The Lady in the Painting

original version

Silver candelabras flickered along the walls, a dim orange light dancing as the hallway light ominously grew scarcer, red and black carpet growing faded and worn as Albert walked. The fabric of his tailcoat crinkled softly as his footsteps echoed around him unnaturally, ricocheting off the wallpaper. Albert could hear rattling in the ceiling, attributing it to the pelting rain that continued to rage and the crack of thunder that shook the house’s wooden frame.

Though Albert appreciated the household providing him a room as refuge from the storm, and Miss Wilson’s dinner invite; he only wished his new neighbour would make an appearance, and that the housekeeper would have directed him what to do after changing. It was strange for him to have been left alone, unsure even of where the drawing room was. Growing impatient, Albert had decided to explore the household. The tapestry depicting a grand military defeat in his room unearthed bad memories.

It reminded Albert of his family home in London. His mother had hung an intricate tapestry she stitched herself on a wall. As a child, Albert ignored his mother’s warnings and used to touch the tapestry, hiding whenever he heard footsteps.

His shoulders slumped at the memory. The tapestry haunted him in his dreams occasionally. The disease ravaged bodies of both his parents, pale and colourless flashed before his eyes. Their absence echoed all around him. For months afterward, Albert could not live in that house without constant reminders of his parents. It was why he purchased this house in the countryside – to escape the memories.

Numerous locked doors and the hallway’s twists and turns stared back at him, like invisible eyes watched his movements. The walls seemed to whisper his name, beckoning him to walk. With each step Albert took the hall closed in on him more. His heartbeat was a drum echoing in his ears. Albert found himself facing a singular closed door. The door was dark and wooden, handle gold and polished, with a key protruding from the keyhole.

With every centimetre his hand inched towards the handle, Albert’s nausea grew. This was not right. No respectable young man should be intruding on a space of a lady. His father would have called him utterly improper if he could see him now. But Albert’s father was not here, he was buried deep underground, and the door grew more compelling with every passing second.

It seemed to beckon him, whispering his name in his ear. Albert. As his hand inched closer and closer the handle burned brighter, glowing gold until Albert could see nothing but light as he desperately grasped the handle. All thoughts disappeared from his mind, all that remained was Albert, the glowing handle, and what lay behind the door. Satiating his curiosity, he turned the handle and entered.

Albert found himself in a dimly lit room facing a large wooden desk. Books lay scattered on the surface, thick bundles of paper thrown in the large pile. The walls were adorned with countless portraits of a woman; the largest portrait hung above the unlit fireplace. The woman was fair skinned, brown coiled hair tumbling onto her shoulder, a pink flush on her cheeks. She wore a flowing white dress; arms delicately clutching a woven basket of red apples. Her eyes were a cold and piercing grey. In a trance, Albert stepped forward towards the desk, his blue eyes wide, mouth agape. She seemed like a lady, proper and gentle, beautiful to look at, but there was something about her eyes that made Albert’s stomach churn. He was trapped in her gaze.

After a few seconds, Albert tore his eyes away, feeling the thick dust coating the stacks of books against his fingers. The topmost volume was a leather notebook. The pages thin and dry, edges curling upward as Albert opened the book. The words were tightly packed together and written in a delicate cursive, words looping and curving on the page, forming a name: James Brown. Albert examined the neat scrawl of writing.

The entry was dated to twenty years ago, explaining the delicacy of the book.

15 August 1840

I visited the markets and met a girl by the name of Margaret Wilson. She was rather jovial and offered me an apple she had picked. She seems like a delightful Christian girl and offered to show me to her garden. I could not shake the interaction from my mind. Her face I see each time I close my eyes. I thought it would be a rather good idea to paint her.

Albert flicked to the middle of the notebook.

30 September 1840

All I can think of is Maggie these days. Maggie and her skin. Maggie and her curls. Maggie and her grey eyes. Maggie kissing me in her garden. I am sure I have found the one God made for me. I am going to ask for Mother’s ring, so that I may propose to her with the family ring. Mother and Father will be overjoyed, they want nothing more than for me to find a suitable wife, continuing the family lineage.

7 October 1840

Mother and Father have called my Maggie whorish and sinful, saying her family has raised a spinster, and condemned my relations with her. I cannot help but think they do not see sense. Can they not see I love Maggie so? How could they just dismiss the woman I love so rudely, giving her not even one chance? My heart aches at this, I cannot be without her.

Setting the notebook down, he looked up at the portrait. Could the woman be Margaret Wilson, Albert’s new neighbour, nicknamed Maggie? There were countless paintings of her, gardening, seated on a swing, lying on grass. The paintings were painted with an intricacy only a lover could possess.

Butterflies flittered through his stomach as Albert picked up another tome, eager to learn more. The only word covering the page was Maggie, flicking through the book he found it was not just this page, but the only word that was written in the whole book was Maggie continuously. The words disorderly crammed onto every page hundreds of times in different sizes and orientation. Looking over at the stacks of papers, it looked like this was not the only repeated writing of Maggie’s name. Picking up another notebook, Albert opened to the first page.

9 October 1840

Maggie asked me to run away with her to the country to be away from society, she wishes not to get married but to live in the country. I laid back on her bed and there was nothing more I wanted than to be with her. Maggie said she wishes for us to share a room that overlooks a lush garden she can tend to in our country house. There is nothing more I want than that too.

12 October 1840

Maggie and I arrived at our new country estate yesterday. That first night was dreamlike. We laid staring at the ceiling, the familiarity of her limbs entangled with mine, the smell of her hair in the air, and I had no regrets whatsoever.

The country air is fresh and there is rarely anyone about at any time of day. There is an apple tree in the garden and Maggie has purchased carnation seeds to plant. It was so peaceful without society or my parent’s expectations. The nearest town is but an hour away from us, I will take Maggie tomorrow.

Albert closed the book and set it on the desk again.

This was very strange indeed.

Strange for a respectable gentleman such as Mr Brown to give up his respectability for an unladylike woman such as Maggie, abandoning any sense of being an esteemed gentleman.

Living with a woman out of wedlock, having relations with her nonetheless was not unheard of, but entirely improper. Violating the code of conduct a gentleman and any lady should be following.

Albert supposed James was so entranced and in love he lost his sense. Looking up at the portrait Albert studied Maggie’s depthless grey eyes. They reminded him of the storm raging outside, angry dark grey rain clouds and the boom of thunder in his ears.

“Admiring?”

Albert spun around in shock, guilt flooding him, his cheeks turning red from shame. “I am so sorry. I did not mean to intrude. This is entirely improper of me,” he stammered. He shook his head, chiding himself for snooping.

Looking up at the person in front of him, Albert froze. The woman from the paintings stared back at him, bearing the same grey eyes and brown curls, looking no older than nineteen. It was as if she walked out of the portrait wearing the same clothing and standing the same way. Her basket of apples was full, her white dress faded and tainted with brown dirt stains. The same flush on her cheeks and storm in her wide eyes as she looked up at him. “Are you Miss Wilson?” he asked.

“I am,” she replied sweetly. The sound seemed to curl in the air and lighten the room, silkily sweet. Her eyelashes were long and almost touched her eyebrows, her fingers were thin and delicate, she looked like a porcelain doll. Although she looked the same as in the portrait, there was a different air to her. In the portrait, she looked sweet, chaste, and innocent, but there was an eerie nature about her here, something almost inhuman, an almost evil glint in her eyes. How had she remained so youthful all these years? Albert had to be imagining it for sure.

After being given a room to stay, borrowing clothes, and intruding on Miss Wilson’s household, the least he could do was be a gracious guest. The lady of the house had done nothing to deserve the disrespect.

“Who painted these?” Albert asked, glancing around at the paintings. He tried to brush off his uneasiness, but it stuck like a splinter under his skin.

“A man was once in love with me. He wrote and painted these. He died sometime after we ran away together,” she replied, no change in the tone of her voice. Miss Wilson smiled at him, and it was more beautiful than a million fireflies in the night sky. Albert was imagining it, he had to be. Miss Wilson looked no older than nineteen, but she was over forty at least, there were no creases in her face nor any silver strands in her hair.

“I am sorry for your loss. He must have loved you tremendously.” Albert looked down to the floor, blinking back tears that sprung to his eyes, suppressing the memories. He did not move here to revive old demons. “I must ask, how did you come to own such a grand house as an unmarried woman?”

“James left a large sum of money behind when he died.” Albert nodded, there was no otherwise way a woman such as Miss Wilson would have been capable of purchasing this house.

Margaret took a graceful step, floating towards him, picking an apple from her basket. “Care for an apple? It’s from my garden.”

Truthfully, Albert was not hungry. He was curious to learn more about Miss Wilson and her mysterious lover, but he had been rude enough to intrude on her personal life and home. Albert accepted to be polite, trying to maintain a gentlemanly appearance. Taking a bite into the apple; the world began to spin.

“How is it?” Miss Wilson asked, her voice soothing like a lullaby and carefully laced with curiosity.

“Wonderful Miss Wilson.” Albert responded as the apple tumbled from his hand. His ears rung with a violent high-pitched frequency and his limbs grew limp. Margaret’s eyes seemed to glow red as her canines elongated and sharpened, watching as he swayed drunkenly. Albert’s feet gave way as his head hit the ground with a sickening thud.

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This is the original version of my second literature assessment of the year. We did a unit on Gothic poetry and literature, and this was written using the themes of the Gothic genre.

I wrote about half of the story I had originally planned - I have written an extended version that tells the whole story that will be available soon!

I highly recommend you check out bea’s take on the assignment here!