The Lady in the Painting Extended Version

Wind howled in Albert’s ears, and he shivered as rain battered down on his already drenched clothes. Water trailed from his brown hair down his face, plastering the wet strands across his forehead. Attempting to regain some presentability, he brushed his hair backward with his hands, trying to set it as best he could. Taking a deep breath in, Albert adjusted his lapels and smoothed down his tailcoat. He knocked twice on the massive oak front door, fingers like ice, the noise barely coherent over the downpour. Almost immediately, the door was thrown open and he was pulled inside.

Albert shouted out, his hands flying up in shock as he beheld the pale blue eyes of the elderly woman standing in front of him. Her grey, curling hair was pinned under her hat, wrinkles lining her face.

“Dear me. Look at the state of you!” she cried throwing her hands up. “You must forgive me for being abrupt, I didn’t want any more rainwater on the carpet, it’s drenched already! You must be Mr Moore - Miss Wilson had invited you over for dinner, yes?”

Albert nodded quickly, rubbing his hands together, ardently wishing for dry clothes. The sodden clothing stuck to him, his bones stiff. He did not even want to consider how he looked, disorganised and unruly, completely unrespectable. The opposite of the impression he was hoping to make on his new neighbour.

“Yes. Yes, she did, and you are?” he asked, hoping to at least be polite.

“Why, I am Marion, but don’t worry about me. My lady will be here soon. There’s no chance you’ll be walking across the woods to your house Mr Moore. Miss Wilson will be more than happy to accommodate you for the evening. Please follow me, I will show you to your room.”

Without waiting for him to follow, Marion began briskly walking down the hallway. Grateful for his warm welcome, Albert followed her.

The house was had the air of sombre grandeur, lightbulbs splayed yellow light onto dark wooden surfaces, an embroidered red and black carpet with gold detailing entwined in the designs under his feet as they passed door after door. Following Marion up a spiraling staircase, Albert glimpsed the glittering chandelier above before they enterer another hallway, narrower than the previous. Strange, Albert thought, for there to be so many closed doors and no drawing room in sight, nor any sight of his hostess.

Marion stopped abruptly, turning a worn golden handle and opening the wooden door.

“Your room Mr Moore, there are clothes inside.”

“Thank you, Marion.” Albert said, smiling at the maid before she turned and walked back down. He walked into the room, surveying the landscape. There was a standard bed covered in a green sheet, a red carpet on the floor not unlike the carpet from the hallway, a nightstand on either side of the bed.

How gracious for his hostess to be so prepared as to provide him with clothing when no man resided in her house. Kicking off his shoes and stripping his wet clothing, Albert put on the various items of clothing, reveling in the way they fit him so well. A stroke of luck, it seemed.

There was a comb on the nightstand and Albert used it to brush through the knots in his damp hair, combing it back the way that he did each morning.

Setting the comb back on the nightstand, Albert breathed out deeply, sitting down on the bed. His muscles relaxed and he leaned his head back, studying the ceiling.

It was too quiet, much too quiet in his room. In the recent weeks Albert had come to hate the quiet. Resenting the stillness of it all and the lack of life that dwelled in the silence. He could not bear commotion either, it only reminded him of what he had lost, what he no longer had. There was no winning in grief, he had come to learn, only an ever long road to heal.

Albert shook his head, running a hand over his face, closing his eyes for a second. There was no use in living in the past. There was a dinner to attend.

Ten minutes passed. Ten minutes of Albert sitting on the green duvet staring at the door, trying to distract his mind. There was a tapestry on the wall behind him he hadn’t initially noticed. It depicted masses of men on a battlefield, dead, swords strewn on the ground, blood pooling from gushing wounds.

The tapestry etched and burned through his mind. It reminded him of the hole in his heart, filling him with a deep sorrow.

The tapestry 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 used to ignore his mother’s warnings and touch the tapestry. Feeling the fabric under the soft skin of his youthful fingers, hiding whenever he heard footsteps. Through the years, Albert’s fingertips had grown more calloused and lost the softness they once possessed.

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.

“No,” Albert said to himself, steel laced through his voice. He would not think about this. He had more imminent problems at his fingertips. Like where Marion and Miss Wilson were.

Though Albert appreciated the household providing him refuge from the storm, and the 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 jumped up from the bed. With a few long strides he reached the door, opening it and shutting it behind him. Looking left and right to either side of the hallway, he decided to venture left.

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 borrowed 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.

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, bowing 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.

“You have quite the grand home, Miss Wilson.“

She merely said thank you. Her eyes remained fixated on him, an almost predatory like hunger residing in them.

“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 story that I had in plan for my Literature. However, due to the horror called word limits, I had to cut out a bunch so I could have most of my story marked!

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