The Bainbridge Estate

Chapter I

The brick, ramshackle home was easy to spot amongst the thicketed grasses. The indigo sky shed little light from its sprinkling of stars and the moon was nowhere to be seen. I could only see the Bainbridge Estate when a candle flickered in the double-hung window. As I approached, a cold wind bit my arms and the black cape around my shoulders. The dirt was loose underfoot, underworked from lack of wear. Dead grass spurted at my toes, faint tracks of wheels nearly negligible.

The front door, when I reached it, seemed to cry. The wood was warped from the weather, the framework had crumbled to fine dust on the front step and ivy was trailing up the sides. If my heart had not been so despondent and broken, I might have entered without hesitation. However, my hand shook with apprehension as a ginger rap-rap-rap erupted from the affair between my cold knuckles and the door.

Remorse filled my being and I spun away from the entryway, my heart fluttering wildly. The withered, golden meadow unfurled uninterrupted from the house, swaying in the midnight breeze. The grains and grasses were dying with this cold and their feathery tips danced away in the wind. To both my left and right was a tree line of creaky, massive oak trees mingling with the sagging willows. Leaves littered the dense, yellowing grass.

My timid knock still went unanswered so I faced the haggard door and raised my bony fingers to knock once more. I peered up at the house while I waited this time. The corpses of flowers imprinted themselves in the boxes under the windows, completely proportionate to the house.

From the corner of my eye, a black, shadowy figure whipped across the tree line, but just as I turned my head to examine the specter, the door moaned open.

The woman facing me resembled a vulture to such an extent, for a moment I believed myself to be dreaming. Her raven hair was pulled back in a severe bun and her mouth curled downward in a permanent scowl. Her brow was low and shadowed her unblinking, dark eyes. Her thin, large nose protruded from her face like a beak and when she inhaled, it whistled through her nostrils.

“Margaret, I presume?” she inquired with a curt tone.

“Yes,” I replied.

She opened the door wider, revealing a hunched stature and wiry shoulders. It was nearly pitch black in the home behind her. If not for the candle in her spindly hands, I would’ve been submerged in darkness.

“Why did the carriage not accompany you?” she snapped. “It’s 1815 and carriages are a commodity.”

“I--I didn’t know the walk would be so extensive,” I said, my heart chilling when I stepped over the threshold. The wind howled in my ears and I tugged my cape closer over my shoulders as she closed the door.

“Hmph,” she said and led me up the stairs. The oak steps creaked and groaned with each step we took in our ascension. Several were bowed with extreme usage and chills rippled across my skin when we reached the top floor.

“I hope you find your chambers pleasing.” Based on her tone, I don’t think she truly cared at all. She proceeded to lead me down a narrow hallway and the candlelight ricocheted off stern, dusty portraits, staring at me with such suspicion I shuddered.

“If I may, who are the subjects of these paintings?”

My company halted and faced the closest portrait. “Each is a former master of the house. If you like, you can have a portrait of your likeness.”

My eyes were scanning down the gilded frames. “Where is my father’s portrait?”

She sighed, the severe wrinkles softening on her face. “You father never stayed long enough to hire an artist to paint him. I’m afraid it was never important to him.”