Pale Passions

A New Path

My name is Maggie Stewart, and I am 19 years old. I was born in the year 1852, in London England; my family was not wealthy, but one of our branches had money at one time. Last week my older brother, Alex, and I got a letter saying that one of our distant uncles had passed away and bequeathed to us his estate in the countryside. We are currently on a carriage to our new home, I wonder whether it shall be pristine and fancy, lived in, but in good shape, or whether it will be some property long abandoned and rotting, I suppose we shall see.

The closer we get to our future, the rockier the path becomes, the wheels creaking as they run over the uneven road, bending in ways they were not meant to bend, our seats bumping us up and down, our luggage being shaken, and the horses breathing hard. I suppose this means we will have to travel a great distance whenever we wish to socialise, I imagine I shall have to spend my days reading, drawing, and doing needlepoint. At least the air is fresh here, without the soot from the countless fireplaces in the city; perhaps this move shall turn out for the best, improve our health, and introduce us to a new and better way of life.

Sometimes, it would seem, that the only way to move forward in life, is to go down the new path, the unknown way, it can be frightening not knowing what is around the next bend; yet, if one does not go down that path, their life will stagnate, and consist of nothing new, just the same old thing. Remaining the same, unchanged, can be comforting, reassuring, yet it moves you nowhere, you lose out on having a journey, an adventure, on discovering new places, people, and new things about yourself. I, though filled with anxious trepidation, shall confront these things, I shall follow this path.

The coach says we are approaching the estates, yet other than an old stone gate, all we can see is a thick blanket of ancient trees which this now dirt road seems to wind around. We cannot yet see the house, I wonder if this means it is but some small shack in the middle of nowhere, or a simple cabin, and could all this land really belong to us or is this just a forest in which a small property resides? As we continue towards our destination, the sun is beginning to set, the sky shifting from grey, to garnet in hew, the pale moon shining brightly and full. The trees look as though they were haunted, they reach out towards us, their branches like twisted boney fingers, their figure gnarled and covered in moss. I turn to my brother, trying to make light conversation,

"I bet there shall be many birds for me to draw and other animals out here for you hunt."

He turns his head slightly to me, "I suppose so." He says, feigning interest.

"And imagine all the new friends you could make here, I bet there are lots of men in the area who would love to go riding with you." I gently flash a grin, "And maybe one of them will have a cute sister." But he ignores the remark.

I turn my head back towards the window and I am startled by a most striking image, a macabre vision of the silhouetted ruins of a manner, against the blood red sky. I surely hope that is not the place which has been left to us, & ask the coachman, "Is that place over there, our destination?" He, shouting over the sound of the horses and wind, reassures us, "No, that is nothing, just what is left of a castle which used to reside on this property, owned by a friend of your family, long since dead." He then points straight ahead, "There is your new home!" Thankfully it is in better condition, standing tall against the darkening sky, some of the windows are even lit.

The carriage comes to a stop, "I was not given a key." My brother notes to the couch, wondering if the man is going to hand it to us. "The staff will give it to you once you are inside." he informs us. Well, that is good to know, and a bit surprising, we will have staff, servants, butlers & maids, to assist us; this really shall be a change. My brother and I approach the door of our future home, him raising his hand in order to knock, when a tiny sliver of light beams onto our faces.

A tall, slender, clean shaven, old man slowly opens the door, "Master Stewart, Madam, welcome to Elderwoods."

He turned sideways, so as to let us in, before introducing himself, "I am Riley, I was your uncle's Valet, and I now serve you."

My brother smiles and tries to show that he is a good and understanding man, though possibly, with his mannerisms, revealing our former status, as he reaches out to shake the man's hand, "Well, it is a pleasure to meet you, you can call me Alex, and my sister Maggie. So, what sort of man was our uncle?"

Riley's hands remain at his sides, making my brother feel a little awkward, "It is not my place to speak of my former master, but he was a good man." After a pause, he speaks again to Alex, "I shall show you to your room, and have one of the maids do the same for Miss Stewart." He then calls out, "Matilda! Show mistress Stewart to her bedroom."

A young woman, very beautiful and around the same age as me, rushes in, "Yes, sir. Mistress, I will show you to your quarters." I wonder if she can tell that this morning I was little more than she is, my slightly tanned skin or my calloused hands giving it away.

She guides me up the staircase and through the halls, "Matilda?" I ask, wishing to learn more of my new home and the people which reside within it, "Yes, mam?"
"Have you lived here long?"
"Since I was a child, mam."
"Do you like it here?"
"Oh yes, mam, it is a very nice house." I am beginning to get the feeling that she is only giving me the standard, polite response, so as to not accidentally offend me, her new mistress. Such a silly thing it is to think of, me, the mistress of a large manner and wealthy estate, me, little Maggie Stewart.

"Here are your quarters, madam, second only to master Stewart's." Matilda opens the door and gestures inward with her hand. As I walk in, I see that they have already lit the lamps for me so that I would not have to enter a dark, unknown room, this has to be one of the lit rooms I noticed when we first saw the house. The room is heated with its own fireplace, which is already stoked, the room comfortable and toasty. I must say, I am quite relieved, this place is nothing like I feared, and is like a dream.

I am pulled out of my admirations of the room, by the sound of water splashing against copper, and turn my head away from the fire, to see Matilda pouring hot water into a tub which sits in the corner of the room, "Why are you filling the tub?" Matilda looks at me with a slightly confused look, "You just arrived from a long journey, mam, you are dirty from the dust on the trip." I look down at my hands, she is right, they are dirty; I guess I never noticed, I mean until now I have always lived a life which, like most people of my previous status, is a bit dirty compared to the aristocracy. Maybe it is a good thing that our journey disguised our former status, this gives us a chance to start over.