Gothic WIP

Tidings From An Old Friend

The letter arrived late, as often happened in the Autumn when the gentle, soothing warmth of September was driven into hibernation by October’s brisk breezes and sudden, sometimes sleeted, downpours of rain.

The deliverer of the letter apologized, quite profusely, as he stood at the threshold, with his coat collar turned up, teeth chattering despite his long jacket, mopping his wet brow with a scrunched tatter of soiled rag.

Common courtesy required I take pity on the poor man, so I invited him in to settle himself by the fire in the drawing room until the rain stopped. He refused, as I’d expected, but thanked me for my charity. Frankly speaking, his refusal was a relief. The messenger’s breath reeked of an overindulgence of spirits. His sopping clothes stank of wet mutt or cat, something olfactory offensive not even the wind could sweep from the air, as it did the fallen leaves nested in the corners of my porch steps.

I tipped him three shillings for his efforts, though they were not timely, in appreciation for the man’s fortitude to venture about in such circumstances.

He was even more pleased with my generosity than he was with my charity; his eyes grew wide and he stammered several times “Thank you, Sir” and “God bless you, Sir” as he pocketed the coins and backed himself down the steps, nearly tripping over his feet.

I nodded my reply and closed the door, eager to return to my comfortable chair beside the hearth and devote myself to my unfinished glass of brandy. I suspected there’d be need of more brandy after I’d read the letter, for the rain-blotted script on the envelope assured me the contents were penned by none other than my oldest and closest friend, and confidant, Charles Wharley.

Constance, Wharley’s wife, a delicate blossom I’d loved long before Charles had claimed her heart, had been ill. The last several weeks had been tenuous for my wilting flower. Her small, lithe body strained into utter exhaustion with her impending motherhood. That vibrant glow so common in women in such a similar state had, for some reason or another, abandoned her, and its absence had left her lethargic, without appetite, and bedridden.

Charles, not knowing the depth of my love for the woman he also loved, but instead drawing on our friendship to give him the strength he needed to bear the burden of Constance’s illness, had resolved to keep me appraised of her deteriorating condition.

I turned the envelope over several times, building my nerve to open it and accept whatever words were contained within. If it were serious, truly Constance’s final hours, I reasoned, Wharley surely would have sent a telegram to harken me to his estate.

I gently inserted the tip of a letter opener beneath the envelope’s sealed flap and, with shaking hands, removed a thin sheet of paper that had been folded in thirds.

I quickly scanned the neatly penned lines and discovered, with a sigh of relief, the letter was not the presage of black mourning suits and mounds of white lilies I’d feared.

Dear John,

Come to Wharley Manor. There is something I must show you. Something you must see.

Send a telegram announcing your arrival time at the station and I shall send a carriage to collect you.

Ever your friend,

Charles Wharley

Curious. There was no mention of Constance or her unborn child; their unborn child I reminded myself, topics so prevalent in our weekly communication we’d spoken of little else in the course of our faithful correspondence. No smatter of ramblings asking guidance in what my friend should do, how he would carry on if Constance should pass. It was simply an unfathomably short letter, absent the required information one might need to understand the encompassing reason for his seemingly urgent request. However its import was intriguing, despite its lack of clarity.

I read the letter again. Wharley’s words, or lack of words on the subject of Constance’s declining health, nourished my faith in her recovery. Perhaps, through some miracle or through my friend’s careful and thoughtful ministrations, the malady that had seized a hold of her vitality had finally relinquished its grip. I prayed this was so, and that the letter in some measure assured me of this.

It was too late in the eve to begin hurried preparations for a journey, eager though I was to find out Wharley’s purpose in summoning me. There were the matters of packing my portmanteau, the instructions I’d need to convey to the staff under my leadership at the asylum and, most important of all, the inquest I was required to attend the following morning. The soonest I could depart was the next eve.

I rang for a servant, and dispatched the poor fellow out into the downpour to deliver my reply to the telegraph office:

Charles,

Received your letter. Must say I’m intrigued ???

Have professional matters to attend tomorrow morning, but you have my assurance I shall be on tomorrow night’s train.

Always your friend,

John Banning

P.S. Constance ???