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It wouldn’t fit the parties she had attended in America, but once upon a time the ballroom had been exquisite if not huge. Its shape is mildly oblong with walls facing each of the four cardinal directions. Draperies hang moth eaten partly in shreds and only the twin chandeliers crowning the empty space below, although their splendour now veiled by dust, bear witness of the grandness the room must have held long ago.
She hadn’t noticed it before, but each of the walls represent the four seasons in their frescos. From where she enters the room there is spring immidiately to her right. A blossoming apple tree shades two children as they sleep upon a blanket. The picture is framed by questing sprigs once painted brightly green, covered by dust and dirt. Edith tries to carefully brush some of the dirt away, causing the paint to come loose as well. She turns to see if anyone has seen her, fearing the reaction from the lady of the house. But for the little dog, she finds herself still alone, and relaxes.
To the south she finds summer, a scene of a green meadow sprinkled with flowers. Positioned opposite the entrance, it occupies one of the longsides of the room. A boy and a girl dances barefoot across the landscape. As in the first painting, the brightness of the colours are long gone, but still the picture conveys the warmth a summer afternoon. Edith smiles at the memory of such warmth, pulls her shawl tightly around her, and decides the artist could not have been a local.
Turning to the left is fall, the entirely of the wall ablaze with the golden orange, yellow, red colours of dying leaves. A man and a woman, or perhaps the couple from the summer picture years later, walks a forest path side by side. The woman is laughing and the man in turn smiles fondly at her happiness. Their steps stir the fallen leaves, giving rise to twirls of red and orange in their wake.
She turns back to the wall of the entrance to the room, where the fresco is disrupted halfway by the doorway. The picture shows a snowy winter’s night, the upper half consisting of the night sky and the lower of the bare, snow covered ground. The whites of the snow have turned slightly yellow, giving the snow a bone white tint. The left half of the picture is the woman and in the right the man. Edith is sure now it’s the same couple in all the paintings. They both face away from the observer, into the wall, walking alone into the unknown landscape of the blizzard. Atop the doorway sits a raven with a somewhat content expression, spreading its wings in a proud gesture. It is the only living creature in the pictures beside the couple.
“Are you admiring the doodles?” asks a voice suddenly. Startled, she sees Thomas in the doorway, just before her. So lost has she been in her thoughts that she didn’t see him appear. He enters the room, and stands beside her, taking in the picture as well.
“What is the significance of the raven?” she asks.
“The constant companion of man. It follows us patiently, in the end inevitably accompanying us into the dark,” he says, taking her arm and turning her back to the other seasons. And Edith sees the raven now, atop the apple tree, soaring in the sky above the meadow and almost completely hidden in the background of the autumn landscape. A shiver runs through her, caused either by the chill of the room or the ominous paintings. She wonders who would find such a theme fitting for a ballroom. What would father have said if he knew I had opinions on the decorations of a ballroom?
...
As they dance, there is nothing conscious about their steps. Thomas leads Edith but he in turn is led by the orchestra. Their movements are not of his will, but determined solely by the sway of the music. It is curious, he thinks, the repose he finds in surrendering his free will to the mechanics of the phonograph. But what measure of freedom can be surrendered by a marionette?
“I’m so glad you find the time for me even now when your work nears completion,” she says, and in her face the joy is apparent. As she smiles he takes no note of the fading colour of her cheeks or the darkness spreading under her eyes. He sees only her happiness and it pains him to know it’s only a reverie built out of deceit. His deceit.
“What? Oh. Yes, of course. The machine,” he replies, but in truth there is quite little work left to be done there. He has simply buried himself in the tinkering to spare himself from guilt. Only through her persistence did she convince him of this dance, a short reprieve from her bleak reality. How noble of you to soften her suffering with a short moment of your time. This woman who has done nothing but love and revere you.
“What bothers you my love? You seem distrait.” Her words pull him back to the present and there is no trace in that face of the loss of a father or the parting with a home. In their stead is love, trust, concern. For him. She has nothing but him, but to her that is enough. He wants to tell her of his corruption, as he has mean to do a thousand times before. He wants to implore her to leave and let the mansion walls collapse and cover his shame. He draws a breath and prepares for his confession. In their own contempt, they will both forsake you. He hesitates, resting his gaze on the expression of love in Edith’s face, and he knows he cannot live if Edith hates him. Coward!
The dog rests by the entrance to the room, watching their every move. He would never dare admit to Lucille, but he is glad Edith has acquired at least one true friend at Allerdale Hall. If only her careless laugher for years ahead could animate those bleak rooms. When she walks the desolate corridors the light grows brighter and the shrieks of the wind are hushed. Each morning there are stains of blood on her pillow. How much time does she have left? Involuntary, he pulls her a little closer as if to shelter her, causing a slight misstep in her dance. She smoothly falls back into the pace, clearly amused by his error.
“That will not do, Mr Sharpe”, she teases.
“I am without fault, Mrs Sharpe, only your beauty could stir me enough to compromise my dancing,” he replies.
“Those words could have been stolen out of any romance novel, my love,” she says smartly, leaving not reprieve. Loving her comes so naturally to him, and yet she never makes his courting easy, deflecting the words so hungrily accepted by his former wives. She is your one opportunity of true love, but you in turn have nothing to offer her but downfall.
“Have you anything new for me to read? There has been so little time for diversions lately, I am afraid I have fallen behind on your progress” he blurts out, mostly to silence his inner tormentor.
“Well yes. I took my publishers critique to heart and begun a short story of a lover’s couple. But since it is still my story it is also a horror story,” she said with a content smile. He couldn’t help but laugh at this.
“Your persistence is admirable! So how does the horror emerge in this love story? Is their home a haunted castle at the top of a hill?” he enquires. At his words, the inner fire that ignites her eyes flickers and her smile weakens.
“No… I no longer write of ghosts,” she says and purses her lips demonstratively. What upset her? Why does that concern you? You but play the part of loving husband until all documents are signed. Thomas brings their dance to a halt and holds both her hands in his.
“ I know that in my absence you have been lonely. Will you not give me opportunity to compensate for this in some small way by hearing you now?” he says and silences to kiss her forehead. “Tell me what has been going on in this beautiful mind of yours. What webs of stories have you spun while I have toiled in oil and steam?” His encouragement weakens Edith, although he can tell she is still bothered by something.
“A young man, an aspiring scientist, finds himself suddenly in love with a girl he has known all his life,” she says and returns her left hand to his shoulder. He takes her hint and they resume their dance as she tells him the tale.
“It is a story of a man forced to examine the very nature of his self. The two marry and he gradually loses interest in those things that used to bring him delight. He finds himself detached from his friends and family, everyone in his life but her. After some time he learns that his wife has cast a curse on him, putting him under her control. He manages to break free, but finds himself alone, having shunned all his loved ones during his years with her. When he finds he is left with none in his life, he regrets breaking free from her spell. It is quite tragic,” she explains.
“So he defeats the monster and still his ending is not happy,” Thomas concludes, with a skeptical tone of voice, "not a jolly story, my love." At this, Edith pouts at him.
“I told you it was a horror story. Besides, sometimes even happy endings are not very happy,” Edith continues, matter-of-factly, “even in a love story.”
“Then tragic endings are not always entirely tragic either,” he says, and those eyes, always heavy from some inner sorrow, are filled with a sparkle of hope instead. From the phonograph comes scratching noises. The music has ended and whatever spell it held over the couple is gone. Now they are but a man and a woman, standing before each other. In that moment, Thomas finds in Edith’s eyes absolution, enough perhaps to grant forgiveness to a soul guilty even of his crimes. And he decides to choose her, to give himself to her if she will have him with all his sins and faults. But a movement in the doorway slips his gaze from Edith and there looms a familiar shape carrying a tray ladened with a floral china tea set.
“There you are. It is time for tea.”
Coward.