That Which I Did Not Know
Ana Geraldes
To Mrs. Plainview, England
Innsbruck, January 21st, 17—
Undoubtedly, the town must be beautiful the month before the holidays, as the staff says. Though you would find no evidence of such happy tidings. It has rained since our party’s arrival – six days, Caroline! Near a week of nothing but the bleakest of winter’s gloom. I cannot recommend in good faith that you set foot in this wretched country.
And so far we are from town! I pity Mr. Rothberg’s horses, for they have to carry his carriage daily into the hamlet that lies far at the bottom of a steep hill. It certainly made for quite the view, seeing Mr. Rothberg’s castle so high up the hill as we rode into town. Papa noted it nearly blocked out the sun– if there were a sun to speak of behind such persistent storm clouds. The castle looms in an unfriendly manner, and certainly, as I passed its foreboding iron gates, all I could feel was the discomfort born from being unwelcome.
Father, however? Well, you know how he is. He meets a man of science, and all good sense evades him. How strange, isn’t it? Science is the noble pursuit of knowledge, and one would think those so interested in the field would be quite sensible. I imagine it is the zealousness that makes Papa so ridiculous at times. He took Mr. Rothberg’s hand in both of his and shook with great vigor. I, of course, was forced to compensate for his ridiculousness, but perhaps I acted too coldly. I fear Mr. Rothberg has taken my politeness as indifference, and it certainly must have appeared so next to how amiable Papa behaved.
Though I must admit, Mr. Rothberg is an aloof character himself. Certainly polite, mind you, and handsome enough, I suppose. However, there is something about him, within him. Father said it is perhaps my ‘good eyes,’ but for one so aloof, so reserved, there is an energy much like a flickering light. Father has yet to tell me in fullest detail what manner of experiment he and Mr. Rothberg are embarking upon, but just at the mere mention of it – well.
For instance, whilst gathered for dinner last night, I expressed my curiosity at whatever project would pull my father so far away from England. I had made sure to ask in a friendly manner, almost with humor as to not arouse Mr. Rothberg’s suspicions – for he is a suspicious man, Caroline. He does not allow me, or any female staff for that matter, into the east wing of his estate. Though I did not ask him why at dinner, only for some details regarding a most secretive experiment.
His eyes lit up! He seemed as though he desired to tell me, if only so he may speak on the subject. He told me that though the details of his work were far too harrowing for a woman’s delicate sensibilities, he knew that his discovery would ‘lead man to a greater understanding of itself.’ I would have pressed further, but my chest had grown tight with offense, because Mr. Rothberg is undoubtedly an offensive creature.
He speaks as though he has a great constitution, as if he is not an outwardly sickly kind of man. I am speaking spitefully, and I hope you will forgive me taking my offense out on you, but I am reasonably certain I have seen greater and more harrowing sights mending the bodies of soldiers than he has ever seen measuring glass beakers or whatever else he and Papa do in the east wing. I, of course, said none of this to him, too stricken with offense. Not that he had taken note of my sudden silence, for he simply kept on speaking vaguely and arrogantly on the topic of his project. I am embarrassed to admit that in my anger, I registered very little of his speech.
Oh, I fear I must end this letter on such a poor note, but I am having a poor time, so it seems fitting. I am sorry to burden you with my grievances, but I do feel much lighter in a way I had not felt these six days. What purpose has father brought me here for? I have done nothing but lament in my room as he and Mr. Rothberg mess about behind closed doors.
Perhaps I shall go into town, the ride is long, and the hill is steep, but it is a journey I will need to make if only to alleviate my boredom. I will write again to you shortly, and hopefully in better spirits. God’s blessings on you, sister.
Yours,
Elizabeth
***
Elizabeth could not sleep. So unsettled she was by the week’s events, by the sense of doom both Mr. Rothberg and his damnable castle had pitched in her stomach. Her bedroom was very fine indeed. She had been given a four-post bed decorated with a richly dyed canopy, and a mattress stuffed with cushioning and covered in plush bedding.
Still, she could not sleep. She, in fact, had not slept properly in the past three days. At night she rested fitfully, and her days were marked by infrequent napping in common areas of the estate. If she had had more energy, she might have been able to muster up embarrassment when caught by a leering Mr. Rothberg in the main parlor of the castle.
His gaze was pervasive, Elizabeth remembered. A hard look that startled her awake, and had she been a woman made of weaker stock, she believed she might have trembled. However handsome Mr. Rothberg may have been, it was damnably overshadowed by his poor attitude and ill manners. She did not know him, so she could not say so with certainty, but he appeared to her a man of great cruelty. Certainly, of great arrogance.
Bah! How useless she felt, how frustrated. She could spend all of the night admonishing her host, who despite his unpleasantness had done little else to earn her scorn. She would stand! Yes, she would stand and take a turn about this wretched place. Perhaps the exercise would finally put her to rest.
She tossed the sheets off petulantly, kicking them until they were but a pile lumped at the edge of the bed, then propelled herself off the bed and into stomping about the room. The curtains of a great, iron-wrought window were tied open, illuminating the place with the blue light of a full moon. She lit the wick of her chamberstick, taking its silver handle in a tight grip.
The west wing of the estate was made up of apartments, presumably for the Lady of the house and her company. She had not met the Lady of this castle, but Elizabeth figured she must have been very fine indeed. For the decoration of the hallways were of a delicate and feminine nature and the walls painted in a pattern of pastel florals. Portraits of ladies and small landscapes lined the halls, and were the season friendlier, so that the sun could make itself known past the clouds, Elizabeth would have thought this wing pretty.
But in the dead of winter, in a country that had known nothing but rain the past week, with only a pale moon whose light got dimmer and dimmer, Elizabeth walked away from the apartments and further into the chest of the castle.
The main hall, at least, had large paned windows that casts light on the bifurcated staircase that connects both the east and west apartment wings. The quiet of such a central area unnerves, so used to the milling about of servants and the echoes of business being done that would bounce of the walls during the day.
It seemed to stretch, this silence, and it trapped her into stillness. Anxiety gripped her, and she pressed herself to the railing of the grand staircase, she suddenly felt overcome by the weight of it all. The silence spread out like a balloon filling with air.
And then, with great suddenness, it was pierced.
At first, she mistook the groaning for the wind rasping at the window, for it was so hollow and reedy, but then the wheezing took the shape of a long, drawn, and beastly thing. It shook everything about her, about the chamber hall, and for a moment she was brought back to a bone-white tent in the middle of a ruined field, mending the flesh of a boy who could have been no older than her.
All the while the howling persisted, and Elizabeth gripped the handle of the door separating her from the east wing. She could not bare to hear it! She could not ignore this suspicion any longer.
And then there was the shouting of a man of great arrogance.
“Back!” Mr. Rothberg’s demand could be heard throughout the estate, Elizabeth was sure. “Back to your bed, wretched thing!”
Elizabeth’s hand trembled, iron clad on the door handle.
“What meaning is this?” She whispered to herself. “Do they keep a beast or a prisoner?”
The sound of broken glass brought Elizabeth back to her senses. Whatever violence was taking place beyond this door in a place she was not allowed entry, she could do nothing at present to stop. Her hand lifted from the doorknob, and she rushed back to her room, unable to stop her trembling all through the night.
She slept not a moment and spoke of nothing to her father the next morning.
Ana Geraldes plans to graduate in the spring of 2023 with a major in English and a minor in Creative Writing, then attend a graduate school to pursue an MFA in Creative Writing. She has been writing since she was eight years old!
Ana wrote this piece in a Creative Writing course taught by Caridad Svich, who selected the piece for publication in WHR.