Woodsworth Manor

“Is there anything else I can get you?”

I shook my head at the butler in front of me. His posture was intimidatingly straight.

“No, thank you,” I said as sweetly as I could. What was I supposed to call him? Mr. Jones? Samuel? I felt bad for him; he didn’t need to wait on me hand and foot. Enough years with my parents had done wonders for my independence.

“Dinner will be at six o’clock, cocktail attire.”

“Every night?”

Samuel nodded. “Indeed.”

“I don’t have enough clothes for that,” I said, nudging my backpack with my foot. It had everything I owned: my stuffed bunny, a blue notebook, a pencil, and three sets of undergarments. Nothing else survived the fire. I certainly did not own a cocktail dress, and I couldn’t point one out even if I tried.

“If you do not have anything to wear, Mrs. Woodsworth would be happy to lend you something.”

"I couldn't impose. I wouldn't want to ruin any of her beautiful clothes."

"Mrs. Woodsworth is happy to give her clothing away. She never wears anything more than twice."

Christ, twice? She would hate my closet. At home, I had maybe ten outfits total. The kids at school never seemed to notice. I didn't think anyone thought that way.

"Are you sure?"

Samuel nodded. "If you are still worried, I will ask Mrs. Woodsworth again."

"Thank you...Mr-"

"No need, Miss Ludley. Call me Samuel."

"Oh," I said hesitantly. "Thank you, Samuel."

The butler gave a quick bow and scurried away.

I took a moment to look around the house that, starting this morning, would be my home. Until I go to university, I said to myself. Would my aunt even pay for it? She hardly knew me. Until two days ago, she hardly knew I existed. Until two days ago, I didn’t know she existed, either. It would be ridiculous to think she would pay for my education. But with a house like this, she just might be able to...

The marble floors underneath my feet were pristine, so glossy that I could see my reflection when I looked down. The walls were lined with crisp wallpaper depicting classical paintings, with dark wood paneling taking up half the wall. I ran my fingers along it as gently as I could, fearing that it would break under my fingers. The wood was smooth to the touch.

Where the hell am I? I muttered to myself. How did my mother never tell me about this woman? Did she really grow up this way? How did she end up…like that?

The staircase in the middle of the foyer splits into two directions at the top. The table in the center of the room had a vase of flowers in the middle, and small porcelain statues surrounding it. I felt like I was looking at something from a fairytale. The height of luxury, at least, compared to the farm. I can’t believe my mother would leave this for…well, him.

Mrs. Woodsworth, my aunt, my mother’s sister. My mother never mentioned her. When I asked her about her past, she would say there was nothing to tell. No interesting stories, no funny anecdotes, no sad recollections of people who are no longer with us. She would just shrug and say, "My life was boring until I met your father." Judging from the sheer size of this estate, I can confidently say that was not true in the slightest.

From our interaction at the foster home, Mrs. Woodsworth—Aunt Claire, she told me to call her—seemed like a pleasant woman. She looked a lot like my mother; the same dark brown hair, full lips, and was only about an inch taller. The only stark difference was her eyes; my mother's were green, like mine, and Aunt Claire's were a shade of pale blue that looked gray in the right lighting. She had the same smile as my mother, too. She wrapped her arms around me at first glance and gave me that familiar warm, welcoming smile. She offered to have her driver stop and buy food before we went home. I refused, not out of politeness, but out of a lack of interest. I haven't been eating much since the fire; I've even forgotten what hunger feels like.

Home. The idea of this place becoming home still felt bizarre. I looked at the framed photographs that lined the walls along the stairs. I couldn’t recognize a single face other than my mother’s. She never had any pictures of her family hanging on the walls of our farm. In one photo, she was standing next to a man whom I presumed was my grandfather, and another, younger girl who I assumed was Aunt Claire. They both wore floor-length dresses with lace collars around their neck. Their hair was tucked into bonnets, with slight traces of brown showing. The man had a thick mustache and wore what I assumed was an expensive suit.

It was hard to think of my mother in a dress that extravagant. At home, she made her own clothes out of the wool from our sheep and the cotton from our fields. Most of the time, they were tattered and haphazardly thrown together. This dress was expertly crafted, not a single stitch out of place.

“We took that on our father’s birthday,” Aunt Claire said from behind me. Her voice made me jump and bring my hand to my chest. “Sorry, love, did I scare you?”

“A little,” I said, trying to play it cool. I prayed she couldn’t hear my heartbeat. “I’ve never seen Mom look like this.”

“It seems she didn’t talk about us much. Your mother had a wonderful sense of style.” Aunt Claire frowned and came closer, pointing at another photo. She and my mother were in matching swimsuits. “This was taken at the lake house. We used to go there every summer.”

Lake house? My mother had a lake house? Where the hell was I?

“It looks beautiful.”

“Your mother was a very good swimmer. We used to race to the buoys and back. She would always beat me.” She pointed at another photo of her, my mother, and my grandfather with a large black dog. “This was Neptune. Your mother loved him.”

“She was good with the animals,” I said after a beat. “She liked taking care of them. She said it felt natural.”

Aunt Claire nodded. “This must all be very shocking to you,” she rubbed her hands together nervously. “I’m sorry this is happening. To lose your parents in such a tragic way…”

“My mother set the fire on purpose.”

“Celia, I hope you know that’s not true—”

“It is.”

“Now, don’t say that.”

“But she did. I heard her before she started the fire. She was talking about demons, how they possessed the house, and we had to get rid of them.”

“Oh!” Aunt Claire cried out. She started bawling into her hands.

“I’m sorry, I thought you knew,” I said, trying to calm the woman down. I touched her shoulder and squeezed it. “She had been sick for... some time.”

Aunt Claire wiped her face and took a deep breath. “I know, sweetheart,” she said sadly. “It had been that way for a while.”

What?

“I’m sorry?”

“Oh! I’ve said too much,” she cried out again. “I’m sorry. I will tell you another time. Please, go look in my closet for something to wear for dinner. I’ll have Samuel lay out a few options. I'm sure I have enough clothes that fit you!”

Before I could say anything else, she walked away from me, heading in the direction of the kitchen. I looked back and forth between the pictures, staring at my mother’s youthful face, trying to picture this woman I thought I knew. What did Claire mean? It had been that way for a while? There would be a lot of digging for me to do.