The Lady of Windward House

Content Warning: This story contains depictions of panic/anxiety attacks, references to childhood sexual abuse (not explicit), gaslighting, and a physical confrontation involving violence.

Annabeth sat on the edge of the bed waiting for Miriam to bring the tea. Her hair was falling loose from its pins already, the result of a clumsy attempt to do it herself. Much had changed since Edmund left to fight the Germans. Her life at Windward House was unrecognizable. She recalled the recent conversation with Miriam, the cook. "You are going to have to dress yourself from now on." The tone in Miriam's voice made Annabeth wince, even now. "Between the groundskeeper leaving us without warning and my having to let Elsie go, it's just me carrying the place and I can't do everything." Miriam had laid out the dresses with the fewest fasteners and turned to Annabeth with the look of a disappointed mother. "I'm sure you can manage these." Annabeth thanked her and forced a smile, but felt like a scolded child and cried after Miriam left the room.

During their three-year marriage, Edmund studied tirelessly, consuming book after book in an attempt to cure her of her many neuroses. He felt that strict adherence to routine, daily walks, and quiet hobbies were instrumental in managing her fragile nerves. Though these things did seem to help, they had been unsuccessful at quelling her need for constant companionship, and he remained greatly puzzled by her childish fear of the night and the dark. Edmund left explicit instructions for the help, which they disregarded immediately upon his departure. Miriam refused to keep vigil at her bedside through the night. Elsie took to mocking her openly, and the groundskeeper abandoned her altogether. Now Miriam was all that remained, and she had little patience for "Mrs. Hartley's foolishness."

Annabeth tapped each of her fingers in a rolling pattern onto the tip of her thumb as she waited for tea. The moment she realized what she was doing, she clapped her free hand over her fidgeting hand. "You mustn't let your nerves get the best of you," Edmund's voice. Morning tea was served promptly at eight, but here it was half past and no sign of Miriam. "Stick to your routine, dear one," Edmund's voice again. Annabeth forced herself down the stairs to the kitchen to see what was keeping Miriam. When she saw the folded note on the table, a rush of adrenaline seized her body. It trembled violently. Another attack. She tried to read the note, but her eyes couldn't quite focus and the air in the room became too thick to breathe. Miriam had left her for a better paying job in the village. Her heartbeat traveled up her chest to her head. She dropped the note and held her ears, cradled her head into the crook of her arm, struggled to breathe the heavy air.

Time stopped as it tends to do in moments where the mind struggles to take in reality. A brief period of strangled existence followed as she wrestled with the realization that she was completely alone. Edmund's voice pulled her through: "Tea time, dearest. Stick to your routine." Once she was able to find a deep and satisfying breath, Annabeth stood. She had to lean on chair backs and countertops at first, but eventually made her way to the stove. She knew words such as damper and burner, but for the life of her could not find them on the actual stove. Annabeth Walker Hartley was brought up to be the lady of the house, raised in a grand place such as this with servants to boil the water, pin her hair, fasten her dresses. "Purposefully good for nothing," Elsie once called her.

Her trembling fingers fumbled with a match. It caught flame, racing quickly down the stick to her fingers before she could figure out what to do with it. The pain from the burn seemed needlessly cruel given her circumstances, and she cried pitifully. A creaky little door opened to reveal the stove's interior—she twisted this, poked at that. Her hands came away covered in soot. "What is wrong with you, Annabeth?" Mother's voice, sharp, exacting. "What man would ever want a silly little fool like you? You, with your fits and your stories. You're troubled, Annabeth."

"If you get stuck, just take the next step, Annabeth." Edmund's voice now. Eyes closed, she searched for the next step… her morning walk. She passed through the entrance hall, fixing her gaze downward at the black and white checkered floors. When she pulled open the heavy oak door, leaves skittered like rats into the corners. October in Devon was cold and the wind unceasing, but it was the damp that clung to everything, soaking into skin and penetrating bone. Today Annabeth wore her pale blue tea dress, chosen for its simple, button-front design, though the fabric was far too thin. The trek to the beach required no thought—she had walked it hundreds of times. Past the gnarled hedges lining the decaying garden with its rusty gate screeching open and closed in the wind. Beneath the reaching arms of arthritic beech and sycamore trees whose skeletal fingers interlaced into a tangled canopy above. A thick carpet of copper and gold leaves, matted with damp, covered the ancient flagstones. The toe of her shoe caught here and there—little stumbles she hardly noticed.

When she emerged from the protection of the canopy into the open, flat clifftop with its bowing Scots pine and fidgeting, purple bell heather, the salt in the wind stung her face and throat. Pieces of her deep brown hair whipped free from their pins, lashing about wildly. The crumbling cliff steps were slick with orange and green lichen, and a little color emerged from fading pink valerian and the pale yellow gorse forcing their way up through the cracks. Her hand slid along the rusted handrail, slippery with sea spray and algae. The sand on the beach was black and firm; her footsteps pushed widening circles into its surface as she walked to the tide pools. There, she traced her fingers across the fleshy bellies and sticky tentacles of the open anemones, and then over the backs of crusty starfish who clung, contorted, to the rocks that pushed up from the water. She looked out at the sea. It was gray as was the sky, so that there was no horizon, no beginning and no end. If only she could stay there amongst the shells and limpets, lie on the beach silvered and salt-worn like the driftwood. High tide would come soon, and she dreaded her return to Windward House.

Edmund always said the enemy of peace was thought, and encouraged Annabeth to keep her thoughts as superficial as possible. If she wasn't careful, piercing fragments of memories attempted to push into her consciousness—things she hid, even from herself. Annabeth concentrated on her surroundings during the walk back, making a game of finding the pops of color breaking through the muted countryside: scarlet hawthorn berries emerging from their twisted vines, clusters of golden honey fungus climbing dormant oaks, pink and purple asters anemic but blooming still. Windward House loomed ahead in the grayness; nature was encroaching, reclaiming its territory. The slate roof was missing tiles and resembled a rotting, tooth-gapped mouth. Eaves and gables cluttered with crawling ivy, portico columns disintegrating into the salty sea air.

Upon approaching the house, Annabeth began to feel the cold. Her skin stung beneath the flimsy fabric of her dress. Numb hands struggled to open the heavy front door. Boot prints—wet, wide, with a gait at least double hers—led across the checkered floor and up the staircase. She stepped onto one; her foot was tiny in comparison. "Now, dearest one, don't allow your nerves to carry you away. There's no one in the house but us and the help." She'd heard it many times. This was a common fear of hers: an intruder hiding, waiting for night to come. Terror drove her to the very room she avoided: Edmund's study. She flew through the open door, slammed it shut, twisted the lock… wait… why was the door open? Edmund's study door was never open. The smell of it—the sweet musk of tobacco from his pipe, the manly smell of leather and warm whiskey—made her dizzy, turned her stomach. It was almost exactly as Grandfather's study had been. Back pressed against the door, she stared into darkness. The heavy drapes were drawn. Hands outstretched, she felt her way to the windows. She jerked the drapes open, releasing a cloud of dust that made her choke. Annabeth turned, wild, searching the room. Game heads and gilded portraits of Hartley men appraised her and found her insane.

She needed Edmund's guidance desperately. His desk called to her. His sweater draped over the chair back just as he'd left it. Annabeth pulled it on, drew it up around her neck.

Was that a footstep? Adrenaline pricked at her ears and the tip of her nose. Focus on something else. Anything else. A stack of Edmund's journals sat on the shelf. She took them down, skimming the pages full of his looping handwriting.

"Subject is often given to nervous fits most likely brought on by weakness of the mind."

Subject. The word caught her off guard.

"I wrote to Annabeth's mother, inquiring about her childhood. Abigail assured me that her daughter had lived a most uneventful and charmed life but had always been given flights of fancy, and was not to be trusted, as she often constructed elaborate stories, some of them vicious. Apparently her fear of the night and of being alone began in her fifth year and persists to this day."

"Subject avoids my study, makes excuses not to join me after supper. I have observed her tapping her fingers and wincing if she has had the occasion to pass by. This is likely linked to her discomfort around men. I have taken to meeting with the groundskeeper at his cottage as his presence seems to be a source of great discomfort to her. Indeed, any unknown male in the house causes a fit wherein she struggles to breathe and must be sedated."

A quiet creak. "Annabeth!" Mother's voice now. "It's all in your mind, don't you see, you little fool? It's just the house settling. Your own husband sees you for the pathetic creature you are. You thought he loved you, didn't you? You were a case study, a puzzle to be put together, nothing more than a gentleman's hobby. Are you quite finished with all of this nonsense?"

"Yes, Mother, quite finished. It's all in my head and it always has been."

A high-pitched ringing filled her ears. Seeing herself through Edmund's eyes had changed her somehow. His words, like a surgeon's scalpel, had cut out a slice of her identity and left the space empty.

The study door opened. Annabeth stepped into the hall. The front door stood ajar. Had she left it that way?

The mirror near the entrance reflected a stranger—smudges of soot darkening the high parts of her delicate face, hair ruffled like the neck feathers of a frightened fowl, dress filthy with soot and damp. If Mother saw me this way, it would confirm every terrible thing she ever thought of me. And Edmund—if he were to walk through that door right now, he would have me locked up.

"Stick to your routine, Annabeth, time to change for dinner."

Which is madder, she wondered, her filthy appearance or dressing up for an empty house? No. These thoughts were her own and not to be trusted.

The stairs creaked beneath her feet as she climbed to the second floor. More open doors along the corridor to her room. Had she opened them? Had she done things she couldn't remember?

Her fingers fumbled with the matches again, but this time she persisted and lit the bedside lamp. Light. A small achievement and a great victory. She poured the cold water into the basin, splashed it onto her face, pulled the pins from her hair, smoothed it down with a brush. The dressing table mirror reflected olive eyes, a delicate sloping nose, full lips, and round ruddy cheeks. "Such a pretty face," Mother had always said. "More's the pity, strange creature that she is."

A thump from the hall. Edmund would tell her it was just the wind. Annabeth wished the old Edmund would return to her, the one she knew before reading his journals. She changed into a dinner dress of sapphire silk, thin and hardly appropriate, but easy to slip on. Unable to force herself to go to the imposing dining room, to sit alone at the vacant, sprawling table, Annabeth headed for the kitchen.

A green apple sat on the table where Miriam's note had been, a single bite taken out.

How would Edmund explain this away? What gem of logic would he shove down her throat to quiet her in this moment? She was startled, but she was also tired. Tired of constantly existing in a state of flight. Tired of forcing herself to ignore even the most glaring signs.

Annabeth grabbed the apple, threw it into the bin beneath the sink, and slammed the cupboard door closed. "That's what we do with things that we don't want to see, isn't it, Mother? We put them behind closed doors."

Bare branches tapped at the window above the sink. The weather was turning. Raindrops began to pelt the house, some finding their way inside, slipping through wood and stone, creating puddles on the floors. With night in partial bloom, Annabeth walked the winding staircase to her room and climbed into bed. She lay atop the covers, stiff as if prepared for burial. She considered leaving the lamp lit, but the war shortages meant conserving what precious little oil was left. Heart in her throat, she rolled over and blew out the light.

The darkness was solid, pressing down on her. She couldn't be sure whether her eyes were open or closed. Thuds, creaks, wood shifting, water dropping in chaotic patterns throughout the rooms and halls. The sound of enormous waves from beyond the cliffs and the throaty shout of the wind blended together, forming a frightful chorus. A heavy footstep, then another… Breathe, Annabeth… a bump from somewhere in the room, a body colliding with a piece of furniture, table legs scraping the floor. She shot upright.

"Who's there?" Her voice, small and scared, calling out into the night, brought it all back. She was just a child, alone at night when he came to her. He was heavy, so heavy, his breath sour from whiskey, sweet from tobacco. "Grandfather, no!" This was not imagined; memory and real time mingled. A man's hands touched the skin of her arm, groping in the dark to find her. He was real! Instinct took over. She screamed in a way that surprised even her, charged at her invisible attacker from the bed, knocking him onto his back, landing on top of him. He grunted, the force of her body pushing the air from his chest.

The absence of light allowed Annabeth to see only her grandfather's face. She fought with all the strength in her bones. Her fist connected with something soft—she dug her fingers deep, twisting his flesh. He pushed her away, slamming her head into the bedside table. The lamp—she seized it and hurled it blindly. Shattered. He was howling now. She wouldn't stop, wouldn't allow him to hurt her. Charging into the black, searching for him—

Heavy footsteps. Retreating. Running away… from her.

Annabeth stood listening, catching her breath. He was plowing down the stairs, stumbling. Shoes squeaking on the foyer floor. The front door burst open. His shrill cries dwindled as he escaped into the night.

Annabeth made her way to the door but had to stop. Laughter welled up from her belly, doubled her over. She laughed so hard and so long that she collapsed onto the floor—body shuddering, throat whistling, a terrific release. Tears and sweat streamed down her cheeks.

No one would believe her. No one ever had. But that didn't bother her anymore.

She was the Lady of Windward House, and she was no longer afraid.