Lady Harbury looked briefly down into her teacup. She returned her gaze to Lady Bracknell, who was still watching her intently, as if to suck information from her. Lady Harbury licked her dry lips, and Lady Bracknell’s gaze followed her small tongue as it wet her shaking lips.
“And so,” Lady Harbury continued in a small voice, “I have not seen him since.” She shifted her slight frame in the chair, tucking away a wispy strand of hair.
“I am sorry for your loss, Virginia,” said Lady Bracknell coldly. “Perhaps your manservant could fetch us some more of those crumpets?”
“Oh, I am sorry,” stammered Lady Harbury. “He has left for the market. I expect he shan’t return for a good two hours at least.”
“Hmm,” frowned Lady Bracknell. “I always believe that the efficiency of one’s servants is indicative of that of their master or mistress, as the case may be.”
“Hmm,” frowned Lady Bracknell. “I always believe that the efficiency of one’s servants is indicative of that of their master or mistress, as the case may be.”
She replaced her cup of tea and sat her unusually tall and slender body into the chair. She pursed her lips, a splash of red against her otherwise pale face. Her black hair was pulled back neatly into a bun, daring not to rebel against its mistress. Black glittering eyes remained focused on Lady Harbury. There was a pause as Lady Harbury looked down, then glanced over at the grandfather clock by the door. “You are pressed for time, Virginia?” demanded Lady Bracknell lightly, yet with steel behind her voice.
“Oh, no..well...” Lady Harbury rose from her chair and paced around the room, so she was standing next to Lady Bracknell. “Before Lord Harbury died...he said...he told me something...about Lord Bracknell-”
Lady Bracknell rose from her chair with astonishing speed and stood quite close to Lady Harbury, peering down at her face. “And what, pray tell, did he say?” There was no hiding her menace now. Lady Harbury looked up briefly, then, unable to meet the fury in Lady Bracknell’s eyes, returned her gaze to the polished floorboards.
“He said..there was...a reason..” Lady Harbury looked up at Lady Bracknell for a moment and let out a small cry. Her teacup dropped from her small hand, and smashed into a thousand pieces of china. Lady Bracknell stood, a small smile, a slash of red, across her face. And she reached down into the front of her dress, and from her ample cleavage drew a small, but very sharp knife, which glinted in the stream of afternoon sun spilling through the window. Lady Harbury stepped backwards, breaking more china with a loud crunch.
“Well,” said Lady Bracknell quietly. “It would be prudent, I think, if we ensure such damaging rumours that your husband may have inadvertently, I am sure, spread, are nipped in the bud, as it were.”
* * *
“Rotten lot of weather we’re having, eh Algy?” said Jack as he watched the rain dribble down the outside of the window.
“Yes, indeed. One could almost find it reason to get out of London,” replied Algernon with a smirk.
“Whatever do you mean, dear Algy?” replied Jack, turning around.
“Oh, I think you know just what I mean. Where have you been, Jack? You’ve not been in town all week. I suspect you’ve been off Bunburying again.” Algernon took a blood plum from a dish and bit savagely into it, red juice running down his chin in small rivers, staining his white Victorian collar crimson. “I must say, I am curious as to what you get up to on your little outings.” Algernon looked over at Jack.
“Oh, I daresay it’s none of your business. Why don’t you tell me what adventures you’ve experienced during your small wanderings, Algy?” countered Jack, raising his eyebrows.
“Well,” began Algernon, his mouth twitching into a smile, “I don’t suppose you’ve ever read the works of a French philosopher of sorts, by the name of Marquis de Sade?”
The doors of the small living room opened and a servant entered. “Lady Bracknell and Miss Fairfax are waiting outside. Shall I send them in?” He kept his eyes towards the floor.
“Yes, thank you Lane,” Algernon replied lazily. Lane turned and left.
“Algy, you didn’t tell me you were expecting Gwendolen!” exclaimed Jack indignantly. “How do I look, Algy?” He tried vainly to check his reflection in the mirror.
“Oh, the very picture of youth and respectability,” replied Algernon, watching Jack in a bemused manner. “It can at least be said you have good taste, Jack, whatever else you may be. Gwendolen is indeed a wonderful girl – she is much like a ripe peach, full of sweet juice as yet not enjoyed, skin soft enough to slice-”
At that moment Lady Bracknell entered the room, a tall imposing figure in black, her comparatively small and petite daughter Gwendolen hidden behind her. Gwendolen wore a white dress, with her golden hair freely falling across her small, fragile face, perfect and white as a porcelain doll.
“You must forgive my lateness, Algernon,” said Lady Bracknell. “I was obliged to call on Lady Harbury after her husband’s disappearance.” She paused to dab at her mouth with a handkerchief. “I was not aware that you would be here,” she said curtly, directing this last comment at Jack.
“Then I am sorry to have surprised you, Lady Bracknell,” replied Jack obediently.
“Oh, I am very rarely surprised, Mr Worthing. I have been on this earth longer than I may look, and I have indeed seen many things. Very few things could surprise me now. However,” she paused, a smile playing across her face. “I must say that Lady Harbury did surprise me somewhat. When I last left her she seemed remarkably unmoved by her husband’s death. Indeed, she did not even see me out of her house. But I suppose that is what one must come to expect from a widow, as grief can affect us all in different ways.” She paused then turned to Algernon. “My nephew, I wish to offer a suggestion in regards to choosing an appropriate wife. I have recently discovered the young Sarah Abbey, daughter of the Earl of Caversham. She is quite a fitting wife; obedient, simple, pretty and well connected.” Lady Bracknell gave a small nod of her head at each desirable characteristic. Jack looked desperately at Gwendolen, who briefly glanced coyly back, giving the tiniest smile, which seemed to make her face glow. The sun came out from a cloud and bathed the room in warm light, as the rain continued to drum on the roof. Jack looked down, took a deep breath and faced Lady Bracknell squarely, although he had to look up to look her in the eye.
“Lady Bracknell,” he began, then continued in a rush. “I love dearly your daughter Gwendolen, and would like to ask her hand in marriage.” He managed to keep eye contact with Lady Bracknell, her white face blanching even further. The room suddenly felt cold, and the sun disappeared. Though she did not raise her voice, the room seemed to grow darker as she spoke, each word saturated in anger.
“Gwendolen, you will stay and hear me tell this man; he is never to marry you. I shall not permit it. If your father were able to be here, he would take the same stance. Sadly, he is still suffering his bouts of illness.” At the mention of her father, a brief look of revulsion passed over Gwendolen’s face, before it was smoothed back into that of a docile daughter. “Gwendolen, we will go down to the carriage now, and leave without further words. I regret I was not able to stay longer, Algernon. Perhaps when we are not in the presence of gentlemen of such unsavoury character we can speak at greater length. Gwendolen, we leave now. Do I make myself clear.” It was a command, and with that she turned on heel, and walked stiffly to the door, followed by Gwendolen, who glanced back once at Jack before leaving.
There was a pause as Jack walked over to the window and watched the carriage in the street begin to move with a jingle and clip clop of horses.
“Hard luck, eh, Jack?” said Algernon, clapping him on the shoulder.
“No,” said Jack. “I refuse to give up. Algernon, kindly get your servant to fetch me a carriage at once.”
***
Jack stepped past the large iron gate, peering up through the fog to the large mansion on the hill. He cursed the driver for taking so long to find it, for he was sure Gwendolen would have arrived home much earlier. He straightened himself up, adjusted his collar and coat, and marched down the path to the looming mansion, gravel crunching underfoot. He was panting slightly when he reached the large double doors at the front of the house. He hesitated, then knocked briskly. He waited and listened. There was no sound, except for a raven in a nearby tree that cawed loudly, as if to alert the house to his presence. He waited. There was still no sound from inside. He paused, yet it was cold outside, so he opened one of the doors and stepped inside.
He found himself in an entrance hall. There was only cold pale light from outside, which failed to reach most corners of the room. He paused. Then he heard something. A movement up the set of stairs on the left of the hall. He breathed a sigh of relief. Someone was home. He started up the solid staircase, stepping lightly on the luxurious pale carpet which covered the floor. He placed a hand on the wrought iron stair rail. It was cold and metallic. He continued, and had almost reached the top when he gasped. Just ahead of him, the carpet was wet and sticky, a deep red. He knew somehow that it could only be blood. He looked down the corridor, and saw it continued, pooling up in some areas, and leaving a dark streak running further down in other areas. He continued down the narrow corridor, noticing that the blood became more and more as he walked. At the end of the corridor was a closed door. He crept up closer to it and heard a voice.
“I know it’s been ever so long, darling, you must be famished. But I’m sure you’ll enjoy this old withered handbag almost as much as you did her husband,” said a familiar voice, a ring of cold humour in her voice. She laughed as if sharing a private joke with someone. Jack looked back down the corridor, then opened the door.
“Lady Bracknell, I don’t know what you think-” Jack stopped and stared in pure horror, before dropping to his knees. Before him he saw Lady Bracknell, kneeling before a woman lying on the floor. The woman was dead, and her wispy hair was stained with her own blood. Her dress had been removed, and she lay in her undergarments, her white corset soaked with more blood. Her throat was cut, the slice quite oddly visible, a gaping cut against her white neck. It was then Jack realised Lady Bracknell was sponging her, as if cleaning her wounds.
The room was completely dark, with the exception of a small slice of sunlight escaping through a gap in a curtain. He vomited onto the carpet, then wiped his mouth and staggered to his feet.
“What?” Jack stammered feebly, clutching at a table for support.
“I thought I made it quite clear you weren’t welcome here, Mr Worthing,” Lady Bracknell said, calmly getting to her feet. “Darling, could you please close the door,” she said, looking over Jack’s shoulder. Jack spun around. He saw a man walk out from the shadows behind him and begin to close the door. As the door closed, he caught a glimpse of white down the dark corridor, and saw Gwendolen standing at the end. She began to run towards him.
“Gwendolen!” cried Jack. The door slammed shut, and the man bolted it, then turned to face Jack. He was tall and thin, like Lady Bracknell, but there was something different about him that Jack couldn’t place. His eyes seemed to gleam red with hunger and passion which ignited his emaciated face. Jack heard something bang into the door on the other side.
“Papa, no! No! Stop! No, Papa!” Gwendolen was screaming hysterically, hurling herself against the bolted door in desperation.
“Oh, how rude of me,” laughed Lady Bracknell casually. “Mr Worthing, this is my husband, Lord Bracknell.” Lord Bracknell smiled, and Jack realised his teeth were white and sharp, and almost glowing in the darkened room.
“Please, Papa, please! Mama!” Gwendolen continued to plead, tears choking her cries, still attacking the door with all her force.
Lord Bracknell began to walk slowly towards Jack, a smile stretching his thin white lips. Jack stepped back, running into a chair. Lord Bracknell grabbed hold of him with a thin, but surprisingly strong arm. Jack tried to wrestle free. He tried to speak, but his mouth was completely dry. Fear had incapacitated him. He just saw his own reflected terror through Lord Bracknell’s searching eyes. Suddenly he felt a sharp pain in his lower back. “I told you that I would never allow you to marry my daughter. But I’m glad you made the effort to come out here, Mr Worthing,” whispered Lady Bracknell in his ear from behind him. Jack felt everything was blurred, his hearing slowed down, everything slowed down. He fell forward, and collapsed onto the floor, landing with a loud thud. There was silence in the room, and on the other side of the door, Gwendolen burst into tears, moaning softly.
“Well,” began Lady Bracknell, “that’s dealt with that. I must say I am rather glad we are rid of him. He would never have been an ideal husband for Gwendolen. Yet whatever his faults were, he should make a good feast for you. He is a healthy enough young man.” She looked down at Jack’s body. “Well, was, anyway. And it would be a shame to waste him. Shall I prepare him for you darling?” She looked at Lord Bracknell, then knelt down and began to prepare Jack for feasting, while the last rays of the red sun crept through the dusty curtains.
23/08/1875
Dear Diary,
I have finally done it. I left Mama and Papa. I ran away the day they killed Jack. Having barely known Jack, it has naturally been a serious shock to me, yet I find I have worked through my grief remarkably quickly. And though there are serious doubts on my social prospects without parents, I have for the time being found refuge with the sweet and good natured though somewhat common (although in all honesty she cannot help it) Cecily Cardew, whom I have found was Jack’s ward, and now call my sister. I am having to learn new skills away from my city life, and yesterday I learnt how to use a spade for the first time. With dearest love to you my diary, who has always been with me,
Gwendolen Cardew
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