Beneath the Porcelain Mask

36. Till I Die

  "I shall do one thing in this life - one thing certain - that is, love you, and long for you, and keep wanting you till I die."  

FAR FROM THE MADDING CROWD

This chapter is far too long for my liking, but we're going to roll with it.

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Somewhere outside that night, an owl hooted every thirty seconds or so. I rolled over in my bed, pulling the pillow over my face. There were no carriages, no late night chatters of men who'd left their sleeping wives in favour of the women of the night, or of ballet rats sniggering to themselves about the Opera Ghost. Only the constant hooting. The silence was unbearable.

The clock downstairs chimed midnight. I sat up and rested against the headboard. Trying to recall my Germany days, Italian nights and the heat of Spain had already been a futile attempt to lull myself to sleep.

I found myself swinging my legs over the side of the mattress instead and paced over to the window. The vineyards across the drive and the road stretched on into the darkness, lit occasionally by a torch on a high pole. The silent shadows of bats passed before the flames and I shuddered again.

I pulled on my Paisley shawl, lit a candle and headed for the door, cringing every time a floorboard creaked beneath my foot. The corridors seemed even more daunting at night that they did in the day; hundreds of eyes stared down at me from the portraits as I moved through the mahogany-lined halls, their gazes following me as I went. It was as if the night had brought them to life, and they watched in disdain as a servant girl, an imposter engaged to a man of their blood, wandered their hallways.

I stared back, unable to tear my gaze away from their cold, painted visages. At some point, I noticed the pattern amongst them. They all shared certain features, features that reminded me of Jeremy and Marius. Dark hair and bright eyes, tall and lithe, unless the armour some of the older generations wore made them seem bulkier, never smiling, but always with a glint in their eyes.

And there, at the very end, in a frame of golden roses and thorns, Marius looked down at me. I stopped, one foot poised to take another step but halted by curiosity. He held the bridle of a particularly majestic grey horse, who seemed to bow to him, and was looking at the artist behind the easel. Shining brass buttons held his coat against his lean frame, and the shades of his light breeches seemed blended almost to perfection.

I moved the candle closer. There was the glint in his emerald eyes again, and the mop of dark curls had been brushed back elegantly. He was smiling, but not too noticeably, unlike the grim faces of his ancestors. It was as if I were looking at the man himself.

A stroke of faded white caught my eye. I squinted at the bottom corner of the portrait, where, in white ink, a scribbled J.dR.G was signed.

I turned from the portrait, biting my lip.

A crack in the door letting a sliver of light into the hall caught my attention and I tiptoed over. Pushing it open just a touch, I peered in.

The room was dark for the most part. Shimmering moonlight slipped through the window ahead and lit the floor in its silver rays. To my left, a bed, much like my own, stood by the wall, an ottoman at the foot and sets of chests either side. It was remarkably like my room in design, layout, even down to the woods used in the furniture, except mine was not decorated with hundreds of canvases, all of varying shapes, sizes and colours, mounted on the wall.

At the foot end of the bed, a writing desk stood against the other wall, a reading lamp flickering in its glass case onto the stacks of paper and books. I paused.