolved to see her undertaking through to its conclusion.

Pausing at a dark passage carved through the ominous hedge that encircled the property, she thought of Jack’s wrath directed towards Thomas, his perception of her fear even amidst his own ire, and how it seemed to fuel him further.

It was this recollection that fortified her, and she ventured into the tunnel, hesitating then opening the gate, coming out into a small clearing with a path leading off between rose hedges.

She secured the gate, its click causing her to startle, and commenced her walk down the path. It meandered peculiarly to the left, with gaps appearing between the bushes.

It was peculiarly warm, and she realised it was the absence of the biting wind that had been constant throughout the year. The sound of rushing water, akin to a creek, seemed to be on both sides of her. The manor was visible in the distance; however, she must have overlooked the direct route there, as she found herself traversing across, rather than towards it.

Panicking and quickening her pace, she chose a route between two rose bushes. To her dismay, on the other side lay another curved path akin to the previous one; here dirt was unsettled and stones were loosely scattered from recent work.

A door slamming in the distance to her right caused her stomach to flip, and the sound of thumping footsteps accompanied by the rustling of bushes drew nearer. Her heart hammered against her ribcage, a frantic cadence that echoed the panic coursing through her veins. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps as, hands trembling uncontrollably, she clutched at the fabric of her gown in an attempt to steady herself.