The Cold Side of Morning

"There are moments in life when one discovers that the deepest secrets are not those kept from us, but those we have been keeping ourselves."

The scream tore from my throat before I had any consciousness of uttering it—a sound so unnatural, so violently unrestrained, that it seemed to issue from some dark recess within me I had not known to exist. It rang through the great corridors of Jeffries Manor, echoing from the high ceilings and coursing through the passages like some dreadful harbinger. Even as the cry escaped my lips, I perceived it as though belonging to another—this fearful wail that rent the crisp dawn air. I heard the birds scatter from the roof in alarm, and knew the servants throughout the house must have ceased their labours in consternation.

The August morning had broken grey and lowering, with heavy clouds hanging over Van Diemen's Land. I had woken but slowly, my eyes adjusting to the weak winter light that penetrated the heavy damask curtains. The frost of the previous night yet clung to the window panes, forming such delicate tracery as seemed to speak of secrets best left unspoken.

It was the coldness I apprehended first. The linens beside me were cold.

Not merely cool from an early rising, but truly cold—untouched, unwrinkled, undisturbed. I reached forth with trembling fingers, passing my hand over William's portion of the bed, feeling the smooth, pristine surface. The understanding struck me with the force of a blow. He had not lain here. Not at all. Not the whole night through.

My heart commenced to race most violently, a sensation of sickness spreading through my breast as I raised myself, my auburn hair falling in wild disarray about my shoulders. I drew my wrapper more closely about me against the morning chill, my hands shaking as I endeavoured to comprehend what I beheld. Perhaps he had risen early. Perhaps he was in his study. Perhaps—

Then my eye fell upon it. The letter.

It rested upon his night table, appearing innocent yet terrible, a cream-coloured envelope bearing my name in William's bold hand. The ink appeared somewhat smudged, as though he had written in haste. I regarded it for what seemed an age, a sense of dread settling upon me, before my trembling hands at last reached forth to take it.

The paper was of that expensive quality William favoured for his business correspondence. My name—Madelyn—inscribed with such particular care, yet bearing the unmistakable character of urgency. I hesitated, every sense warning me that once I should open this communication, all would be altered. Yet I could not forbear.

My dearest Madelyn,

If you are reading this, then I fear the worst has come to pass. Even after last night's revelations, there are things I have not told you, secrets that I have kept in the misguided belief that I was protecting you and our son. I was a fool. I cannot explain everything here, but know that I love you both more than life itself. Whatever happens, whatever you may hear, never doubt that. Forgive me, my love. And be careful. Trust no one.

Yours always, William

The words swam before my eyes. I perused them once, twice, thrice, each reading rendering them more fantastic, more impossible. Secrets. What manner of secrets? We had quarrelled yesterday—Heaven knows how bitterly we had quarrelled—concerning mysterious withdrawals from the bank, concerning letters I had discovered concealed in his study, concerning his increasingly irregular conduct. But this? This cryptic farewell that was not precisely a farewell? This warning that chilled my very blood?

My gaze flew wildly to the door, as though I might yet expect him to enter and make all plain, to assure me it was some terrible misapprehension or ill-judged attempt at jest. But the silence remained absolute, save for the pounding of my own pulse.

'Twas then the scream came.

I possess no recollection of forming any intention to scream. It simply tore forth from me, rending the morning stillness with all the anguish and terror that came crashing upon me like waves upon the shore. The enormity of it—the empty bed, the letter, the warning—it was beyond what I could contain, beyond what I could compass.

The chamber swam before my eyes. The familiar furnishings—the four-poster bed where we had passed three years of marriage, the gilt-framed looking glasses, the intricately carved wainscoting—all became strange and menacing. The morning light striking the crystal drops of the chandelier cast such shadows upon the walls as seemed to dance and writhe with unnatural life. I felt myself sinking to the floor, my limbs refusing to bear me up any longer, my wrapper clutched in my trembling hands.

I could hear the house responding to my cry. Footsteps hastening, voices calling out, the sudden commotion that attends when some dreadful event has occurred. Yet I could not stir. I remained there upon the floor beside the great bed, the letter gripped fast in my hand, staring upon William's pillow that bore no impression of his head.

The events of the previous evening played through my mind in agonising fragments. The tension at dinner, scarce concealed beneath the forms of civility. The manner in which William's hand had trembled somewhat as he raised his wine glass. The strange intensity in his countenance when he had kissed me goodnight—had I imagined the desperation in that kiss? And our quarrel earlier in the day, the accusations I had cast at him, the way he had regarded me with what might have been pity or might have been fear.

"Mrs Jeffries...?"

The voice was hesitant, barely above a whisper. I raised my eyes to perceive Sarah, one of the young housemaids, peering round the doorframe. Her countenance was pale, her eyes widening as she took in the scene—myself upon the floor, my hair in wild disorder, transformed by shock into someone I scarce recognised. Her hands twisted in her apron as she stood frozen betwixt duty and fear.

I attempted to speak, to give some account, but no words would come. My throat felt raw from the scream, and my mind appeared incapable of forming any coherent expression. I could but shake my head, feeling the tears begin to course down my face.

Footsteps approached with measured tread, and then Thomas filled the doorway. Our butler's tall frame seemed to command the space entire, his composed aspect betraying naught of whatever disquiet he might feel. His pale grey eyes swept the chamber, observing such particulars as I was too distressed to mark—the undisturbed bed, the press door standing somewhat ajar, the empty crystal glass upon William's night table that yet held a measure of spirits.

"Madam," he said gently, his voice steady yet tinged with concern. "What has happened?"

The question hung in the air betwixt us, weighted with such implications as I could not yet fully apprehend. I turned my head towards him, feeling the tears hot upon my cheeks, and for the briefest moment, I hesitated. The letter felt as though it burned within my grasp. Trust no one, William had written. Did that comprehend Thomas? Did that comprehend every soul in this house?

Yet I had no choice. I could not pretend that naught was amiss, could not conceal this.

"He's gone," I managed, my voice hoarse and broken. "William... he is not here."

The words seemed absurd even as I uttered them, so insufficient for the magnitude of what was occurring. Yet they were all I possessed.

Thomas's expression underwent no alteration, but I observed his eyes move to the empty portion of the bed and then return to me. He inclined his head once, his mind evidently already turning upon the implications. "I will see to it that the staff are assembled," he said. "We will begin a search immediately."

His voice carried the quiet authority of one long accustomed to managing crises. As he withdrew into the passage, I could hear him issuing directions, his presence seeming to galvanise the assembled servants into action. The whispers grew more audible, rising into a hum of activity—footsteps hastening, doors opening and closing, voices calling through the house.

I remained where I was, my form taut with the exertion of maintaining my composure. With shaking hands, I folded the letter with great care and secured it within the pocket of my wrapper. The paper rustled against the silk like autumn leaves. The words echoed within my mind, but one phrase rose above all the rest like the tolling of a bell: Trust no one.

The irony was not lost upon me. William's final admonition might prove the very thing I could least afford to heed. For there were matters I knew, things I had done, secrets that must remain concealed if I was to protect both myself and our son. Matters concerning the money. Matters concerning the letters. Matters concerning what I had discovered in William's study but three days since.

As the sounds of footsteps and urgent voices filled the house, I closed my eyes and drew a deep breath, fortifying myself for what must come. The dissimulation I should be obliged to practise would require every particle of strength I possessed. Already my mind was racing forward—what to communicate to the authorities, what to keep hidden, how to appear the grieving, bewildered wife whilst protecting those secrets that could ruin us entirely.

I pulled myself to my feet, employing the bedpost for support. My reflection caught in the looking glass above the chimneypiece—a woman I scarce recognised. Wild of eye, dishevelled, yet beneath the shock and fear, something else was already beginning to harden. Resolution. Determination. Whatever had befallen William, whatever secrets he had been harbouring, I would survive this passage. I must. For William Jr., if for no other consideration.

Without, the heavy clouds at last broke, and rain began to fall, pattering against the window panes like anxious fingers upon glass. I approached the window and gazed out over the grounds of Jeffries Manor, observing the grey curtain of rain sweep across the gardens. Somewhere beyond lay answers. Somewhere beyond lay the truth of what had happened to my husband.

But first, I must face the servants, the questions, the search. I must perform my part to perfection.

The day that would alter everything at Jeffries Manor had only just commenced, and I was already practising deception.