The Invitation

  * * *

  ABBIE REMAINED FOR some time, waiting for her sister’s return. She did not like this house, and the thought of traveling its unfamiliar hallways on her own frightened her. Perhaps one of the many servants might be found, but even that required searching the maze of corridors. No, she would remain here and wait for Mariana’s return.

  It was an hour or more before she at last heard footsteps. The door opened, but it was not Mariana who entered. It was a gentleman, dark haired and scholarly, with a book in one hand and his glasses perched upon his nose. He took from the sideboard a decanter and poured himself a drink. In one hand he held a cigar, and with that hand he lifted the glass and placed it on the table. He sat, his eyes still on his book, and took a puff from his cigar before releasing the smoke. It was a mouthful only, but it was enough to inspire Abbie to another fit of coughing.

  “Good heaven!” the gentleman said and stood. “I had no idea there was anyone here. Forgive me. Does the smoke bother you?”

  “No,” she said. “It’s perfectly all right.”

  “No, it isn’t,” he said, and arose get rid of it. He could not find anywhere to put it, so at last decided to snuff it out in his drink, after which he set them both aside and quite out of the way. “Forgive me,” he said again. “You are Mrs. Newhaven’s niece. Miss Gray, I presume?”

  “Abbie, yes,” she answered him.

  “I’m pleased to meet you. I’m William Meredith, your aunt’s lawyer.”

  “Lawyer?” she asked and puzzled. “Was it you who replied to my letter?”

  His answer was merely a smile and a nod.

  “You have been here all this time?” Abbie asked of him.

  “I come and go. It is how we have grown accustomed to doing our business.”

  “And you are here so late?”

  “Again, it suits our purposes. It is the most convenient, the most discreet, considering…”

  “Considering what?” Abbie asked, growing more confused by the minute.

  He looked at her a moment. “Your aunt has not told you what it is we do here, I take it. Nor about the house.”

  “Truly, Mr. Meredith, you puzzle me exceedingly. Is there some great mystery I should know about? Has it anything to do with the Crawfords?”

  “Crawford?” he said and shook his head. “I know no one by that name.”

  “Will you tell me, then? Or do you mean to leave it for my aunt to do?”

  He smiled at her awkwardly. “Why do you sit here alone?” he asked instead of answering.

  “My aunt went to bed early. She had a headache, I believe. My sister is with her.”

  “And you remain alone?”

  “I do not know the house,” she said. “I thought Mariana would return shortly, but…”

  “Shall I find someone to help you? There is always someone about.”

  “That would be kind of you. Only—” She had meant to inquire once more about her aunt and the house, and the mysteries that seemed to be mounting, but he was out of his seat and at the door before she could quite form the words to ask.

  Not half a minute later the door opened again, and a young woman appeared. “I’m Becky, miss,” she said. “May I show you to your room?”

  “Yes, please,” Abbie said and arose. She stopped a minute in anticipation of Mr. Meredith’s return, and of the question she still wished to ask of him. It seemed, however, that he had no intention of giving her the opportunity.

  Defeated, Abbie followed the young woman from the room, all the while puzzling over those questions that refused to be answered. What was the source of the bitterness Aunt Newhaven held for the Crawford family? That her parents had resented them had seemed quite natural, considering the neglect they had witnessed every day of their lives. But for her aunt, a stranger to her mother’s life, to hold them in contempt as well, here was a deeper mystery—perhaps a longer history—than Abbie could ever hope to unravel on her own.

  And what of this house? What was the reason for her aunt’s shut up life? It reminded her a little of Dickens’ Mrs. Havisham, whose happiness had veritably ended on the eve of her wedding, having been deserted by the man she was to marry, and who, afterward, had lived in a sort of self-preserved misery for the rest of her days. Like Mrs. Havisham, Aunt Newhaven had money, Abbie was certain of it. In fact the lawyer, in the reply she had received from him, had assured her of her aunt’s ability to provide for the sisters in no uncertain terms. There were certainly servants enough, and yet the house remained in a state of almost obstinate neglect.

  “Can I ask, Becky, if there are a great number of you in service here?” Abbie found herself inquiring.

  “Oh yes, miss,” was her simple yet confident answer.

  “How many?”

  Becky seemed to consider this. “Well, it’s different each week, really. There are always half a dozen, at least. Sometimes there are more.”

  “Is my aunt not a good employer? Forgive me. Perhaps I should not have asked that question. You needn’t answer it if you do not wish.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Newhaven is the best there is, miss. If it weren’t for her, most of us’d be out on the street. Or worse.”

  “Worse? I’m afraid I don’t understand. If she is such a good employer, why so much coming and going and so little consistency to it all?”

  In the dim gaslight of the corridors, it was difficult to see if Becky’s color was higher, or if it was simply a trick of the light. Certainly she seemed suddenly reticent and uncomfortable.

  “Your room is just this way, miss,” she said in lieu of an answer.

  Abbie felt instinctively that she had asked too many questions already this night, and dared not ask more. At last arriving at her room, Abbie thanked the girl. Becky entered, lit the gas jet, checked the fire and left again. Leaving Abbie once more alone.