If Morning Never Comes - Episode Twenty-Nine
In Which: Charles Faces Mrs. Ashley
Editor’s Note:
Welcome back to “If Morning Never Comes,” a serial adventure of gothic peril from
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Charles Ashley was adrift on a quiet sea. The sky was a dim shade of yellow, the water the darkest blue. He treaded water and managed to stay afloat. No waves rose and fell, only the lightest ripples dappled the surface. But he was aware of something, or more than one something, moving beneath the waves. Fierce, seductive creatures waiting to pull him down. He did not know which way to swim. A shadow rolled past him in a slow swell. His ears began to ring and the water grew cold.
“Charles?”
He opened his eyes. He was asleep in his bed, still in his clothes from the night before. Tools and weapons were strewn about the floor, the rifle leaning against the wall by his head. He sat up. His back was stiff.
Someone knocked on the front door and he heard a female voice call out again, “Charles, are you in there?”
Charles stood and took the gun. The window was blocked, but in the hall he could see little beams of light streaming through what holes were left after his hasty repair job the night before. He walked to the door, stepping on dust and fragments of plaster; his boots were still on.
He opened the door. It took his addled brain a moment to recognize his sister, Charity. Seeing her at this place was such an odd juxtaposition that he wondered if he had woken up at all. He blinked in the light and leaned in to look at her. She stepped back, mouth working up and down, trying to find words.
“Charity?” he began.
“Charles!” she cried, “What’s happened to you?”
“Nothing,” said Charles. He coughed and cleared his throat. His voice was scratchy from lack of use. He began again, “Nothing, what are you talking about?”
“Look at you!” said Charity. “When was the last time you changed your clothes or – bathed? And Charles, you’ve got a gun!” she realized. “What is going on?”
Charles leaned the rifle out of sight behind the door and stepped outside, easing the door mostly shut. It did not close properly after last night’s standoff. He stood with his arms folded.
“It’s nothing. Just some trouble last night. It’s alright now. But Charity, what are you doing here?”
She seemed to have moved past his slovenly appearance and was examining the house. “Whatever has happened to the old cottage?”
Charles glanced at it – boarded up windows, bullet holes, cracks in the walls, shingles missing from the roof. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.
“Are those flowers hanging from the door?” she asked.
“Garlic.”
“What?”
“Charity,” he pressed, “why are you here?”
She looked at her brother, then looked away, shy. “I feel silly now, coming all this way.”
Charles waited. Her appearance was almost as ragged as his. Her hair had been hastily tied up, and her dress had no flair or style about it. Even her demeanor was different. She reminded him of a whipped dog, not the cheerful, bubbly young woman who always drove him so close to insanity.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
She looked up at him.
“Do you promise you’ll believe me?”
“What’s happened, Charity?”
As she fidgeted with her answer, she looked very much like the little girl Charles had once known.
His heart dropped at her words, “It’s Eleanor.”
She waited for a response. “Go on,” he said.
“She’s not well. I don’t know how to explain it, but...” she trailed off. “I’m afraid for her, Charles.”
“What do you mean? Is she sick?”
“Yes. Well, maybe. Sometimes she seems just fine, and she insists that nothing is wrong. But she’s grown so weak, and she sleeps all day, and she won’t eat. She just sits and broods – it’s not like her at all.”
Charles took a deep breath, trying to control his reaction. “What does Mother say?”
With a touch of her old spunk, Charity laughed with scorn, “Mother? What do you think? She sits with the servants, or lies in bed, moaning that her family is cursed, and she’ll never see her daughter again, and – well, you know how she is.”
Charles nodded.
“And, I,” Charity went on, “I didn’t know what else to do. Eleanor insists we leave the doctors out of it, and Mother is so afraid to upset her. Something’s happened, I don’t understand it.” She looked at him, her young eyes glistening with fear, “I didn’t know where else to go, Charles. Can’t you do something?”
Charles had been nursing his own anger for Charity over the last month. But as he saw his little sister looking so afraid, asking for his help, he forgot all of that. He reached out and pulled her close in an embrace. She sobbed a little. He tried to hush her softly.
“Alright, Charity. Alright, I’ll come.”
It was not a long carriage ride to Ashwood from Herr Stryker’s rented cottage. Charles had changed his clothes and made himself presentable, but Charity had urged him to hurry. They pulled around the great ash tree outside of the big house. Most of its leaves were gone by now, only a few maroon stragglers still clung to their branches.
As he stepped out of the carriage, Charles felt his spirit shift. The house was the same, but had a pallor about it, as if it were infected. He wanted to shake off his unease, but Stryker had taught him to pay attention to intuitive senses. Charity bustled ahead of him through the corridor to the main entrance. The door was opened for them, and Charles felt the hair on his neck prickle. It was quiet inside. There was no murmur of busy servants, no chatter drifting from the upstairs sitting room. And the foyer was dark. The windows were curtained against the bright morning, the only light coming from the lamps and candles.
“She’s sleeping now, most likely,” said Charity in unusually hushed tones. “We can wait until she wakes up.”
“No, I’d better go now,” said Charles. “I’ll let Mother know I’m here.”
“Oh, must you?” asked his sister.
Charles had just removed his jacket when Tom came around the corner. He looked more comfortable in his crisp uniform, his face more serious. When he spoke, even his accent had been brought under control. If he was surprised to see Charles, he hid it well.
“Master Ashley, so glad you could come.”
Charles had his eyes up the stairs, “Where’s Mother?”
“Mrs. Ashley is indisposed.”
“We’ll see.” Charles pushed past Tom and leapt up the stairs two at a time. He went straight to her room just in time to see John close the door behind himself.
He was startled, “Master Ashley!”
“Hello John,” said Charles, without stopping, “I need to see my mother.”
John stepped to block the door. “Mrs. Ashley is indisposed, Master Ashley.”
“Yes, I heard,” Charles snapped. “Step aside, John.”
He had no time to wonder that John actually stepped aside. Charles turned the knob and entered his mother’s room. Her sheer bed curtains were drawn, but the room was lit by its large window.
“Hello?” he called.
“I told you to go away!” wailed her voice. Charles was irked by her tone. “Things are bad enough as it is, can’t you let a desperate old woman sleep?”
Charles stalked to the curtains and drew them back. Before him lay his mother, surrounded by pillows, with a tray of breakfast on her lap. She threw an arm across her eyes, but stopped mid-wail and looked at him. She caught her breath.
“Charles?”
“Hello Mother.”
“Charles, what are you doing here?”
“Charity brought me. I understand Eleanor’s not well.”
The words triggered Mrs. Ashley’s automatic response and she began to blubber again, “Oh, of course she told you Eleanor was not well! Everyone cares about Eleanor. No one cares that I’m unwell. Disrespectful children, dishonoring their own mother–”
“And a widow at that,” grumbled Charles in unison with her complaint. The phrase was one of her favorites. But he was in no mood to play along today. “Mother, you don’t seem unwell to me.”
Another wail. “How would you know? How could any of you know? Even my sweet little Charity has abandoned me. And now I’m losing Eleanor,” Her voice raised in pitch until she sniffed and squeaked out a final sob, “What ever will become of me?”
Charles turned to leave.
“Where are you going?” she called.
“To see Eleanor.” He closed the door against further protestations.
Charity was standing in the hall, wringing her hands. “I told you,” she whispered.
He shook his head, “She seems about the same to me.”
“Don’t say things like that, Charles,” she pleaded with a quaver in her voice.
Charles pushed past her and headed for Eleanor’s room. He could see a congregation of servants at the foot of the stairs, Tom and John in the center. They glanced up at him as he strode past. He supposed he was the likely topic of conversation. Charity scuttled along behind him as he drew near to Eleanor’s room. No lamps were lit in the hallway outside her door.
“Wait,” said Charity. He paused at the door. She reached for a candlestick holder resting on a small table. Charles took it and struck a match. “Now,” Charity explained, “if she’s asleep we’ll need to be very quiet not to wake her. But if she’s awake you’ll need to shield that light with your hand. Whisper if you must talk at all, the light and sound hurt her eyes.”
Charles stared at his sister as she explained the new rules. The more she spoke, the more his suspicions were confirmed and his alarm grew. He did not wait for her to finish, but put his hand to the door and opened it as quietly as he could manage.
The room was as black as night. Not a sliver of light drifted through the window, and the darkened hallway maintained the shadow. Only the small light Charles bore illuminated the bed chamber. He walked to the bed, the curtains were drawn. And there she lay.
If he had not first caught her with the light in the middle of a slow breath, he might have thought she was dead. She was completely immobile. Not a finger, not an eyelid twitched, her breaths were nearly a minute apart, and the covers lay completely undisturbed. He raised the light, and was taken aback by his sister’s appearance. She was stunning. Eleanor had always been the more attractive of the two Ashley girls, but as Charles saw her now, while her features had not changed, she seemed to have grown into a suspicious, terrible beauty. The way her dark hair fell, the arch of her eyebrows, even the little smile as she slept. Charles cried out and shot a hand forward to take her wrist.
“Charles, what are you doing?” whispered Charity from the doorway.
He was listening. He closed his eyes. Where was it? There! Faint, but alive. He waited – too long! There, there was another. Her heart still beat. He sighed and dropped her hand to the bed. She stirred lightly. Charles put a hand to his forehead. He tried to think. He ran through the lessons Herr Stryker had taught him. He knew what he ought to do next, but hesitated. Did he really want to know for sure? How he wished for his teacher then.
With a sharp exhale, Charles brought the light close to Eleanor’s pale, pale face. An eyelash twitched. With a finger, he gently lifted her upper lip. Eleanor’s gums had receded by nearly an inch, and what remained was the brightest red.
In that moment, the panic found him. He thrust back from the bed and shouted. Charity tried to hush him, but he cursed and ran to the window. He took hold of the thick curtains – they must have hung new layers – and threw them back as far as he could. Light streamed into the room, turning it from night to day in an instant.
“Charles, no,” whimpered Charity, moving behind the door frame.
“Eleanor!” shouted Charles. Charity squealed and hid. He went to the bed. “Eleanor, wake up! Wake up!”
She frowned and turned in her sleep. She groaned and put up an arm to shield her eyes. Too much time. Charles grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her.
“Eleanor!”
Her eyes snapped open wide, Charles saw her pupils dilate. She screamed and thrashed in his arms. He jumped back. She squinted her eyes tight and put the heels of her hands to her head. She sat up and blinked, looking around the room. Servants rushed to the door, gaping.
“Charles!” she yelled. Her voice reached a new upper register that pierced into his ears with every syllable. “Charles, what are you doing? Close that window!”
“What’s going on?” It was John. He pushed through the group into the room. Charity was there too, her eyes full of tears.
“Eleanor,” said Charles, kneeling by her bed, trying to be calm. “Eleanor, you’re not well. I need to talk to you – now.”
“You need to talk to me? The nerve Charles, really.” There was poison in her voice. “I’m not interested in talking to you.”
“Master Ashley,” said John, a hand on his back. “She needs her rest.”
“Get back, John!” snapped Charles. He turned to Eleanor again. “Please, you don’t understand. I know what’s wrong with you.”
She laughed, a horrible cackle that came gargling out of her throat. “Oh, you know what’s wrong with me, do you? You’ve always known, haven’t you? Well, why don’t you illuminate me, Charles, if you’re so clever? Surely you, with your stellar accomplishments have so much to teach me.”
“Eleanor!” sobbed Charity. “Don’t talk to him like that.”
“You stay out of this, you silly girl!”
“Eleanor, you’re not yourself,” said Charles, standing now. “This isn’t you.”
“You don’t know anything about me. Now get out.”
“Eleanor–”
“John!”
At the order from his sister, John grabbed Charles by the arm. Charles threw him off, but then Tom was at his other shoulder, pulling him back. His memory immediately identified a technique for disarming the men, but he stopped himself – they were not his enemies. As he was steered to the door, he called back to his sister.
“He’s dangerous, Eleanor. You must stay away from him!”
Before the door shut he saw a maid closing the curtains as Eleanor lay down once again. Charity was at his side, begging John and Tom to leave him alone. They held him tight.
“Unhand me,” he demanded.
“Master Ashley,” said John, “I think it’s best that you leave. The ladies are distressed, and you’re not helping things.”
With a sharp motion, Charles threw off the servants, “I’m not helping?” he cried. “What about you, John? You’ve done a bang-up job of keeping things up around here, haven’t you?”
“What’s all this, then?” it was Mrs. Ashley, scurrying around the corner.
“Why hello, Mother,” snarled Charles. “A rare joy to see you up and about so early.”
“What is going on, Charles? Were you disturbing your sister?”
“Mother,” said Charles, stepping close to her, “What has been happening on around here? Eleanor’s at her deathbed, Mother – worse, even!”
“Now Charles, don’t overexaggerate,” she reprimanded, wrapping her shawl tight around her shoulders. “It’s not as bad as all that. If we just leave her to her rest, she’ll be fine.”
“Mother, she’s barely breathing!”
“All the more reason to let her sleep,” she countered. “Lord knows we all could use a little more sleep around here. There’s barely been a night this autumn I’ve slept all through.”
“No, Mother,” said Charles. “You will not make this about you. This is about your daughter, whom you have let slip to the brink of her life. Do you not understand that?”
“Don’t shout at her, Charles,” Charity begged, “Please!” She sobbed and threw her face into her hands.
“Oh, my darling!” cooed Mrs. Ashley. She went to her daughter and pulled her head against her breast, hushing and shushing. “You just have a good cry, it’s what we all need.”
Charles paced in a tight circle. What could he say? He couldn’t tell them what was really going on. Not only would they disbelieve him, but he could jeopardize the whole Hunt. Clearly, he was being baited, but what could he do?
“Mother,” he asked. She was still posing for a portrait with her sniffling daughter. “Has Mr. Raines been here?”
“Mr. Raines?” asked Mrs. Ashley. “What an odd question, Charles. But of course he’s been here. He comes every evening to visit Eleanor, to see how she fares.”
Charles’ anger flared. He breathed through his nose to stay calm. “Mother, you have no reason to believe me, but you must. We cannot allow Mr. Raines to return.”
“What?” asked Mrs. Ashley with a short laugh. Charity looked up as well. “What on earth are you talking about, Charles?”
“I know it sounds fantastic, but I’m telling you, Mother. Mr. Raines...” he tried to be as tactful as he could, “He’s not good for her.”
“Oh, rubbish, Charles! Mr. Raines has been a gentleman and friend to our family.”
“He’s not your friend, Mother. I promise you. Charity – please. You agree, don’t you?”
Mrs. Ashley looked at her daughter. Charity wore distress on her face. “Charles...” she whispered.
“Please, Charity, you know. It’s why you sent for me, right? He’s a curse on this family.”
“Charity?” asked Mrs. Ashley, “What is he talking about?”
Charles locked eyes with his sister. She weighed him in the balance, and for a moment he was sure she was going to side against him. But she said, “He’s right, Mother.”
“What?”
“I don’t know if it will help Eleanor get well, but Charles is right. There’s something not right about him. I can feel it.”
“You can feel it?” scolded her mother. “You can feel it? As if feelings have anything to do with it.”
“Mother,” threatened Charles, “He must not be allowed in this house.”
“He has been looking after us, Charles. And where have you been?”
“I have been a short letter away! Charity found me easily enough. Don’t change the subject, Mother. I don’t want that man to set foot in this house again!”
“Don’t you dare try to instruct me in my own home, Charles Ashley!” Her face was blazing red. “You’ve always thought you were better than this shabby old place, haven’t you? Well Charles, you can run and hide and play soldier with Mr. Stryker all you like, but that doesn’t change the fact that you’ve abandoned your own mother and the very home you grew up in.”
“Don’t speak to me like I’m a child, Mother.”
“A child is exactly what you are, Charles. A selfish, petulant, demanding, rude–“
“You would stand there with a straight face and accuse me of those things?”
“Don’t interrupt me!”
“You are the paragon of petty, Mrs. Ashley, and the whole world knows it!” Charles was yelling now. “You say you love us and pine for us, but it’s an act. You play doting mother in front of company because that’s what you care about. And I cannot stand by and let you turn my sister’s soul into another scene in the tragedy of your life.”
“If only your father could see you now.”
“Well, he’s not here. We’re stuck with you, and more’s the pity.”
Their eyes were locked. Charity had shrunk back against a wall. Every servant was hushed and listening. Mrs. Ashley’s hair was a flyaway mess, her shawl dropped to the floor. Charles looked lean and underfed, his face stubbled with unshaven growth. He saw in her eyes there would be no backing down from her this time. Charles hardened his heart. She would get nothing from him either.
When she finally spoke, she was firm. “It’s time you left, Charles.”
Charles nodded without breaking eye contact. “Fine.”
He turned on his heel.
