❝Your secret is a painting?❞ I took a few cautious steps; the hairs on my arms stood on end.
❝Not just any painting.❞ Dorian approached the easel, shadows on his face as he touched the cloth protecting it. ❝It's a dark object, the manifestation of m...
I cried myself to sleep the first three nights at the manor, staring at unfamiliar shadows on an unfamiliar ceiling, in a place I didn't belong. Trapped, in a refuge I created that Dark Dorian had turned into a cage. At least my prison was beautiful.
The manor was filled with all imaginable luxuries the 19th century could afford. The large, airy rooms featured floor-to-ceiling windows framed by hanging lace and floral curtains, opening on magnificent views of the sea and the moors beyond. The furniture was Edwardian - polished wood and oriental rugs; plate glass mirrors decorated the mantelpieces above roaring fireplaces. Closets were stuffed with Victorian era clothing - silk dresses with full skirts and stiff collars, walking suits, day dresses, and evening gowns of every color. Each night I went to bed in a girlish, frilly nightgown; it was only force of habit, and the gentle pressure of my handmaiden, that gave the me the strength to rise and dress myself each day.
Most mornings I had breakfast by the sea. Every night I had dinner in the parlor. And the handmaiden kept her promise to Dark Dorian. She didn't have a name, so eventually I gave her one - Emily, after the Brontë sisters, when I found her reading Wuthering Heights on the stairs. Twenty-something, with the most charming Yorkshire accent, she dressed in plain clothes and aprons that didn't dilute her pretty features, her long brunette curls usually tied back in a vintage chignon.
Emily tidied after me, preparing and serving my meals, mending broken things, washing my clothes in the sea. And despite my sour temper, how I threw my dinner at the wall my first night in the manor, shouting at her to leave me alone and disappear, she did her best to keep me entertained. Emily played music on the phonograph, tempted me with books from the shelves, and always encouraged me to play tennis or croquet when the weather allowed.
At first I was lonely and miserable. But as the days passed one to another, and I realized I might never leave, the manor became a home away from home. I took over many of the chores, cutting the handmaiden's job in half. I learned how to use the cast iron stove, and how to prepare my own meals from scratch. I washed my own clothes and cleaned my own room, beating rugs, scrubbing windows, and polishing wood. Learning to fend for myself took my mind off the thought of feeling imprisoned for the rest of my unlucky life. And on the days when I felt inspired, I gathered my materials and painted by the sea.
Dark Dorian may have sent me into exile, stripping away everything I knew and loved, but my will was one thing I refused to let him tarnish.
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I kept track of the days for a while, but stopped after the first month, when the task became painful and tiresome - what was the point? Here, there were no birthdays to look forward to, no holidays or celebrations. When Emily presented me with a diary, at first I refused, relenting when I realized how soothing it was, writing my thoughts by candlelight at the end of each day.
I don't know if I'll ever get out of here. Maybe I don't deserve to leave. I thought this could be a home for Dark Dorian, a place for him to escape to, away from a world in which he didn't belong. But I was wrong. How can you make a house a home when you have no one to share it with?
