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The stained glass of the archways bent and distorted the sunlight streaming through the windows, casting deformed patterns across the hardwood floors. Charlotte sat alone in the nave, quill in hand, scribbling whatever verses came to mind. It was a poor attempt at connecting with the Church. Nonetheless, her father insisted, claiming that only faithful and God-fearing women had a chance at securing a husband. Frankly, Charlotte couldn’t be less interested in marriage. She had seen her mother and father’s marriage deteriorate with the years. She had seen her mother’s character disappear. She had seen her father steal the joy out of everything she had ever known. And now, it was time for her and her two sisters to face the same fate. Interestingly enough, her older sister, Elizabeth, had yet to be married, as no suitors had demonstrated enough wealth to wed her. With the sisters’ increasing age, their father, James Waldegrave, 2nd Earl Waldegrave had become more adamant about finding husbands for each of the ladies.
As the sun fell below the horizon, the light in the Church became dim. Charlotte only had a mess of two verses written in her notebook, something her father would surely later berate her for. Though, she couldn’t find it in herself to continue her meaningless studies. She pondered what life would hold for her, should she never be married. Since she was a girl, Charlotte had dreamed of becoming a seamstress, working in tandem with her two sisters. Now, that dream felt further away than ever. Standing, Charlotte waltzed through the rows of pews and out the grand entrance, leaving the Church shrouded in darkness.
When she arrived back at Chewton House, the sky had darkened greatly, and the wind had begun its routine howling. The residence was completely silent. It was normal for her father to be out during the wee hours of the night, but the lack of her mother’s presence unnerved her. She wandered through the lofty corridors of the manor, taking in the polished mahogany flooring and the pale red molding that lined the ceiling. Mirrors and picture frames lay sturdy against the walls, casting lengthy shadows across the hallway. Soon, she reached her quarters, finding the door ajar. She stared for a moment, concerned someone had entered her room without her knowledge. Carefully, she pushed the heavy ivory door open. Everything in the room was still, and Charlotte listened for any sign of life. When she decided that there was no intruder, she turned her focus to her bed, where a handwritten note lay on her pillow. Immediately she recognized the print to be her mother’s penmanship.
Find yourself in the cellar as soon as you find this note.
You needn’t be worried; your sisters are here too.
Despite her mother’s words, Charlotte became anxious in an instant. Since she was a young child, her mother had warned her against venturing to the cellar. It had been engraved in her mind that the lowest floor of the manor was entirely off-limits to herself and her sisters. She considered the reasons her mother might ask her to the cellar for. To her knowledge, no one had ever been in the cellar, since the manor was built. Not even her father. Nevertheless, she exited her room, making way to the cellar.
Silently, Charlotte crept down the wooden stairs, avoiding loose steps and rotted planks. The musky smell of soil and rain emitted from the orange tiles, causing her to gag. At the bottom of the steps, she could see a shadow of a flame dancing across the furthest most wall. As she entered the dimly lit basement, the crackling embers from the fire seemed to accentuate each pace she took. In the center of the room, her mother and sisters stood around a small, circular table. Her mother beckoned her forward, and Elizabeth offered her a small smile. Charlotte didn’t miss the smirk that quickly danced over her younger sister’s face before disappearing. Anna approached her, holding a small square of white silk.
“Father believes he found a suitor for you,” she began, her voice just above a whisper. “He’s no good man, though.”
“He’s vain and brash,” Elizabeth offered, providing evidence to Anna’s claims. “He’s even killed a girl in the street because she asked for a few shillings.”
Still, her mother spoke no words, only nodded in agreement with Charlotte’s sisters. She gracefully took the fabric from Anna’s hands, running her fingers over the frayed edges. Elizabeth handed her a needle, and a spool of yellow thread.
“Oliver Frederick is his name,” she spoke quietly. “Embroider his name in the center.”
Sensing the seriousness of the situation, Charlotte followed her sister’s instructions. Just as soon as she began the first stitch, she was finished. The letters of his name embossed in the yellow thread heavily contrasted with the off-white color of the silk. Though Charlottes mind was still clouded with confusion, she knew what they all expected her to do next. She extended her arm, dangling the silk square over the open flame, singing the edges. Looking to her mother for reassurance, she dropped it, letting the fabric sear and curl into mere ashes.
When Charlotte awoke in the morning, she was unable to discern if the previous night was real or a figment of her imagination. Anna had informed her that the devilish ritual she had performed was only meant to drain Oliver of his wealth and would cause him no harm physically; only disqualify him from the role of a possible suitor. And, according to their mother’s lengthy conversation with their father, Oliver’s newfound debt had greatly deterred the progression of a marriage. Charlotte couldn’t yet bring herself to believe simply burning silk could save her from a loveless marriage, but she had to hope, as the evening she was supposed to meet her suitor was quickly approaching. And with her impending fate inching closer by the second, her dream of becoming a renowned dressmaker slipped further and further from her grasp.
Almost a fortnight later, and the evening of the gala was upon them. Elizabeth, Charlotte, and Anna wore coordinated ivory gowns that grazed the floor. The imposing archways of the hall were enough to intimidate any man unworthy of marriage. Charlotte stood around nervously, glancing every so often at the entryway, despite not knowing what this Oliver Frederick looked like. Even though his face was unbeknownst to her, she quickly became aware of his presence, as a man dressed clad in the finest fabrics and glittering accessories marched carelessly through crowds and conversation up to her. His face was decorated in gnarly scars that made him appear more akin to a loom than a human. He sported a lapel chain made of human teeth, something Charlotte had to stop herself from gagging at.
“Ah,” the man exhaled. “You must be the Charlotte Maria,” his lips curled into a sinister grin; his eyes flashed with the vigor of a madman. “Viscountcy Oliver Frederick,” he offered, taking a quick bow.
Charlotte was aghast. Despite the ritual her mother made her perform, here Oliver was, seemingly undeterred. Though, she wasn’t the only one stunned. Elizabeth couldn’t contain the frazzled expression that crossed her face. Her mother spoke up, obviously perplexed by his presence.
“Viscountcy Frederick,” she began. “James has informed me of your situation,” she spoke, feigning concern. “While I’m certainly pleased with your enthusiasm to meet my daughter-“
Oliver cut her off with a wave of his hand.
“Of course, I am honored to court your daughter,” he said hastily. “I assure you, I’ve already spoken with the 2nd Earl Waldegrave, and a marriage is in order.”
None of the ladies could hide the instantaneous distraught that overtook them. Their mother’s face seemed to turn a ghastly shade of white, and Elizabeth’s eyes frantically danced between Oliver and Charlotte. Though, Oliver was oblivious to the secret panic between them. Making up some elaborate reason, their mother excused them from the gala, ushering them home.
Back at Chewton House, few words were spoken, but Charlotte was well aware of what she had to do. Slipping out of her evening dress, and into a peignoir she had sewn by hand, she found herself bounding down the familiar steps to the cellar. And just as they had been two weeks ago, her mother and sisters were waiting for her. Standing in front of the open flame once again, a sense of dread bubbled inside here.
“Is this going to kill him?” Charlotte asked no one in particular, gazing between the spool of red yarn and the needle in her hand.
Her mother nodded, not offering her any verbal confirmation. The sinister light from the candles illuminated each of their faces, the flames dancing in their pupils. Clutching the needle, she pierced the tattered cloth, the tip sliding gracefully through the fabric, embossing his name once again. She felt the dull pain of guilt ache in her chest, but she continued; one stitch after another.
To Charlotte’s surprise, the next morning seemed far too calm for the atrocities she had committed just the night prior. It wasn’t until the evening that James Waldegrave, 2nd Earl Waldegrave called his family for a meeting regarding Viscountcy Oliver Frederick. Charlotte and her mother were the first to arrive. Anna and Elizabeth arrived together; Anna offering Charlotte a reassuring nod. And she needed it. The hall was filled with a tensity that Charlotte had never felt before. James ran a heavy hand down his face before finding his words.
“Viscountcy Frederick has-” he paused; solemnly, “been in an accident.”
Charlotte felt the immediate urge to speak; to say anything that would take responsibility for Oliver’s demise. But, as much as she wanted to admit her involvement, she wished to keep her future for herself just as much. And so, she remained quiet, envisioning her life as a seamstress, working in tandem with her two sisters.