The Woman at the Window (Halloween Story)

[Kiva]

Preface

I thought I'd try something different. This will be a Gothic horror novella. I'm not a big fan of the genre, but I thought it'd be a fun experiment. The story is told in two voices across two time periods. For the 1795 segments, I had Claude Opus 4.8 translate my narrative into late 18th-century American prose. I then edited it again to remove overly archaic language. I'll try to add a new chapter every 1-3 days. Hope you enjoy it.

The Woman at the Window

Time casts a spell on you but you won't forget me
I know I could have loved you but you would not let me.
-Stevie Nicks


Chapter 1

October 2026

The kitchen looks like a demolition site. The walls are bare. Old electrical wires dangle above us as plaster falls to the floor. The new cabinets are still packed in their crate.

It was Daniel who wanted the house, but I must say the turrets and the wraparound porch convinced me. Although I knew there were still plenty of colonial-period houses in and around Boston, I never really thought we'd sell our condo and buy one. The real estate agent called the house a "rare surviving example of late eighteenth-century Federal architecture" and said it had a "colorful" history. We bought it for less than you would normally pay for a house this size in Boston. Yet the mortgage is so high that we will both have to keep working until we reach retirement age.

My husband, being a contractor, was overjoyed and was excited to begin the renovation. On the day we first looked at the house, I was in the parlor, looking at the wide pine floor and the large fireplace in the center of the first floor. I thought about all the people who had been in that room before telephones, electricity, or anesthesia were invented. Nowadays, as a nurse, I can keep an eye on a patient's heart rate from another room. I thought of the two hundred and forty years during which people have lived and died in this house--two hundred and forty years of marriages, births, funerals, arguments, and secrets. Daniel finds this romantic.

But for me, it depends on the secrets.

The house smells like wood, dust, and damp plaster. Daniel is in the kitchen, covered in dust. A streak of white powder stains his forehead, and when he smiles at me, I feel an urge to wipe it away.

I don't.

For a moment, I just watch him. This is what we do now: we fix things--the house and our marriage. Fixing has become our ritual, a way of moving forward. Every nail placed, every wall patched, is a small promise that repair is possible, even if we can never make it as seamless as it once was.

He comes over and kisses me, and I allow him. His hand stays on my waist; for a moment I am transported back to a time when I didn't have to wonder where his hands had been.

Then the memory comes.

"Laura, are you alright?" he asks.

The Marriott. The hotel room. The woman from the bar.

I pull away. He doesn't say anything. Neither do I.

Sometimes wounds have no words.

A slight, nearly inaudible creak comes from the old plaster wall behind him.


Autumn, 1795

My name is Natalie Ash, and in the autumn of my nineteenth year, the third since General Washington took the oath, I came to serve in the finest house along the Boston Post Road. I was heavy-hearted to leave Concord. The elms along the common were turning to gold and rust, and in the bustling market stalls, the autumn air carried the scent of bruised windfall apples fermenting in their casks.  I could hear the distant clatter of a horse-drawn chaise rattling down the rutted lane. Around me, women wore their linen caps tied snug beneath their chins, and the church bell tolled the hour from the meetinghouse green, as it had for every day of my life.

My father brought me as far as the turn in the road, carrying my trunk while I carried the smaller bundle in my gown.

"You will mind your manners," he said.

"I know, Father."

"And do as the goodwife bids you."

"Yes"

"You are fortunate to have found a place in such a household."

There were girls older than I who had no place at all, and families poorer than ours who would have taken any wages they could find. My mother had mended and washed for other families since I was a child, and my brothers were already old enough for work. There was little room at home for another mouth.

"They say Mr. Edmund Forbes is a respectable man. A good merchant and a fine Christian gentleman," my father said.

I said nothing.

"And his wife is known to be a proper mistress."

"Yes, Father."

He looked at me, and his countenance softened.

"Keep yourself so, Natalie. A young woman has little in this world but her good name."

I nodded. Then my father gave me the trunk and turned back toward home.

The Forbes house stood upon the rise above the orchard, white and handsome, with tall windows and a broad front door. I had never lived beneath a roof so high.

Mrs. Forbes received me at the door. She was a woman of perhaps thirty years. She wore a dark gown and a white apron with flour upon one sleeve.

"You are Natalie Ash?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"You may call me Mrs. Forbes."

Her eyes moved across me, taking account of my gown, my shoes, and the trunk beside me.

"Can you read?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"And write?"

"Yes." She seemed surprised.

"My father taught me." She nodded, though I could not tell if this pleased her.

"You will rise before the household. There is water to be drawn, ashes to be carried, fires to be laid, and bread to be seen to. You will assist in the kitchen and attend to other such duties as I give you. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Mrs. Forbes."

"Then come in. It is cold."

I passed over the threshold. The house was warm from the kitchen fire, and it had the scent of bread, woodsmoke, and beeswax. I heard the clock strike the hour.

"Come, girl. I'll show you your room."

My room was small and situated above the kitchen, beneath the sloping roof. There was a narrow bed, a wooden chest, a washstand, and one little window overlooking the orchard.

It was more than I had ever possessed.

Mr. Forbes appeared behind her.

He stood at the far end of the passage speaking with a man I did not know. He was dressed in a dark coat, with a silver buckle at his waist. When he turned and looked toward me, I lowered my eyes at once.

He was not a young man. I knew that immediately. He had perhaps fifteen years upon me, perhaps more. Yet when he smiled, I felt something inside me that I had never known before.

"You'll find us a quiet household," he said.

Mrs. Forbes looked at him. For the briefest moment, neither spoke.

When he turned and looked toward me, I lowered my eyes at once.

Mrs. Forbes continued speaking, telling me what would be expected of me, but I scarcely heard it.

Mr. Forbes had looked at me.

A prickle started at the back of my neck, though I kept my eyes lowered and hands folded tight around the handle of my trunk. A feeling came upon me. It was not fear.

[CuriousCombat]

Interesting premise. Looking forward to it.

[Kiva]

Chapter 2

2026

The first thing you notice about the house is the smell. Partly musty, partly something else. That's the thing about old houses. Each one develops its own unique smell. Daniel has already started on the master bedroom at the back.

"Some of this plaster is really old," he says. "Maybe even original. We'll remove this half and open it up. We'll extend the electrical wiring. We'll mount the TV monitor there..."

"Did we buy a house, or did I take home a patient?" I joke. "It sounds like we're talking about surgery."

"Stop, Laura," he laughs. "Stop thinking about the hospital. You've got nursing on the brain again."

"It's an occupational hazard."

"Are you diagnosing issues with the house?"

"It has problems," I answer. "So do -" I stop myself. It's not right to bring this up. I promised him a second chance. He looks at me as if he knows what I almost said.

"So do many homes this old," I finish, trying to salvage the moment.

That's the hardest part. It's dealing with lingering hurt, struggling to trust, and being unable to say it. In the immediate aftermath, Daniel cried. He called it a momentary lapse, said she meant nothing, and offered the usual excuses men make when they get caught. But forgiveness and learning to trust again are two different things.

He's trying hard. If he were cruel, indifferent, or still seeing her, I could hate him cleanly. No second-guessing. I could pack a suitcase, call a realtor, and leave.

Instead, Daniel makes me coffee before I leave for work. He texts me during his lunch break. He calls when he's running late. He doesn't have to do any of this. At least not anymore. But I know why he does it.

Promises mean nothing. Trust returns only through a thousand repeated moments when the thing you fear doesn't happen. Some days I think I'm getting there. Other days, I'm back in the hotel room.

Daniel turns his attention to the master bedroom window. It's a large, rectangular Federal-style window with 12 panes held together by a lightweight wooden grid, facing the trees behind the house. Of course, the original glass and frame have been replaced, probably several times.

The window is not quite closed, leaving two inches open on the side. Cool air blows into the room through the window.

"Feel that?" I ask.

"The latch is shot," Daniel explains.

"It was closed when I came in."

"I'll fix it." He grabs a screwdriver from his toolbox and tightens the brass latch.

"There." He closes the window. The latch clicks. "Happy?"

"Ecstatic."

Daniel laughs and leaves the room. I stand there alone.

I turn to follow.

I feel the cold October air ruffle the back of my neck.

 I turn. The latch is secure.

From downstairs, Daniel calls my name.

I don't answer.

I look at the opening where the autumn wind seems to come in. And for one strange moment, I have the unmistakable feeling that someone is outside the window, waiting for me to notice.

1795

I learned the household soon enough.

Mrs. Forbes was awake before the cock crowed and I was expected to awaken shortly after. There was water to be drawn, ashes to be carried, fires to be laid, bread to be cut, and a hundred other small duties which, taken together, seemed to fill every hour God had granted us.

I did not complain.

A girl in my circumstance had little cause for complaint. There were families where a servant was treated harshly, fed poorly, and sent to her bed with scarcely strength enough to say her prayers. The Forbes kept a respectable table, and Mrs. Forbes was not unkind.

It was Mr. Forbes who unsettled me.

At first, I thought no more of his attentions than I ought.

He praised my work. He asked whether I had slept well. Once, when I burned my hand upon the iron, he took my wrist and examined the place himself.

"You must take greater care, Natalie."

"Yes, sir."

His fingers remained about my wrist.

Not long. Only a moment. Yet I remember it. I remember it because, after he released me, I found myself wishing he had not.

That thought shamed me.

I said my prayers that night and asked the Lord to forgive me for it.

Afterward, I began to notice him.

If I was in the kitchen, he would find some errand that brought him there. If I was dusting the parlour, he would linger by the door. If I carried a tray upstairs, I sometimes found him upon the landing, though there was no reason for him to be there

One afternoon, he came upon me in the parlour whilst I was dusting the mantel.

"You have missed a place."

I looked where he pointed. There was scarcely any dust at all.

"I beg your pardon, sir."

He reached past me and brushed his finger along the wood.

Then he looked at me.

"You must be more particular."

"Yes, sir."

He smiled.

I lowered my eyes.

When he had gone, I stood with the cloth in my hand and listened to the clock upon the mantel.

I could hear its ticking plainly.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

I do not know how long I stood there.

That evening, Mrs. Forbes sent me upstairs with a tray.

She stood before the looking glass, removing her earrings.

"Set it there."

"Yes, ma'am."

I placed the tray upon the table.

I was turning to leave when she said my name.

"Natalie."

I stopped.

She was watching me in the glass.

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Do you see how the sunlight comes through the sash glass?" she asked, pointing to the large master chamber window.

"Yes, ma'am."

"The glass was ordered from England before the troubles and paid for after. Take great care in its cleaning."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Does Mr. Forbes speak with you?"

"At times."

What does he say?"

"Nothing of consequence."

She turned from the mirror. Her face was very still.

"See that it remains so."

I did not understand her meaning. Or perhaps I did.

"Yes, ma'am."

I curtsied and left the chamber.

I thought of her words all that night. I thought of Mr. Forbes's hand upon my wrist. I thought of the way he looked at me.

And though I knew it was wicked, I found myself thinking that perhaps Mrs. Forbes had no right to be jealous.

The thought came quickly, and I was ashamed of it almost as soon as it had formed. For what could a gentleman such as Mr. Forbes possibly see in a servant girl?

Nothing. Nothing at all.

And yet, when he spoke my name, I heard something in his voice that made me hope otherwise. That was my first sin. Hoping that he might love me.

That night, long after the household had retired, I heard footsteps in the passage beyond my chamber. They came slowly. Then stopped outside my door. I sat upright in my bed.

The latch moved once. Then again.

I dared not breathe.

At last, the footsteps receded down the passage. I listened until I could hear them no more. I told myself it had been Mr. Forbes. Oh, God forbid. No.

Or perhaps a servant. Or the wind stirring some loose board. A house has many sounds. A house of timber and plaster speaks in the night. Yes, that must be the truth. At least, that is what I believed then.

I believed it because it was fearful to believe otherwise.

[suffolkwrestling]

Kiva,

I think this is a wonderful start to your story/book! I read everything you publish and have enjoyed them immensely. I don't think you have ever laid out a description of what each woman's life is like, the opulent home, the tired house being restored.  Just extraordiniary!

Warmest regards,
B

[Kiva]

Kiva,

I think this is a wonderful start to your story/book! I read everything you publish and have enjoyed them immensely. I don't think you have ever laid out a description of what each woman's life is like, the opulent home, the tired house being restored.  Just extraordiniary!

Warmest regards,
B

Thank you so much!

[Kiva]

Chapter 3

2026

The kitchen feels like mine now. Daniel has finished the cabinets, and the counters are finally in. The dining room is starting to look like a dining room instead of a construction site.

The master bedroom is different. I don't like being there alone. I haven't told Daniel that.

I tell myself it's because of the window. The old latch still doesn't work properly. Daniel replaced it twice. Both times, I found the window open again. It mostly happens at night when I feel the cool air blowing in. Daniel sleeps through it and snores. He can sleep through anything.

He says the frame is warped.

"Old wood moves," he tells me.

"So do ghosts?"

He gives me a look.

"I'm kidding, I sigh."

"Are you?"

He smiles, but I don't. In truth, I don't believe in ghosts.

This afternoon, I come home from the hospital to find Daniel in the driveway with Jaden.

I know her only as Jaden. This is the first time I've seen her. She is probably thirty, maybe a little younger, with dark hair in a loose knot, wearing blue jeans and a tool belt around her waist. She stands beside Daniel's truck, holding a bundle of electrical cable.

She laughs at something he says.

I get out of my car, but neither notices me. There is nothing wrong with the scene, I tell myself. Nothing at all. I know that.

I've seen them together several times. Jaden is an electrician Daniel hired to handle the upstairs lighting, and they've been working together for nearly two years on other jobs.

Still, something about the way she laughs bothers me. It isn't flirtatious. That's the problem.

Maybe it's how comfortable she looks with him.

Daniel sees me.

"Hey."

"Hey."

Jaden turns.

"Hi. You're Laura, right?"

"Yes."

She smiles.

"I'm Jaden."

"I know."

The words come out sharper than I meant them to.

Jaden's smile falters.

Daniel looks at me as if to say, "What the fuck is your problem?"

I put down my bag.

"Sorry. Long day."

"Rough at the hospital?"

"Busy."

He walks over and kisses me. I let him. Again.

Always the same little ritual. The kiss. The smile. The reassurance. And underneath it, the thing neither of us mentions.

The Marriott.

I look past him toward Jaden. She is studying the house.

"The upstairs wiring is a mess," she says. "You weren't kidding."

Daniel laughs. "I told you."

I look at them.

"You two seem to be getting along."

Jaden glances at Daniel.

"He's not too terrible," she says, smiling.

Daniel laughs. I don't.

That night, I lie awake beside him. Daniel is sleeping. I listen to the house. A board creaks somewhere downstairs. Then another.

I close my eyes. I think about the woman at the hotel bar. I think about Jaden laughing in our driveway. I tell myself there is no connection. There is no reason for one.

Suspicion only requires a wound.


1795

Mr. Forbes began to seek me out more openly.

I cannot say when the change came. Perhaps it had been there from the beginning, and I had only been too foolish to see it.

One afternoon, I was carrying folded linens from the washhouse when he stopped me upon the back stair.

"Natalie."

I curtsied.

"Sir."
   
"What have you there?"

"Mrs. Forbes' linens."

"You are forever working."

"It is my duty, sir."

He smiled.

"And are you never weary of duty?"

I did not know what answer he wished from me.

"Sometimes, sir."

He stepped nearer.

"Then you must permit yourself some pleasure."

I felt my face grow warm.

"I would not know what pleasure is mine to take."

He laughed softly.

"That is because you are too young."

I looked at him.

"I am nineteen."

"Nineteen."

He said the number as though it were something he found amusing.

"At nineteen, a young woman ought to know more of the world than folding linen and scrubbing floors."

"I am content with honest work."

"Are you?"

There was something in his manner that made me uneasy.

I stepped aside.

"I must finish my duties."

He caught my hand. Not roughly. That made it worse. He held it as though the taking of it were the most natural thing in the world.

"Natalie."

I looked at him. He lowered his voice.

"You need not be afraid of me."

"I am not afraid."

It was not entirely true. He smiled.

"Good."

Then he kissed me.

I ought to have pulled away. I know that now. But at the time I was so astonished that I could not move. His lips touched mine only for an instant. Then he released me. He looked almost as surprised as I was.

"Forgive me."

I could not speak.

He went down the stairs. I remained where I was. The linens were still in my arms. I remember looking at them and thinking that the whole world had changed, though nothing around me had moved.

At last, I carried the linen to the chamber and set it down. My hands trembled so that I could scarcely fold the last sheet. I knew what had happened was improper. Worse than improper.

He was a married man.

I knew this as surely as I knew the commandments.

That evening, I could scarcely eat.

When Mrs. Forbes spoke to me, I feared she could see it upon my face. But she noticed nothing. Or pretended not to.

I went to my chamber early. I knelt beside my bed. I tried to pray. But my thoughts would not remain upon my prayers.

I thought instead of Mr. Forbes. Of his hand. Of his voice. Of the kiss.

And, despite all that I knew to be wrong, a foolish happiness came upon me. For I believed then that a man did not kiss a woman unless he had affection for her. I did not understand that some men kiss because they can. I did not understand that there is a difference between being desired and being loved. Had I known that difference then, perhaps much of what followed might never have come to pass.

But I was nineteen.

And I believed him.

[Kiva]

Chapter 4


2026

Daniel's cell phone lights up on the kitchen counter while he's in the shower. I don't touch it. I don't even move closer. I can read the name from where I'm standing.

Jaden.

The message is short. Something about the lighting in the master bedroom, followed by a question about tomorrow's work.

Nothing personal. Nothing secret. I know this because I stand there long enough to read it twice. Then I hate myself for reading it at all.

When Daniel comes downstairs, I tell him Jaden has messaged him.

He glances at the phone. "Yeah, she's coming by tomorrow to finish the bedroom."

"On a Saturday?"

He looks at me. "Laura, we've talked about this. It's the only day she can fit us in."

"I was just asking."

"I know."

But his expression tells me he doesn't believe me.

For a moment, I want him to become angry. I want him to accuse me of being jealous, to tell me I'm imagining things. Then I could defend myself. I could remind him that I didn't invent the Marriott, that I didn't imagine the woman, that I didn't choose to spend months wondering which parts of my marriage were real.

Instead, he puts his phone in his pocket and asks whether I want coffee.

I say yes.

We drink it at the kitchen island, and I ask him about work. He tells me about a client who changed her mind about the color of her cabinets after the doors had already been installed. I laugh at the right places. He seems relieved.

I recognize the relief because I've seen it before.

It is the relief of a man who believes the difficult part of the conversation is over.

That afternoon, I come home from the hospital and find the bedroom window open.

The room is cold.

I know I shut it before leaving. I remember pressing the latch down and testing it with my hand. I've made a habit of testing it now, sometimes twice to convince myself.

I walk across the room and close the window.

Something catches my eye beyond the glass.

A face.

A young woman's face, just beyond the window, where there should be nothing but the roofline and the bare branches of the apple tree.

I jerk backward.

My hip strikes the dresser. Pain shoots down my leg.

I look again. There is no one outside. I stand motionless, listening to my own breathing. Then I go to the window and look down into the yard. The ground is wet from the morning rain. No footprints. No movement among the trees.

I tell myself it was a reflection. It makes sense. The panes are a replica of 18th-century crown glass. Glassmakers would blow a large bubble of molten glass, then spin it into a flat disc, creating waves when they cut the disc into rectangular panes. Light distortion is a simple matter, creating illusions that aren't there. Yes, that explains it. It's light distortion.

I tell myself I am tired. I know what fatigue can do. But I also know what I saw looked real for a second.

That evening, Daniel asks why I'm so quiet.

I nearly tell him.

Instead, I ask if he remembers the woman's name from the hotel. I'm shocked at myself the moment I say it. God, why am I such a bitch?

He puts down his fork.

"Why would you ask me that?"

"I don't know."

"Laura."

"I said I don't know." The truth is, I really don't know why I asked.

He looks at me for a long moment. Then he tells me that he thought we'd agreed to stop doing this to each other.

To each other?

I stare at him. I want to tell him there is no each other in what happened. There is what he did, and there is what I am trying to live with afterward.

But I don't say it. I go upstairs alone. In the master bedroom, the window is shut. The latch is secure. For a moment, I feel foolish. Then I notice the smell.

Lavender.

It comes from somewhere near the wall between the bedroom and the old servant's room. I put my hand against the plaster. The wall feels cold. From somewhere inside it, I hear a faint, deliberate sound.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

Damn mice.

1795

I had grown accustomed to Mr. Forbes' attentions by degrees, which is to say that I had grown accustomed to sin by degrees.

At first, I trembled whenever he came near me. I could scarce meet his eye without remembering that he had kissed me, and that I had not forbidden him. Yet as the days passed, my fear lessened, and I began to look for him when I entered a room.

I told myself that I did so only because I must attend to his needs as part of my duty.

I knew better.

He would sometimes find me alone in the passage or in the little chamber where the household linens were kept. He spoke softly, and if footsteps sounded nearby, he would step away from me as though we had been discussing nothing more than the weather.

I ought to have understood what such caution meant. Instead, I took it for proof that our affection was precious and must be guarded from the world's unkind judgment.

One afternoon, Mr. Forbes gave me a small bottle of lavender oil. It was of clear glass, with a narrow neck and a stopper wrapped in fine paper. He told me it had come from France by way of a Boston merchant, and that his wife had no particular liking for the scent. He placed it in my hand as though it were a trifle, though I knew by the bottle alone that it must have cost more than I could earn in many weeks.

 "A little something for you, Natalie," he said. "I thought you might like it." I could think of nothing fit to say. That evening, in my chamber, I touched a drop to my wrists and breathed in its sweetness. The fragrance seemed too fine for my small room, too fine for a servant girl, and I was ashamed of how much pleasure it gave me. Yet I could not bring myself to wash it away.

The next morning, Mrs. Forbes remarked upon the scent as I passed her in the passage.

"Is that lavender I smell, Natalie?"

I felt the blood rise in my face. "Yes, ma'am. My father gave me a little bottle before I came into service."

It was the first falsehood I had told her, and I spoke it with such haste that I feared she must see the truth plainly written upon me. But Mrs. Forbes only regarded me for a moment before turning back to her duties.

I kept the bottle hidden beneath my folded linen thereafter. I used the oil sparingly, and only when I was alone. Its fragrance brought Mr. Forbes near to me when he was elsewhere in the house, and when he passed me without so much as a glance, I would take the bottle from its hiding place and remind myself that he had thought of me, and had chosen something for me that no other person in the household possessed.

One afternoon, as I was carrying a basket of folded linen toward the upper chambers, Mrs. Forbes called me into her room.

She sat beside the window, a piece of embroidery in her lap. The work lay idle in her hands.

"Natalie," she said, "how long have you been in our household?"

"Since Michaelmas, ma'am."

"Your work is satisfactory."

I waited.

Mrs. Forbes set the embroidery aside.

She asked a second time. "Has my husband spoken with you of late?"

My hands tightened around the basket.

"Mr. Forbes speaks to me when he has need, ma'am."

"That was not precisely what I asked."

I again felt the blood rise into my face. I prayed she would mistake it for the warmth of the room.

"No, ma'am. Nothing beyond what is proper."

She continued to look at me.

I could not tell whether she believed me. There was no anger in her face, only a weariness that made her seem older than she had the day I arrived.

"Mr. Forbes is a man accustomed to being obeyed," she said at last. "He has never been wanting in confidence."

I did not answer.

"There are matters," she continued, "which a young woman may mistake for kindness. You would do well to remember your station and guard your reputation."

"Yes, ma'am."

She picked up her embroidery again, though she made no further stitch.

"You may go."

I left with the basket still in my arms.

For the remainder of the day, I was in great distress. I feared Mrs. Forbes had discovered our secret, yet I could not bear to think she had spoken as she did merely from suspicion. That would mean I had made myself conspicuous, and that I had brought shame upon my father's name.

I resolved that I would avoid Mr. Forbes.

I would speak to him only when duty required it. I would not linger if he came near me. I would pray more earnestly and put these thoughts from my mind.

I kept my resolution until the following morning.

Mrs. Forbes went into Boston to attend the market. I was alone in the house with Mr. Forbes for much of the afternoon, save for the kitchen girl, who had gone to her mother's cottage with leave.

He found me in the passage outside the pantry. When he asked whether I was well, I answered that I was.

He studied my face.

"Has my wife troubled you?"

"No, sir."

"She has a suspicious nature."

I ought to have said nothing. Instead, I asked whether she had spoken of me.

He took my hand.

"She knows nothing."

The relief I felt was so great that I could scarcely look at him.

He told me that I must not let his wife's suspicions come between us. He said that she had long been unhappy, and that I could not understand the burdens of his marriage. He said I had a wildness his wife's people bred out of theirs, saying it like a thing he coveted.

When he took my hand, I did not withdraw it. When he drew me toward him, I let him, believing that at last he meant to show me what all his secret words had promised.

Then he kissed me.

And once more, I permitted myself to believe that I was loved.

I shall not set down every particular of what followed. I was young, and I loved him, and I believed that a tenderness so earnestly expressed could not be false. But before the afternoon was done, I had given him what my mother had taught me was a woman's most precious possession: my maidenhead. I had supposed such a gift could be given only where there was love and an honest intention of marriage. Mr. Forbes made no promise that day. He held me close and spoke fondly to me, and I mistook his fondness for a pledge.

Afterward, I was afraid. Not only of sin, nor of the shame that would be mine if anyone discovered what had passed, but of the dreadful possibility that I had misunderstood him altogether. He kissed me once more before sending me away, and told me I must not let my fears trouble me.

I did not consider that he had asked me to bear the burden of his secret while he risked nothing but the inconvenience of being discovered. I did not consider that I was the one who could lose her place, her good name, and the means by which she lived. I considered only that he had come to me.

And that, to my foolish heart, seemed proof enough.

[CuriousCombat]

Oh I loved this chapter! I could finally see the parallels between the two timelines. The fact that the main characters are in the same situations but playing a different role in the story is so interesting. I wasn't expecting that. It's refreshing. I don't even know what to call it. Counter - Parallel storytelling? Whatever it may be called,it's genius. Looking forward to how this unfolds. Well done, Kiva.

[Kiva]

Oh I loved this chapter! I could finally see the parallels between the two timelines. The fact that the main characters are in the same situations but playing a different role in the story is so interesting. I wasn't expecting that. It's refreshing. I don't even know what to call it. Counter - Parallel storytelling? Whatever it may be called,it's genius. Looking forward to how this unfolds. Well done, Kiva.

Thank you, C.C. I'm so glad you're enjoying it. The plot should be heating up soon.

[Kiva]

Chapter 5


2026

Daniel says the wall is full of surprises.

He says it cheerfully, standing in the master bedroom with a flashlight in one hand and a screwdriver in the other. He has removed a section of loose plaster beside the window and discovered a narrow space between the lath and the chimney breast.

"Look at this," he says.

I stand beside him.

The opening is dark and irregular. Dust clings to the exposed wood, and the plaster edges crumble when Daniel touches them. The space is too narrow to be useful for anything. It looks like the sort of place where a careless builder might have dropped a tool and forgotten it.

"Could be an old access space," Daniel says. "Or somebody made a repair and never closed it properly."

"Could someone have hidden something in there?"

He gives me a look. "What kind of something?"

"I don't know. Letters. Money. Old things."

"Laura, this isn't a pirate ship."

He smiles, expecting me to smile too.

I don't.

Daniel shines his flashlight into the narrow gap between the lath and the chimney breast. "There," he says. "See it?"

At first, I see only dust and rough brick. Then the beam catches something dark, wedged between the wooden lath and chimney breast. It looks like a small bundle of black wool, or maybe a scrap of old cloth, tangled with what looks like hair. Daniel reaches into the opening, but his fingers fall short.

"Damn. It's caught too far back." He tries again with a long screwdriver, then stops when the tip scrapes against the brick. "I don't want to tear it apart before we know what it is. Jaden might have something narrow enough to get behind it."

"Daniel."

He kneels beside me.

"What?"

"What's that? Is that human hair?"

"Could be wool. Could be an old piece of insulation. God knows what people used in these houses."

He takes several photographs with his phone. I lean closer, and the faint scent of lavender rises from the opening. For a moment, an inexplicable sadness hits me so sharply that I straighten up. Daniel is still studying the photographs, already speculating about some forgotten household object. I say nothing about the smell.

"Jaden might know how to get it out without damaging anything."

The mention of her name makes me look at him.

He notices.

"What?"

"Nothing."

He straightens and wipes his hands on his jeans.

"I'm going to call her."

The dark tuft is almost invisible now that his flashlight has moved away.

He walks into the hallway.

I stay crouched beside the wall, but the deeper I look, the less certain I am about what I'm seeing. I pick up his flashlight and look again.

For one absurd moment, I think the strands are moving. I blink.

They are still.

I stand and brush the dust from my knees.

Later, when Daniel is downstairs, I return to the bedroom alone. I tell myself I only want another look. I want to know whether what I saw was real.

I kneel beside the opening. The air near the wall chills my cheek.

From somewhere inside, comes a faint whisper. Not words exactly. More like the shape of a name, spoken so softly that I cannot be sure I heard it.

I draw back.

Then, from the room behind me, I hear the master-bedroom window latch click.

I turn.

The window is closed. The latch is secure.

And yet the curtain lifts slightly, as though someone on the other side has just breathed against the glass.


1795

I, God forgive a foolish girl, lain with Mr. Forbes in sin between the harvest and the killing frost.

It was not once, nor was it in one place. We have lain together in the little chamber beside the study, in the upper passage when the household was abroad, and once in the master bedchamber itself, while Mrs. Forbes was away visiting her sister. Each time I went to him believing that his affection must signify something beyond the pleasure he took in me. Each time I returned to my own chamber with that belief both strengthened and made more fearful.

I knew the commandments. I knew what my mother would have said of a girl who surrendered her virtue to a married man. Yet when Edmund spoke tenderly to me, when he took my hand and called me dear, I found a way to silence every warning. I told myself that the Lord knew my heart, that I had not sought this trouble, that Mr. Forbes would not have risked so much had he not felt something true.

But I had risked everything, and he had risked very little.

The first change came so quietly that I scarcely understood it. Mr. Forbes ceased to seek me out. When we passed in the hall, he gave me the same brief nod he might have given the stable boy. If I found myself alone with him, he spoke of household matters and asked whether his linen had been properly mended. Once, when I ventured to remind him of a conversation we had shared in the study, he looked at me with an expression of mild bewilderment.

"I do not know of which you speak, Natalie."

He said it so calmly that I wondered whether I had imagined the whole of it. I stood before him with my hands clasped, unable to answer. He turned to his papers, and I went away feeling that some part of my own memory had been taken from me.

For several days I tried to believe he was merely troubled. Perhaps Mrs. Forbes had grown suspicious. Perhaps he feared that a servant had seen us together. I watched his face whenever he entered a room, searching for some sign that the man who had held me in his arms remained beneath the coldness he now showed me. But he would not look at me for longer than duty required.

The lavender oil remained hidden beneath my linen. I had used it sparingly, as though each drop were a little portion of the happiness he had promised me. Now its fragrance seemed to accuse me. I could not bear to throw the bottle away, yet I could scarcely endure to see it. At night I would take it from the chest and hold it in my hand, remembering the afternoon he had given it to me. Then I would put it away and kneel beside my bed, asking God to forgive me for what I had done, and asking--though I knew it was a selfish prayer--that Mr. Forbes might look upon me with kindness once more.

Mrs. Forbes grew colder toward me as the days passed. She found fault with my work where before she had praised it, and corrected me in the presence of the other servants for the smallest omissions. Once, when I brought a tray into the parlour, she watched me so closely that I nearly spilled the tea.

"You seem much troubled of late, Natalie," she said.

"I beg your pardon, ma'am. I have not slept well."

"Indeed? Perhaps you have too much to occupy your thoughts."

Her voice was quiet, but there was something in it that made my face burn. I could not tell whether she knew of her husband's conduct or merely suspected that I had been remiss in my duties. I dared not ask. She dismissed me with a slight movement of her hand, and I carried the empty tray back to the kitchen with trembling fingers.

After that, I began to dread her footsteps as much as I longed for her husband's.

On the following Sabbath, Mr. Forbes announced that we would all attend meeting together. Mrs. Forbes sat beside him in the family pew, her back straight and her hands folded upon her lap. I was placed at the end of the bench, where I could neither withdraw from their company nor avoid seeing them. The minister spoke of temptation, of the weakness of the flesh, and of the terrible ease with which a soul might wander from the path of righteousness.

I kept my eyes upon the boards beneath my feet.

Mr. Forbes sang with the congregation. He bowed his head during prayer, and when the minister spoke of the sanctity of marriage, he listened with grave attention. At the closing prayer, he laid his hand upon his wife's gloved fingers. She did not turn toward him, but neither did she move away.

I sat beside them, feeling the heat rise beneath my collar. I wanted to flee the meetinghouse, yet I remained until the final blessing, because to leave would have drawn notice and because I had nowhere in the world to go.

As we walked home, Mr. Forbes spoke pleasantly of the sermon and asked whether Mrs. Forbes had found the roads muddy. He did not once look at me.

That evening, after supper, he led us in prayer.

We sat together in the parlour while he gave thanks for our daily bread, for the protection of Providence, and for the blessings bestowed upon the household. His voice was steady and assured. I bowed my head with the others, my hands clenched in my lap.

When he prayed that we might be delivered from temptation and kept steadfast in our duties, I thought I should cry out. I could not understand how a man might ask the Lord for purity of heart while denying the truth of his own actions. Yet I dared not lift my eyes. I feared that if I looked upon him, the words I had swallowed for so many days would escape me before us all.

When the prayer ended, he rose and kissed his wife upon the cheek.

I went upstairs alone.

For two days afterward, I scarcely ate. I made mistakes in my work and forgot errands I had performed a hundred times before. At night I heard the house settling around me and imagined footsteps stopping outside my door. Once I woke certain that someone had whispered my name. I sat upright in the dark, listening, until the silence became so complete that I could hear my own blood beating in my ears.

I began to wonder whether God had withdrawn His protection from me, or whether the sounds were some punishment sent to trouble my conscience. I prayed harder, but my prayers brought no peace. I could not confess to my father without bringing shame upon my family. I could not tell Mrs. Forbes without risking dismissal, disgrace, and perhaps worse. And I could not speak to Mr. Forbes, for he had made it plain that the past was a thing he would not acknowledge.

At last, I found him alone in the study.

"Sir," I said, standing just inside the door, "have I offended you?"

He looked up from his papers. For a moment I thought I saw impatience cross his face, but it was gone before I could be certain.

"What do you mean?"

"You have scarcely spoken to me."

"I have a household to manage, Natalie. I cannot spend my days attending to every fancy that enters a servant girl's head."

I felt the words as if he had struck me.

"I meant only--"

"You meant nothing, I hope. Whatever foolishness may have passed between us, it must end here. You are to perform your duties, and I shall expect no further impropriety."

He spoke of impropriety as though it had been mine alone.

I stared at him, unable to comprehend that he could dismiss the matter so easily. He had held me and called me dear. He had told me that he thought of me when we were apart. He had taken what I could never restore to myself, and now he spoke as though I had been the one to trouble him.

"Was nothing you said to me true?" I whispered.

His expression hardened.

"You must not mistake kindness for a promise, Natalie. I have been more indulgent toward you than was proper. Let that be an end of it."

I left the study before he could see me weep.

For the rest of that day, I went about my duties as though moving through a dream. I laid the table, carried water, mended a torn cuff, and answered when spoken to. Yet beneath every ordinary task lay the same dreadful knowledge: he could deny me, and I could do nothing. If I spoke, I would be a fallen girl accusing a gentleman of the very sin that would condemn me. If I remained silent, I must bear it alone.

That night I took the lavender bottle from my chest. I pulled out the stopper and breathed in the scent until my eyes filled with tears. Then, in a sudden fit of anger, I flung the bottle against the wall. It struck the boards and fell to the floor. The glass did not break, though a little oil spilled upon the wood.

I sank beside it and wept until my throat hurt.

I do not know how long I remained there. At last I gathered the bottle and wiped the floor clean. I could not bring myself to cast it away. Even then, some foolish part of me wished to preserve the evidence that he had once thought of me, that the hours we had shared had not been entirely a dream.

But the evidence proved nothing. It could not make him love me. It could not restore what I had lost. And it could not save me if Mrs. Forbes chose to send me away.

I had reached the end of all counsel I knew. My prayers had brought no answer, my master had turned his face from me, and my mistress watched me as though waiting for some fault she might name aloud. I feared my own thoughts, for they had grown bitter and strange. At times I wished that Mr. Forbes might suffer as I suffered; at others I longed only for him to return and speak kindly to me once more.

I knew such thoughts were sinful. Knowing it did not make them cease.

There was one person I had heard spoken of in whispers, an old woman who lived beyond the gristmill and understood herbs and old workings.

I had always been afraid of Nan Marsh.

Now I began to think that I was more afraid of remaining as I was.

[Kiva]

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[Kiva]