Page 8 of Euphoria
Alice stayed behind to fasten the trapdoor, and I moved back into the top floor, the one inhabited by ghosts of servants long past.
Having lost my way already, I waited patiently below for my guide, my boots treading softly on the boards. I was here but silent, so I could fancy myself a spirit as well if I stood still enough.
I was studying the lines of an old landscape painting when the sound of laughter cut through the still air. It was a curious sound, quite distinct and mirthless. I stopped, listening as it faded into silence. The sound came again, this time, louder but still at the edges of my hearing. It came from the same floor on which I stood, and I became curious to its origin. Alice had said this part of the house was unoccupied.
Peering out into the hall, I found it empty, the rooms we’d walked through devoid of life. Perhaps it was a ghost? At this thought, a shiver went down my spine, and the air became close, like a thousand pairs of eyes were fixed upon me.
The laugh sounded again, a madness clinging to its edges, and I called out for Alice.
“Alice! Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?” she asked, appearing at the door. Dusting off her hands, she glanced up and down the hall.
“Laughter,” I said, feeling an odd chill creep into my bones.
“It could be Grace and Harry,” she said, glancing up and down the hall. “They’re forever sneaking off for a quickie. I wouldn’t put it past them to come up here for a little action.”
I wrinkled my nose at the thought of overhearing strangers having sex in an old musty room and hastened down the hall. Alice followed without so much as a word, and I had no trouble finding my way back downstairs to the main gallery.
I was given a turn around the yard, and then we retired to the office where I set about putting together my first proposal for the mysterious Mr. Rochester. There was a lot of work to do and no time to waste.
Iatedinner with the kitchen staff that night.
They were a lively bunch of people, and I had a great time, but all too soon, my energy was depleted, and I found myself wandering the halls, inspecting every little treasure I found along the way.
That was how I found the library.
Easing the door open, I ventured into the darkness, my hand fumbling along the wall for a light switch. When I found it, I flicked it on, and the room was illuminated all at once. I gasped as the depth of the space was revealed to me.
Shelves of books lined each wall, from floor to ceiling on rows of fine chestnut wood, their spines bound in leather and stamped with gold gilt. Most were locked up behind glass doors, protecting them from the sticky fingers of hotel guests, but one shelf remained open. As I walked the rows, my gaze was drawn to that which I could not touch, the leather bound tomes taunting me from their protected placement.
As my gaze skimmed each title, I wondered why Alice hadn’t shown me this place. The further I explored, the more I fancied I was trespassing, and my skin began to tingle with a rare excitement. There was something thrilling being in a place where one was not welcome, hidden in plain sight.
At the far end of the room were a grand piano, a long leather couch, and a pair of globes of Earth that looked to be antique. When I ran my fingertips across their surfaces, I found their pictures of the world to be quite outdated.
Heavy red curtains framed the large windows, the rich light of the fading sun filtering through the gaps and shimmering across the carpet. It was a picture of tranquility, and I found myself enthralled as I picked a book from the shelves that were open to me.
Settling onto one of the window seats, I drew the curtain shut, enclosing myself in the space that had become my own private reading room. It was cozy, the vent below the seat blowing warm air from the boiler in the basement, and the window beside me gave a pleasant view of the rear gardens and moors beyond as the sun dipped below the horizon.
Thankful I had found something familiar, I allowed myself to fall into the story on the pages before me. When I was a girl, pages such as these kept me from falling into a deep despair, first under the wrath of my aunt Sarah, and then the hardships endured at Lowood. Imagination, it seemed, may be my savior yet again.
It had become apparent to me quite quickly that life at Thornfield was to be a quiet affair, with little to occupy oneself outside the operations of the hotel, and I wasn’t sure how to handle it yet. Though I liked to be alone, the comings and goings of the world had kept my mind sharp and engaged, and the odd affair with a handsome man had kept my body satisfied.
Thornfield didn’t seem to contain much of those things at all.
I wasn’t sure what to make of the place given my short tour and single morning under its roof. The old house seemed to be full of secrets and whispers hidden by the ages, and I was sure the darkened corners of Thornfield would reveal themselves to the light soon enough.
I just had to give the old girl a little time.
And here, on the road to the manor ensnarled by rose thorns, I was almost mown down by the black stallion, the motorcycle of the man with the stormy eyes and mean temper.
