Chapter 2 – Hovel of Horrors
Miss Sophie Dorchester walked as hastily as she could. It had grown darker, leaving her in her own little world of overgrown bracken and fallen leaves—surroundings which hardly seemed to alter no matter how vigorously she pushed forward. Oh, how she wished she had set out earlier.
Anne, her governess, always recommended going first thing in the morning. And, Anne, knowing Sophie’s discomfort, would have accompanied her this time as well, but had been prohibited from doing so by Mr. Dorchester before he left to visit Sophie’s fiancé and his family at Highland Hall—though no reason for this unwelcome alteration had been given, and, judging by her father’s tone and demeanor, no gainsay possible.
This left her Giselle, Sophie’s ever-frail maid and companion, but Giselle had been laid up with a headache since after breakfast. Sophie had kept hoping Giselle would recover, but her maid remained indisposed throughout the afternoon until Sophie knew she must acquiesce and go forth alone.
After leaving the housekeeper, Sophie had gotten swept up in visions of being la grande dame de la maison.
She thought to make her own distinct mark by adding roses to the basket, such that she would arrive at the homes of the poor, brightening their lives with the sweet scent and soft petals of those most loveliest of flowers.
The Rose of Romero Park they would call her…
To that end, she had detoured to one of Mr. Dorchester’s rose bushes. The Park had rose gardens at all four compass points, each one a showcase for the Dorchester variety. Other kinds of roses could be found on the grounds as well. All were kept in bloom even at this time of year as a point of pride—both on the part of the gardener, and the master.
Foreseeing the looks of pleasure and appreciation on the faces of the country peasants she would visit tonight as she doled out both sustenance and beauty, Sophie smiled graciously, nodding to their thanks, depreciating their compliments.
But those pleasurable visions of acceptance and belonging faded away quickly enough when she reached the east rose garden and stopt at the nearest bush to pick the flowers. It proved to be a mistake without gloves, and a painful one at that. She cut both her hands on the sharp thorns before she could break any of the blossoms off their stalks. Thus, she had to hasten away empty handed, later than ever, nursing small but sharp scratches, which the handle of the basket would rub no matter how she carried it.
Having left the manor house and the inner grounds well behind, Sophie could fully indulge the feeling of burning shame at her earlier fears.
For back at home she had been known as une enfant terrible, undaunted by any of the things the adults around her worried about living in a city. Why am I such the coward here?
Well, for one thing, she noted in her defense: where do all the scary stories I’ve ever read take place? They are always out in the country, or at some isolated, ancient estate, in which a hapless young woman is inevitably set upon by shameless men, or by horrible creatures out of someone’s darkest imagination!
Laughing in her old careless way as no one could hear her, Sophie acknowledged: in the twelvemonth I’ve been at the Park, I have never once seen the ghost that is supposed to haunt the house. And I have yet to be abducted by unsavory forest men or chased by slavering hounds with burning red eyes. More soberly she proposed: perhaps I might consider myself safe here.
