Read by Carrie Cohen (2nd story in podcast, at 16min 30s, here)
Cassandra could not explain why she was compelled to visit Chance House. Or why she had dreamt of the grand estate, seeming to know its every corner. She looked out from her bedroom window as stars clung to the waning night. The last fragments of a dream darted away like silver fish, replaced by a childhood memory of grey stone walls etched with moss, and a line of windows like a hound baring its teeth. Cassandra was practically a stranger to Chance House, her mother’s childhood home, though she knew well where the long driveway began. She scanned the lacework of trees, trying to locate the dwelling that lay beyond the fields and woods.
It was true the house had been in her thoughts of late. The property had lain empty for months, and had been recently inherited by Mr Kitto, who had left his mines in Northumberland to take up residence there. No doubt she was curious about meeting her cousins.
As she regarded the vault of night, a cloud lifted away like a veil to reveal the moon’s ashen glow. Silver touched the room and brought her reflection to the fore. Her hair was faint gossamer on the glass, her eyes two black stones.
*
It was time. Cassandra would visit Chance House to meet her cousins. But first, she was bound to her usual visitations in the village.
Despite the lane being quite muddy in places, Cassandra had planned to go from the cottage all the way to Harriet’s house. She was headed that way when she stopped at the flint church. The two stone benches faced each other within the timber porch, sheltered by a pointed roof. Here she had often sat as a child with Harriet as they discussed the grand balls held at Chance House.
‘They have quite forgotten their poor relations,’ she would tell her friend, mocking her mother’s frequent lament. Harriet, with her pretty curls, would purse her bow lips to stifle a giggle as Cassandra declared: ‘My name may be Flood, but I am still a Kitto’, one hand resting on her heart for full effect.
Cassandra decided to view the churchyard, where her mother was buried beside the gnarled yew tree. Its thick arms arched over the grave, leaves casting a wide shadow. She faced the headstone, scarred with lichen.
‘This is your doing,’ she said.
*
Chance House was not as she remembered. The facade was free of moss, and the narrow windows did not threaten, but instead gave the place a welcoming air, as they reflected the light of early afternoon. Within, the house was airy elegance. It is altogether a different place, she thought.
Cassandra sat in the drawing room with Mr Kitto and his elderly mother as tea and plum cake were served.
Despite being a slight man, Mr Kitto seemed to take up a great deal of space, Cassandra observed, as he jostled his attention between a letter and his tea, murmuring under his breath between sips. She had no appetite and sat, quietly mortified by his lack of interest.
‘Put the Kittos out of your head,’ was what her father had always said, the veins at his temples like unravelling wool.
Cassandra turned to Mrs Kitto, who sat across from her, inspecting her plate. Her papery cheeks hung in long folds and her thin lips twisted open with the effort of reaching for her fork. She seemed to be avoiding Cassandra’s gaze.
‘How do you like the house?’ she said, her hands fumbling with the fork.
‘I like it very much,’ Cassandra replied, trying to catch the woman’s watery eyes.
‘Needs work,’ interrupted Mr Kitto, looking up from his letter. ‘The east wing will bankrupt me.’
‘I don’t see what is wrong with the east wing,’ said Mrs Kitto with sudden vigour, drawing a forkful of cake to her mouth. ‘Except that it is terribly cold.’
‘All those tapestries and ugly carvings,’ he laughed. ‘I feel a skeletal apparition awaits me at every corner.’
‘Must we dwell on all that unpleasantness?’ said Mrs Kitto.
‘My point exactly. The mines are doing well,’ he said waving the letter at her. ‘So, we can afford some extravagance.’
His mother frowned and lifted her teacup with trembling hands. ‘Well, I am sure Marion would feel more comfortable,’ she said after a short pause.
‘Will Miss Kitto be joining us?’ asked Cassandra, ‘I should very much like to meet my cousin.’
‘Where is Marion?’ asked Mr Kitto, slamming the letter down on the table. ‘Mrs Leery!’
‘Yes sir,’ said the housekeeper, who had just entered the drawing room and was standing by the door. She was small and neatly dressed, her greyed curls gathered under a large cap. Those that paid attention could see that she was a handsome woman and must have been very pretty in her youth. Yet, she had the aspect of one long accustomed to making herself plain. Still, Cassandra noticed a glint in her eye.
Mr Kitto turned towards Mrs Leery. ‘Will my daughter be joining us?’
‘Miss Kitto has a headache sir, and will take tea in her room,’ she replied with calm authority.
‘Marion must not be allowed to indulge in her tendency to solitude,’ said Mrs Kitto.
‘Yes, yes,’ her son replied, fingers tapping at the table.
When Mrs Leery had left the room, the old woman leaned forward.
‘Charles, are you quite certain about this woman?’
Mr Kitto leaned back in his chair and took up his cup.
‘My dear Mother, Mrs Leery has served at Chance House for four decades and has been its housekeeper for three of those. Since she has served two masters of this house already, I dare say she is well equipped to serve a third.’
*
Miss Kitto was missed at dinner. Again, she was indisposed. Mr Kitto’s jaw tightened as the housekeeper relayed the news.
It had been raining since late afternoon and Mr Kitto commented that the road to Redhampton must be quite treacherous. Cassandra would have no option but to stay overnight. The thought of meeting Miss Kitto at breakfast the next day was her only consolation.
Thunder roared with a force that made Mrs Kitto shrink into her chair.
‘Someone ought to stay with Marion,’ she said.
Mr Kitto shook his head. ‘She is not a child,’ he said in a cool manner, yet Cassandra noted the colour in his cheeks.
It soon grew dark, and the occupants of Chance House took to their beds.
*
Mrs Leery led the way to the east wing, her dress shifting as she paced along the dark corridor. The only light came from the candle she held in front of her. Every so often she lifted it, casting a glow on the portraits along the walls. What an odd little tour, thought Cassandra as the thunder growled.
Mrs Leery stopped at a door left slightly ajar and, pushing it open, revealed an ornate bedchamber. So, this is where I am to sleep, thought Cassandra. The walls were a confusion of red dahlias, which in the dim light looked black. She longed to be in the other part of the house, with its clean lines and simple furnishings.
Mrs Leery went to the window and lit a candle that had been placed on the sill.
‘A little light for you my dear,’ she said as Cassandra looked on.
The woman walked to the four-poster bed with its crimson hangings and, after setting her candle on the bedside table, smoothed down the bedcovers.
‘Rest well, dearest,’ whispered the housekeeper to Cassandra, as she lifted the candle and turned to leave. Then she paused in the doorway and in a stern voice said, ‘Goodnight Julia,’ before pulling the door shut.
Cassandra was wide-eyed as thunder rumbled above. What did the housekeeper mean by calling her Julia? As lightning flashed, a portrait caught her attention. She recoiled at the familiar hazel eyes. The wind howled as rain mauled at the windowpanes. In the fleeting light, the dahlias seemed to scurry across the walls. She turned to look about the room. A recollection stirred, of her fingers pressed to the wallpaper’s laurel sheen.
Of course. Julia. This had been her mother’s room.
The candle stub would not last long. And Mrs Leery had lit no fire, though Cassandra did not feel cold. Without undressing, she slipped under the stiff covers and shut her eyes tight, willing herself asleep before the comfort of candlelight expired.
*
Cassandra dreamt of her mother. Of the time Father had let the two of them visit Chance House, providing Mama vowed to be less glum on her return. But when it was time to go home, Mrs Flood would not leave her childhood room.
She had sat at her dressing table like a doll, with unblinking eyes and pale upturned hands that rested on her dress. The vacant stare had persisted, even as her daughter burst into the room.
‘Mama,’ laughed Cassandra, then fourteen years old. ‘Why do you look so stupid?’
Mrs Flood lifted her head and smiled, her eyes dull as old copper coins.
The girl drew back.
‘Come,’ said her mother, her voice an untethered sail.
Cassandra glanced a flash of silver in her lap, and heard the swish of scissors opening. She gripped the door frame.
Again, her mother beckoned.
Cassandra awoke with a start, scanning the darkness. She sensed a presence, heart lurching as she heard the rustle of fabric.
‘Cassy,’ came a whisper from the edge of the room.
Cassandra leapt from the bed and flew down the corridor towards the main house, arms outstretched as she floundered in the dark.
She heard footsteps behind her as she crossed the landing and made her way to the west wing, relieved to see the glow of candlelight from under a door.
‘Hello?’ she said, hoping the room’s inhabitant was awake.
She heard a thud from inside the room, as if something had fallen.
‘Go away!’ came a young woman’s voice.
Cassandra felt an exhale of breath on her neck. She let out a moan, fear driving her to twist the door handle. The door moved but an inch, barred by something heavy, a sliver of light seeping into the hallway.
Cassandra peered through the gap, not wanting to face what was behind her. In the brightly-lit room, a girl sat curled on the bed, her red hair falling over her knees. Cassandra supposed this was Marion. Her cousin was sobbing, her shoulders jerking as she clutched the folds of her nightdress.
Cassandra pressed herself against the door and rattled the handle. ‘Let me in!’ she shouted.
‘Leave me alone!’ cried Marion, clamping her fingers over her ears.
Cassandra pushed the door with full force, until finally she fell into the room.
Rain thrashed against the windowpane. This must be what it is like to be at sea, thought Cassandra, as the ground seemed to sway beneath her. And she rose like mist to the ceiling.
From here she saw Mrs Leery peer through the thin gap at the door, still barred by a large chest.
‘I am here,’ said the housekeeper, the box scraping against the floorboards as she pushed open the door.
‘Tell it to go!’ pleaded Marion.
‘That is quite enough Cassandra!’ Mrs Leery chided, looking about the room.
Cassandra recognised her now. The soft curls and the pretty bow lips. She ached for Harriet’s embrace. She had been alone for so long now. Fifty years or more.
They can’t see you, you fool, she told herself. Even now she was playing at being a lady, with her little friend in tow. But it always ended with remembering.
‘You old ghost,’ scolded Mrs Leery. Then her face softened. ‘Your mother cannot hurt you any more, child,’ she said. ‘Now, be a good girl and go into the light.’
(c) Marta Patiño, 2023
Marta Patiño has a BA in English Literature & worked for years in non-fiction publishing. She recently shifted to freelancing, to pursue her goal of being a full-time writer. Marta writes short stories & is working on a novel. Originally from London, she lives in Berkshire with her two children.
Carrie Cohen’s stage work includes June Wright in Triggered at The Lion & Unicorn and White Bear theatres, Sandra in Tick Tock at The Arcola and various roles with SLAMinutes at The Pleasance. Films include Rose in Skeletons and The Killer in Something Gruesome. TV includes The Thief, His Wife And The Canoe, Starstruck and Mandy. Full CV and showreel at www.carriecohen.co.uk
Comments