Read the First Chapter of A White Room

PROLOGUE

October 1901

My father died with the taste of blood on his lips. To think, that’s why I was up to my elbows in it. Not his blood—not that they knew of—but I was still covered in it, red hand prints on the walls, crimson footsteps on the floor, and me, I was smothered in it. Stained with it, I sat in the dining room of a house that smirked at me like a living creature. The furniture trembled with joy and the various critter designs on the dishes bit their tongues, holding back cheers. I felt the blood dry and cracking on my fingertips. I rubbed my hands together under the table while the investigator scribbled on his notepad. Had the house won? Would it finally swallow me whole? Would my husband—still very much a stranger to me—would he turn me in to his colleagues waiting outside? All I wanted to do was keep the promise I made my father on his deathbed, and now I am accused of butchering a woman, my best friend. I just wanted to keep my promise—it was such a simple request made with blood-smeared lips.

CHAPTER 1

January 1901

The world mourned. I eyed the people on the ferry. Death lingered on the tips of everyone’s tongues, and everyone everywhere was clad in black crepe and taffeta. It was an odd time to be newlyweds. I glanced at John. I didn’t know the first thing about him, let alone care for him, but I clung to the hope that affection grew with time. I looked down at the ring he gave me—a tiny pearl atop a gold band surrounded by a circle of white opal spheres. My sister Lillian eyed it after the wedding. She peered down at it and her smile turned. “Emeline? Pearls mean tears.”

John recently graduated law school, and his father wanted him to mentor under a friend, Mr. Carswell, who had a firm in Hannibal, Missouri. On January 28, 1901, a few weeks following our uncomfortable private ceremony and only six days after Britain’s Queen Victoria died, my new husband and I relocated. Not only were my family and I in mourning, people everywhere mourned the queen. It was all supposed to be a happy occasion, but there were only dark thoughts and melancholy tears.

We docked at the edge of the little town, nestled between two bluffs that made it look like a hole in the side of the world. I lived in the city my entire life, and now my best option in the world was to live in a hole. We plodded off the ferry, and John led me to our surrey, a plum boxy carriage with a fringed canopy top and a bench seat. The horse clopped through town quickly and excitement bubbled in my stomach at the idea of seeing our house.

John boasted of the house numerous times, praising every corner. “Just wait until you see the window molding! Oh—and the parlor! It truly is an architectural wonder!” John explained the previous owners left all their furniture and decorations. I didn’t know why anyone would abandon their furnishings, but I imagined it was a sad story. It was fine—I could sell what I didn’t fancy and purchase to my liking. Of everything, the house was the one thing I looked forward to. As long as the house was lovely, I knew I could be happy. The town was tiny and my husband a stranger, but I could be happy running a beautiful home. It was the one thing I would have full authority over. I detested my mother’s décor. Whenever I complained about it, she reminded me that when I got married I could decorate however I wanted, and I didn’t have to use a single thing she had chosen for our home. Not like I could—those things were all gone now.

“We’re getting closer!” John held himself up to see how far we were but the rocking surrey pitched him back onto the bench seat.

I stared at him as he grinned out in front of us, bobbing around to see past the horse. John was attractive, not my ideal man, but still he looked fine. He had dark, nearly black hair, which he wore slicked back, and he kept his face clean shaven, a new trend that I found quite agreeable. He was thin not muscular, not tall, but still not shorter than myself. He also had what I could only call startling dark eyes, which I think could be seen as a good thing. At least he was 25—women in my situation have often found themselves married to a 50-year-old widower. I also think he found my appearance acceptable, hopefully. I had an average figure for a 23-year-old and light feathery fawn colored hair, a small nose, and generally pink cheeks, which glowed in contrast to my un-sunned skin. I hope he didn’t find my apparel unappealing. Unlike the rest of the world that might mourn the queen for a month or less, I had to wear black and eventually white mourning garb for almost another year. Still, we were young attractive intelligent people, and there was no reason why affection wouldn’t spark with a little time.

“We’re here! We’re here!” John shouted and unsuccessfully tried to stand up again.

I lifted my head and sat taller to see. As we approached, I struggled to get a glimpse through trees flashing past. When I finally laid my eyes upon it, I saw a structure that was not what any home should be. The driver turned at a break in the trees and took us on a straight path toward the monster. When we stopped, John jumped off to fiddle with something before offering his hand to help me out. If he had offered it immediately, I wouldn’t have taken it because I was stunned to stone, gaping at the bizarre construction before me.

“It was built in 1880,” John said. “A gothic revival, I believe.”

I unfroze and remembered it was supposed to be a happy day, but the only thing I could say reflected my disenchantment. “It looks—dark.”

“What do you mean—it’s white!” John reached out his hand, and after a brief hesitation, I grasped it and stepped out, drawing up my skirt to prevent a snag.

How could a white house seem so dark? The entire building, apart from the russet wood shingled roofs, were made of red brick but were painted over with a pasty white. The red base seeped out from beneath the blanched masquerade. It was overbearing, like a fortress. A fortress bloodied from war, then disguised as a house by some conspirator or perhaps—the house itself.

Perhaps the trees made it seem dark, dead? A ring of bare trees circled the house then thickened into woods. Winter stripped the trees naked and covered the forest floor with a rug of decay. There were broad trunked and slender trunked trees. I imagined a splash of sunset color in the fall. The broad leaves certainly turned orange, yellow, and a blazing red just before blanketing the ground with a sea of fire. But now skeletons lingered all around.

John raved about the structural design, but it wasn’t a marvel—it was a catastrophe! Structurally sound at best. The anterior stuck out farther than the rest, and the sides were oddly shaped creating a lopsided appearance. The front doors were abnormally located to the right rather than the front center. My gaze drifted up above the front doors to a slender gothic window with intricate crown molding. The left wing had a similar upstairs window, and the front had two so close together they could be one if there weren’t a thick piece of frame between them. The upstairs windows towered, slender and strange. The three paned bay windows on the front bottom floor appeared normal.

“Is that the parlor?” I pointed at the bay windows.

“Uh, yes. The two tall windows above it are our chamber.” John lugged a trunk off the surrey with the help of the driver.

“And the other windows?”

They eased the trunk to the ground. “More rooms.”

“The porches—they look peculiar.”

“I think they were additions,” John said.

The Greek revival columns on the porches would actually be quite attractive if they were a part of another house, but they didn’t match a gothic revival, they only amplified its awkward state. The porches’ features didn’t match or make sense either. The right porch had a few steps leading up to a small landing and the front doors. The bay windows completely interrupted the porches, separating them from each other. The left porch sat higher and stretched farther back, but without any steps, there was no way to reach it. I pictured some awkward little man deciding to build the porches and columns on a whim, himself having always desired a Greek revival, and it being popular to remodel to one’s own desires. People generally did so with the aid of a professional to guide them, but perhaps he felt otherwise.

“All right let’s go inside!” John picked up a few bags and led the way. I walked behind, slower, gawking at the peculiar construction.

John opened the front double doors releasing light into a long narrow hallway with a door directly to the left and a door facing us at the end. I assumed the awkward little man’s whim was only taken to the exterior of the home, but once inside I realized he had more vigor than I thought. I looked down the hallway. “Where are the stairs?” In most homes, the stairwell is the first thing eyes fall upon, and many take pride in the magnitude and luxury of their own. It’s a mark of station.

“They’re around the corner.” John dropped two bags next to the coat rack and hung his hat.

I noticed a distinct sent of wood, oil, and dead plants.

John grasped a lantern on the table next to the coat rack and sparked the flame, but it was the middle of the day. “What are you doing?”

“You want to walk around in the dark?” He held up the gleaming lamp.

I shook my head. “It’s daylight?”

“There are no windows in the hallway, and I would prefer we left the doors closed unless someone is in a room.”

“What?”

“It’s a big house, and we don’t want to lose each other. This way we’ll always know how to find each other.”

I shuddered. “Yes, but what a horrible way to live in the dark all the time.”

“You’ll find it quite fine, I assure you.” He glided down the corridor. “Besides it’s only in the hallway.”

I didn’t follow. I gaped at the gloomy passageway with a heavy feeling in my abdomen and an urge to whirl round and run home rather than remain in such an awful place. I urgently clung to denial and clasped onto the matter of the doors and hastily searched for any grounds to quarrel. “What about gasses? The rooms have to be aired.” It was common to vent rooms to prevent toxins from building up.

“You can air them daily if you must.” He stopped at the first door on the left and turned back to me.

“What about the cost of fuel?”

“Let me worry about the expenses.” He motioned for me. “Come along then.”

I stepped forward, hesitated then walked to him.

“This is the parlor.” John opened the door on the left to an oversized room. The bay window faced out front. It had somber cobalt wallpaper, and it brimmed with outdated bric-a-brac. This was stylish in my mother’s day, but I intended to be liberated from such clutter. There were numerous outlandish and off-putting tables and chairs distributed throughout. The main seating area was situated around the fireplace across the room.  

A few unusual pieces that appeared somewhat alive drew my attention. One was a bowl resting on a silver stand with four swirly legs and two twirling arms that rose over the basin and down slightly, as though they were intending to plunge into some life giving liquid. The majority of the bowl was a tempting yellow, but it also had pink at the bottom left. The shade drifted upward like smoke fading from pink to mauve to indigo and finally to the yellow. I suppose it was intended to mimic a flower, but the edges of the bowl rose at two spots forming what looked like the ears of an owl. Two circular indentations buried in the yellow looked like eyes. There was a beak too, formed from the silver stand coming to a point in the middle. It was as though someone plucked the head off an owl and mounted it upon a swirling metallic forest.

Everything in the parlor was like that! The cabinets had winding appendages like vines. They burst out at all sides and darted back in toward the body, but failed to make it before twisting all the way around and zapping back out again. Inanimate objects had hidden eyes built right in. Faces were imbedded on every hunk of wood that could be found. The arms of chairs were carved with animal heads, paws, and claws. They gaped and smirked. Beady eyes peeked out from every crease and corner. Some were meant to be creatures but others were just ambiguously lifelike. These peculiar things transformed the room into a murky forest filled with unknown beasts.

On the far wall to the right, opposite the bay windows, I saw another door. “Where does that lead?”

“You’ll see.” John shut the door. We walked down the hall.

“The sitting room.” John opened the door at the end of the hall. I nearly leaped, shocked by the bright color. Pink wallpaper blazed in comparison to the deep cobalt of the parlor, but the brilliance of the room wasn’t agreeable. It was littered with ornamental chairs and tables covered in frippery, along with a writing desk and prairie cabinet. It too had bric-a-brac and ruffles sprinkled over every tabletop, shelf, and ledge. Thousands of white and pink doilies drowned every tabletop, every chair, and the little pink sofa too! The room was meant for a woman and was dressed to match, but I found it unbearable. It reminded me of an ocean of pink goo and if I were to sit in it, I’m certain I would suffocate encased in a warm flesh-colored swamp. Everything in that room must be sold. John closed the door.

We turned left and faced another long corridor with two doors on the left and one on the right. The stairwell opened up like a hole at the end, the first few steps exposed then swallowed up into the wall as they turned. John pointed at the first door on the left. “This is the parlor again, the door you asked about.”

“We could have walked straight through?”

“I don’t want you making a habit of taking short cuts. These corridors are here for a reason.”

I smiled with an unenthusiastic nod.  

John walked across the hall. “This here is the library and my study.” He opened the door revealing shelves of books, leather arm chairs, reading tables, and a heavy wood desk with an overbearing seat, like a dark throne. A narrow back rose to a point higher than any man’s head. The set was fashioned from a strange hard wood that appeared almost metallic. It was painted a blackish brown and bore elaborate and sharp etchings. John closed the door.

He walked back across the hall to open the second door on the left. “The dining room.” Inside was a narrow room with wood floors and vertical wood paneling halfway up the walls; the rest was covered in maroon wallpaper. High backed chairs surrounded a long dinner table. A sideboard, a third the table’s size, sat up against the right wall along with a rolling server and cabinet topped with green decanters. The furniture was similar to that in the parlor but not as intricate. Still, it would have to go. I was especially keen to ridding the room of its unrelenting nature theme. The chairs had insects carved into them. The table had vines. The silver and servers were shaped like leaves. The pitcher even had a leaf for a lid. The decanters were made of the brightest glowing green crystal—as though each had its own little fairy imprisoned inside.

John shut the door. “Shall we see the upstairs?”

“The kitchen?”

“It’s in the basement.” He pointed to the right of the staircase where an even smaller set of stairs twisted down into a dark chasm.

“Down there?”

“Yes. You’ve seen houses like that in the city, I’m sure.”

I had seen houses like that. Those were the houses where a lady of the house never stepped foot in the kitchen but had cooks, butlers, and servants. We couldn’t afford pay poor souls to go down there.

Then he pointed to a door next to the stairs. “That’s the servant’s entrance. It leads out to the stables and outhouse. Come now—upstairs.”

He turned and began up the stairs. We scaled the constricted staircase. It turned right after the first five or so steps, disappearing behind a wall. Once it turned, there were white walls on both sides and a low ceiling. It felt like they leaned inward. After two more rights we reached the landing. I stiffened at the sight of yet another dark hallway.

We passed two doors on the right and left without opening them. “Those rooms are furnished, but we have no use for them.”

A final door faced us at the end of the hallway. The staircase had turned so many times we were facing the front of the house again.

“And this is our chamber.” John opened the door to reveal, finally, an agreeable room. It had pale wood floors and white walls. The furniture was plain, well crafted, and made of a dark, nearly black, wood. The white and mother of pearl statuettes and elegant wall hangings were also lovely. I tried to go in, but John closed the door before I could. “Let us get the rest of our things.”

“Oh. All right.” We turned and walked down the hall back to the stairs.

“Well?” John asked as we crept down the stairs. He probably expected me to join him in his ravings.

I forced a smile. “It’s—unique.”

“That is why I chose it.”

“It’s just not to my tastes—I’m sure I’ll feel better once I redecorate.”

“Redecorate?” John stopped in front of me in the middle of the stairwell.

“Yes. Redecorate.” I felt hot and uncomfortable, halted in the cramped space.

He looked back at me and shook his head. “No.”

“Pardon me?” It felt like the walls were creeping closer.

“I don’t think you should redecorate.”

“But why?”

“We were lucky to find a home furnished and decorated. That is why I bought it.”

“But it’s—it’s awful.” I regretted saying it as soon as John’s expression wilted then morphed into stern resolve.

“I am sure you will come to like it with time.” He turned and continued down the stairs.

I felt the weight of disappointment. Not only was John forcing me to live uncomfortably in every way, he was also wrenching away the one thing I controlled. We walked all the way down the stairs and halfway through the hall when I finally dispelled my mother’s warnings to keep complaints to myself. “John?” I stopped walking.

He didn’t stop. “Hmm?”

“I don’t think I will like it with time.”

He halted at the end of the hall and looked back. “My father and Mr. Carswell went to great lengths to find a home that would require little from us, as a wedding gift. You should be thankful.” 

“I am thankful, but decorating and making a home a sanctuary is a wife’s duty.” I smiled. “I want to create a sanctuary for you.”

“I’m already happy.” He said. “I don’t need you to do anything. You should be grateful to get so much when you hadn’t even a dowry.”

My jaw dropped.

He motioned for me. “Come on.” He turned and left me alone. The hall went dark except for a tiny glow in the corner where he had gone. I intentionally remained. I wanted to resist. I wanted to refuse. I had no dowry and nothing to stand on. He had accepted me when I had nothing to offer. He did me a favor. I had no right to make any requests—a slave to circumstance. I never wanted to leave that spot, face reality, but I feared the sound of him calling for me when he noticed I wasn’t behind him. I missed my family. I wanted to go home. I blinked and fanned air toward my eyes. I cannot be upset by this, I told myself. My mother was right. I shouldn’t have objected to him. He was right. The house was finished, and I should be grateful. I will be happy with time. I will show John how thankful I am. I will be happy. We will love each other. From this point on, I was going to be a perfect wife.

I forced my feet to budge. I walked quickly, turned the corner, and paused. “Forgive me?”

He did not look back but answered cheerfully. “Of course.” He opened the front doors letting in a pure white light from outside.