The Mysterious Reappearance of Miss Charlotte Grey - Prologue
Please accept this as a rough, VERY ROUGH draft. I'll be pushing through it to get it done by Christmas, so stay tuned if you're actually still watching. I promise near daily updates, or at least 3 a week. Please do not spare me. I need honest feedback.
-Prologue-
It is not an unknown fact that it is customary for a proper murder mystery to begin, of course, with a murder. The unfortunate circumstance of this particular murder, however, is that the victim in question… is me. How is that possible, Charlotte, you ask? You'd only believe me if I told you, for it is as impossible seeming to me even now as it must appear to you. I would not believe it if I had not, pardon the irony, lived it myself. There is one very simple fact that no amount of skepticism or doubt can or will change: I was murdered.
It was a chilly early spring evening, and I was, as is my wont, attending to the task of writing in my journal. It is a nightly ritual I have not neglected since first, I think, I learned to write. My mother had a love of words, was entranced by them, and it is a passion that I well and truly inherited. I think even now I continue to write nightly because I feel closer to her when I do, as if that part of her is with me as a commit my thoughts to paper. I miss her and my father so much sometimes, it’s almost like a physical pain. However, uncle Henry and aunt Sarah have been nothing but wonderfully kind to me, no less than my own parents, and so I cannot complain overly much. I am still very blessed.
There it was again… that melody like heartbreak pulling at the very edges of my awareness. The first time I noticed it, a few nights ago, I was sure it was in my own mind. Even for a young woman of the upper class, I am told I spend far too much time in my books and alone. No one seems to understand that I am not, in fact, alone at all. I am surrounded by beauty, passion, and love, some that span the whole of history and human imagination. How could normal folk compare to the sorrow of Antigone? Or the adventure as experienced by Alice? Few have so sharp a mind for science as Dr. Darwin, nor think so deeply as Master DeCartes. I like my books, thank you… they never hurt me. When I have had enough, I can close their pages and walk away, letting the nightmares of the Jabberwalkie fade, or the pain of Prospero’s loss wash away under the light of the sun. But this song… I could not walk away from that.
It started a few nights ago, as I was settling in to write. This time of year in the city of New York it is still dark very early. Even late March can retain the icy grip of winter, and this year has been no exception. It snowed a week ago, even though I can sense a change in the air. It is in that rare breeze that stirs of the warm months to come full of flowers and honey. Tonight, however, was not one of those precious nights. It was dark, cold, and seemed so much more a part of winter than any hoped for spring to come. I sat before my mirror at my desk, the warn pages of my journal just beginning to fill with inked words. I began humming, not normally one of my mannerisms when writing, and realized the tune was not simply in my mind. It was all around me, a part of me, so it seemed.
How do I begin to describe the sound of complete and soul rending longing? Of a loss so profound that just the mere ponderence of it seems like it will break you? It was like nothing that I had ever felt in all of my nineteen years. It encompassed the floods of tears that ran hot down my cheeks when I was fifteen and learned of the death of my parents away on their trip to London. It was the iron grey of the darkest cloud laden winters when there seems no hope, and worse, not even a chance for hope. It was an eternity sundered from the one and only thing that could ever complete a soul, love lost never to again be found. It was the journey of a millennia in search of that which is forever as beyond reach as the moon is from the earth.
I cannot even now tell you how long I must have paused in rapture of the consuming nature of this mysterious song. Longer than seemed possible, judging by the swiftly dying candle. The second night was no different, save that I felt compelled most strongly to seek out the source of this great sorrow. I wanted to bring light into the darkness, warm arms to hold against the cold. It seemed impossible that anyone could survive such heartbreak and still have any will to render it into music. Yet… there it was as clear to me as my reflection in the mirror. I seemed so frail a thing as I stared at myself, cast in such contrast to the desperate passion of the music. Long curly dark brown hair that I had pulled from my favorite ribbons to fall to my elbows. I have always had my mother’s ivory English paleness, broken only by the single dot below my right eye. I have a serious face, even as a child I had, and my eyes are a brown so light as to be almost golden. They are like my father’s, only lighter. Uncle Henry has them too, large eyes and expressive when moved. I am neither a great beauty, nor unattractive. Only pretty, but I am content. I would far rather be loved for my mind than my looks. Those fade in time, but a keen mind is immortal.
On the third night that I heard the music, I could restrain myself no longer. The compulsion was more than I have any measure of discipline to resist. I wish I could say that there was a part of me that knew, sensed on some primordial level, that I was walking into terrible danger. I would be lying if I proclaimed that. I had no mind for anything save that soul consuming, heart rending melody that had made itself a part of the very fabric of my whole being. I could no more have resisted it than survived without breathing. Looking back, I know that I was not at all myself, but that does little to change the reality of the facts.
Even now, I cannot tell you why I stole out of the house in the dark of the night, alone, in my nightgown. I paused not even a moment for shoes or a cloak to maintain my warmth if not my modesty. I am a proper young lady, and have never in all of my life behaved so… recklessly or without thought. I can only guess that there was something more to that music than the tune itself, that I was under some unnatural compulsion and acting not wholly under my own will. Be that as it may, leave the house I did, not feeling the icy cold of the paving stones under my bear feet as I ran into the darkness.
The neighborhood in which my uncle and aunt live is one of the most beautiful in the City. The Astors live just down the street, and it has always been our pleasure to attend their seasonal balls. The houses here are magnificent works of art made physical; soaring columns, intricate latticework, and vibrant colors, even this early in the spring. Lawns remain perfectly cared for, not a blade of grass out of place. The houses were dark, their occupants dreaming unknown dreams in the deepest part of the night. I alone in all the world seemed to be awake, me and that haunting music.
It should be noted that I am not terribly known for being a risk taker. Far from, actually. I have always done my best to do my parents, and later my aunt and uncle, proud. I study hard, mind my manners, and attempt to behave as befits a lady of my station. I have modest ambitions of a family, a husband who loves me, and a chance to continue to write. If George Elliot can become an accomplished and respected writer, I see no reason why I cannot as well. Mary Shelly was quite respected, and so I have always somewhat hoped to become. I have a vision of my children playing at my feet as pages fill with ink, a legacy of my own to leave behind when I am gone. Something to say that I existed, and my life meant something to someone at one point. A family is well worth a life, but a person must also hope for more, to push to become their greatest self. Or so I have come to believe. That aside, I have always been well behaved, and on this night alone did I defy that. Much to my sorrow.
I followed the sound of the song down the dark lane that runs between our house and the Bryce’s, heedless of the cold and darkness. I am certain I must have looked little more than a ghost as I ran, something akin to Alice as she wandered through Wonderland unknowing, pulled into events beyond her knowledge or control. The familiar houses of my street faded, growing smaller as I went, deeper into the heart of the city. Manicured lawns were replaced by industry and soot. Still I ran on, seeing not a soul, passing no one in my frantic journey. Under a stone bridge, and into an unexpected courtyard I came to a sudden stop. Now, finally, something was out of place enough that my sense of self preservation overpowered the compulsion of that beautiful music.
I found myself in a stunning setting, so much out of place with the dirty industrial buildings around it. Beautiful arches, intricately carved, held up elaborately frescoed walls. There was a fountain in the center of the courtyard, surrounded by a riot of roses. It was the roses, not the beauty of the yard that caught me. It was far too early in the year for them to be growing so fully. Their impossible presence broke the spell under which I had found myself, and the weight of my unnatural situation came crashing down upon me. Try as I might to keep my calm, I began to shake, more from fear than the bone deep chill that had settled down around me. I could not tell you the hour, only that it was late, and I had to have been gone more than an hour from home. As if my awareness were a signal, the music stopped.
“H-hello?” I hear my brittle little voice stammer. What would anyone think of a young woman out on her own in the middle of the night practically naked? It was a shameful state in which I currently found myself, and well I knew it. I would be might lucky if anyone was about that would not mean me great harm, for this was no place for a young woman to be in the dead of night, regardless of her situation. Still, it was the music that had drawn me here, and maybe if I found its source I could also find my salvation.
“I-is there anyone here?” I questioned once more, hoping unrealistically for a friendly voice, a kind reply from some elderly gentleman who might take me home and never speak of it to my uncle. He would die of embarrassment if it were ever known that I had behaved so. Yet once more, silence was my only companion. I had no idea where I was, which direction in which to return home even had I wished it, for oddly, I found that I could not actually remember how I had gotten here. Certainly under the power of my own two feet, as they were sore, cold, dirty, and bleeding, but I had no memory of the journey itself. I studied my surroundings , hoping for some clue that might give me any measure of comfort or hope.
The architecture was something of a Roman style, villa-like, I suppose. I had been very young when we had traveled to Italy, and only vague images remained of it from my childhood. Still, I remembered enough to know this was similar, and very out of place here. Smokestacks were visible over the tiled roof, and I could smell the salt of the bay not too far distant. Here, however, it was all silence and shadow. The darkness under the second floor of the villa was so profound I had no way of seeing if there were any doors or windows, any passages to the interior of this place.
There, a light! Oh Merciful Father, a candle in a window at the far end of the yard. I could have wept I was so relieved. I clutched the gold cross around my neck and ran, desperately hoping that whomever was there would help me. Perhaps it was the mysterious musician who’s impossible song had brought me so far from home and into such a desperate state. The light was retreating, and I had to hurry to catch it before it vanished completely. I did not take the time to wonder that the heavy wooden door was left ajar, nor that I could not see who it was who bore the single candle, only the dim glow of it as it rounded a corner and down a long hallway. There were beautiful paintings I only noticed with my peripheral awareness, so too the dark red carpeting over highly polished hardwood floors. It was nice to feel the warm plush of the carpet on my abused feet, but I had little time to ponder it overly long. Even as I rounded the corner, the light was disappearing down a set of stairs and into further darkness.
Now, I know what one must be thinking at this point. How could anyone be so foolish? What would possess anyone, let alone a girl, lost in the dead of night, to follow an unknown light into a strange building seemingly at the heart of New York’s industrial center so far from home? I wish that I had a good answer for you, because then I would have one for myself. Sadly, I have neither answer nor reason for either of us. It was dangerous and thoughtless. I was scared, exhausted, freezing, and desperate. My musical enchantment was gone, and I was left feeling empty and bereft. I was clinging to anything that might lead me back home, where I would be safe and warm. That light was a lour as sure as anything, and I was a willing moth to the flame. I make no excuse other than a flawed human natnature. I would take it all back if only I could.
At the bottom of the stares, the light vanished, but my heart rejoiced, for my music was back! Loud and clear it danced around me like so much shattering glass heartbreak. I fell to me knees and wept, for until that moment I had not realized how much I missed it, how I could not live without it. I craved the agony of it, the soaring longing. I wanted to bring light to the darkness here, warm summer to the winter coldness. I craved the chance to fill the void and make it whole. And in those mesmerizing notes, I felt I could… if only for a second. Something was wrong… a discord had begun to creep in. It was growing louder, overtaking the melancholy. I placed my hands over my ears to block out the sounds of the strife that was growing all around me.
“Come, Charlotte, do not be afraid. Let go of your fear and drive away the darkness. Share everything you have and bring life out of death.”
The voice was inside my head, I was sure of it. Yet it was so compelling, low and seductive. It was the voice of the music all around me, warring so hard to drive away the discord. I cried out, begging for it to stop.
“Please, please make it stop! I can’t stand it!” And I couldn’t, not anymore. There was so much sharpness and hurt, betrayal laced with bitter anger. All I wanted to do was bring it to an end, intertwine my own melody of life and hope. I wanted to do as asked, give everything. I longed to do so, and as my senses left me… I felt something horrible grip my heart. It was all the discord made real, a physical presence that was both beautiful and terrible. I screamed when I felt a sharpness grip my chest, cut off as I gasped for breath. The arms that held me as I fell over were strangely gentle, waiting.
“No… no please!” I heard the desperation in my own voice, felt the nightmare become real as my body betrayed me. My heart was thundering in my ears, laboring. Something hot and sticky made my shift cling to my shivering body, and I knew… I knew I was dying. The music had lied to me… begged me to save it from the endless dark in return for exaltation. This was no salvation, it was painful and empty and terrifying. It had taken everything… and I had willingly given it. I was a stupid, foolish girl, and I was going to die for it.
Darkness more profound even than that which surrounded me settled in as I felt myself losing, slipping away. My last thought was that Uncle Henry and Aunt Sarah would never know what happened, that I had betrayed their love and kindness with idiotic dreams of saving someone else from a loneliness from which I had never been able to save myself. I coughed and then there was silence. My heart slowed… and I knew nothing more.
-Prologue-
It is not an unknown fact that it is customary for a proper murder mystery to begin, of course, with a murder. The unfortunate circumstance of this particular murder, however, is that the victim in question… is me. How is that possible, Charlotte, you ask? You'd only believe me if I told you, for it is as impossible seeming to me even now as it must appear to you. I would not believe it if I had not, pardon the irony, lived it myself. There is one very simple fact that no amount of skepticism or doubt can or will change: I was murdered.
It was a chilly early spring evening, and I was, as is my wont, attending to the task of writing in my journal. It is a nightly ritual I have not neglected since first, I think, I learned to write. My mother had a love of words, was entranced by them, and it is a passion that I well and truly inherited. I think even now I continue to write nightly because I feel closer to her when I do, as if that part of her is with me as a commit my thoughts to paper. I miss her and my father so much sometimes, it’s almost like a physical pain. However, uncle Henry and aunt Sarah have been nothing but wonderfully kind to me, no less than my own parents, and so I cannot complain overly much. I am still very blessed.
There it was again… that melody like heartbreak pulling at the very edges of my awareness. The first time I noticed it, a few nights ago, I was sure it was in my own mind. Even for a young woman of the upper class, I am told I spend far too much time in my books and alone. No one seems to understand that I am not, in fact, alone at all. I am surrounded by beauty, passion, and love, some that span the whole of history and human imagination. How could normal folk compare to the sorrow of Antigone? Or the adventure as experienced by Alice? Few have so sharp a mind for science as Dr. Darwin, nor think so deeply as Master DeCartes. I like my books, thank you… they never hurt me. When I have had enough, I can close their pages and walk away, letting the nightmares of the Jabberwalkie fade, or the pain of Prospero’s loss wash away under the light of the sun. But this song… I could not walk away from that.
It started a few nights ago, as I was settling in to write. This time of year in the city of New York it is still dark very early. Even late March can retain the icy grip of winter, and this year has been no exception. It snowed a week ago, even though I can sense a change in the air. It is in that rare breeze that stirs of the warm months to come full of flowers and honey. Tonight, however, was not one of those precious nights. It was dark, cold, and seemed so much more a part of winter than any hoped for spring to come. I sat before my mirror at my desk, the warn pages of my journal just beginning to fill with inked words. I began humming, not normally one of my mannerisms when writing, and realized the tune was not simply in my mind. It was all around me, a part of me, so it seemed.
How do I begin to describe the sound of complete and soul rending longing? Of a loss so profound that just the mere ponderence of it seems like it will break you? It was like nothing that I had ever felt in all of my nineteen years. It encompassed the floods of tears that ran hot down my cheeks when I was fifteen and learned of the death of my parents away on their trip to London. It was the iron grey of the darkest cloud laden winters when there seems no hope, and worse, not even a chance for hope. It was an eternity sundered from the one and only thing that could ever complete a soul, love lost never to again be found. It was the journey of a millennia in search of that which is forever as beyond reach as the moon is from the earth.
I cannot even now tell you how long I must have paused in rapture of the consuming nature of this mysterious song. Longer than seemed possible, judging by the swiftly dying candle. The second night was no different, save that I felt compelled most strongly to seek out the source of this great sorrow. I wanted to bring light into the darkness, warm arms to hold against the cold. It seemed impossible that anyone could survive such heartbreak and still have any will to render it into music. Yet… there it was as clear to me as my reflection in the mirror. I seemed so frail a thing as I stared at myself, cast in such contrast to the desperate passion of the music. Long curly dark brown hair that I had pulled from my favorite ribbons to fall to my elbows. I have always had my mother’s ivory English paleness, broken only by the single dot below my right eye. I have a serious face, even as a child I had, and my eyes are a brown so light as to be almost golden. They are like my father’s, only lighter. Uncle Henry has them too, large eyes and expressive when moved. I am neither a great beauty, nor unattractive. Only pretty, but I am content. I would far rather be loved for my mind than my looks. Those fade in time, but a keen mind is immortal.
On the third night that I heard the music, I could restrain myself no longer. The compulsion was more than I have any measure of discipline to resist. I wish I could say that there was a part of me that knew, sensed on some primordial level, that I was walking into terrible danger. I would be lying if I proclaimed that. I had no mind for anything save that soul consuming, heart rending melody that had made itself a part of the very fabric of my whole being. I could no more have resisted it than survived without breathing. Looking back, I know that I was not at all myself, but that does little to change the reality of the facts.
Even now, I cannot tell you why I stole out of the house in the dark of the night, alone, in my nightgown. I paused not even a moment for shoes or a cloak to maintain my warmth if not my modesty. I am a proper young lady, and have never in all of my life behaved so… recklessly or without thought. I can only guess that there was something more to that music than the tune itself, that I was under some unnatural compulsion and acting not wholly under my own will. Be that as it may, leave the house I did, not feeling the icy cold of the paving stones under my bear feet as I ran into the darkness.
The neighborhood in which my uncle and aunt live is one of the most beautiful in the City. The Astors live just down the street, and it has always been our pleasure to attend their seasonal balls. The houses here are magnificent works of art made physical; soaring columns, intricate latticework, and vibrant colors, even this early in the spring. Lawns remain perfectly cared for, not a blade of grass out of place. The houses were dark, their occupants dreaming unknown dreams in the deepest part of the night. I alone in all the world seemed to be awake, me and that haunting music.
It should be noted that I am not terribly known for being a risk taker. Far from, actually. I have always done my best to do my parents, and later my aunt and uncle, proud. I study hard, mind my manners, and attempt to behave as befits a lady of my station. I have modest ambitions of a family, a husband who loves me, and a chance to continue to write. If George Elliot can become an accomplished and respected writer, I see no reason why I cannot as well. Mary Shelly was quite respected, and so I have always somewhat hoped to become. I have a vision of my children playing at my feet as pages fill with ink, a legacy of my own to leave behind when I am gone. Something to say that I existed, and my life meant something to someone at one point. A family is well worth a life, but a person must also hope for more, to push to become their greatest self. Or so I have come to believe. That aside, I have always been well behaved, and on this night alone did I defy that. Much to my sorrow.
I followed the sound of the song down the dark lane that runs between our house and the Bryce’s, heedless of the cold and darkness. I am certain I must have looked little more than a ghost as I ran, something akin to Alice as she wandered through Wonderland unknowing, pulled into events beyond her knowledge or control. The familiar houses of my street faded, growing smaller as I went, deeper into the heart of the city. Manicured lawns were replaced by industry and soot. Still I ran on, seeing not a soul, passing no one in my frantic journey. Under a stone bridge, and into an unexpected courtyard I came to a sudden stop. Now, finally, something was out of place enough that my sense of self preservation overpowered the compulsion of that beautiful music.
I found myself in a stunning setting, so much out of place with the dirty industrial buildings around it. Beautiful arches, intricately carved, held up elaborately frescoed walls. There was a fountain in the center of the courtyard, surrounded by a riot of roses. It was the roses, not the beauty of the yard that caught me. It was far too early in the year for them to be growing so fully. Their impossible presence broke the spell under which I had found myself, and the weight of my unnatural situation came crashing down upon me. Try as I might to keep my calm, I began to shake, more from fear than the bone deep chill that had settled down around me. I could not tell you the hour, only that it was late, and I had to have been gone more than an hour from home. As if my awareness were a signal, the music stopped.
“H-hello?” I hear my brittle little voice stammer. What would anyone think of a young woman out on her own in the middle of the night practically naked? It was a shameful state in which I currently found myself, and well I knew it. I would be might lucky if anyone was about that would not mean me great harm, for this was no place for a young woman to be in the dead of night, regardless of her situation. Still, it was the music that had drawn me here, and maybe if I found its source I could also find my salvation.
“I-is there anyone here?” I questioned once more, hoping unrealistically for a friendly voice, a kind reply from some elderly gentleman who might take me home and never speak of it to my uncle. He would die of embarrassment if it were ever known that I had behaved so. Yet once more, silence was my only companion. I had no idea where I was, which direction in which to return home even had I wished it, for oddly, I found that I could not actually remember how I had gotten here. Certainly under the power of my own two feet, as they were sore, cold, dirty, and bleeding, but I had no memory of the journey itself. I studied my surroundings , hoping for some clue that might give me any measure of comfort or hope.
The architecture was something of a Roman style, villa-like, I suppose. I had been very young when we had traveled to Italy, and only vague images remained of it from my childhood. Still, I remembered enough to know this was similar, and very out of place here. Smokestacks were visible over the tiled roof, and I could smell the salt of the bay not too far distant. Here, however, it was all silence and shadow. The darkness under the second floor of the villa was so profound I had no way of seeing if there were any doors or windows, any passages to the interior of this place.
There, a light! Oh Merciful Father, a candle in a window at the far end of the yard. I could have wept I was so relieved. I clutched the gold cross around my neck and ran, desperately hoping that whomever was there would help me. Perhaps it was the mysterious musician who’s impossible song had brought me so far from home and into such a desperate state. The light was retreating, and I had to hurry to catch it before it vanished completely. I did not take the time to wonder that the heavy wooden door was left ajar, nor that I could not see who it was who bore the single candle, only the dim glow of it as it rounded a corner and down a long hallway. There were beautiful paintings I only noticed with my peripheral awareness, so too the dark red carpeting over highly polished hardwood floors. It was nice to feel the warm plush of the carpet on my abused feet, but I had little time to ponder it overly long. Even as I rounded the corner, the light was disappearing down a set of stairs and into further darkness.
Now, I know what one must be thinking at this point. How could anyone be so foolish? What would possess anyone, let alone a girl, lost in the dead of night, to follow an unknown light into a strange building seemingly at the heart of New York’s industrial center so far from home? I wish that I had a good answer for you, because then I would have one for myself. Sadly, I have neither answer nor reason for either of us. It was dangerous and thoughtless. I was scared, exhausted, freezing, and desperate. My musical enchantment was gone, and I was left feeling empty and bereft. I was clinging to anything that might lead me back home, where I would be safe and warm. That light was a lour as sure as anything, and I was a willing moth to the flame. I make no excuse other than a flawed human natnature. I would take it all back if only I could.
At the bottom of the stares, the light vanished, but my heart rejoiced, for my music was back! Loud and clear it danced around me like so much shattering glass heartbreak. I fell to me knees and wept, for until that moment I had not realized how much I missed it, how I could not live without it. I craved the agony of it, the soaring longing. I wanted to bring light to the darkness here, warm summer to the winter coldness. I craved the chance to fill the void and make it whole. And in those mesmerizing notes, I felt I could… if only for a second. Something was wrong… a discord had begun to creep in. It was growing louder, overtaking the melancholy. I placed my hands over my ears to block out the sounds of the strife that was growing all around me.
“Come, Charlotte, do not be afraid. Let go of your fear and drive away the darkness. Share everything you have and bring life out of death.”
The voice was inside my head, I was sure of it. Yet it was so compelling, low and seductive. It was the voice of the music all around me, warring so hard to drive away the discord. I cried out, begging for it to stop.
“Please, please make it stop! I can’t stand it!” And I couldn’t, not anymore. There was so much sharpness and hurt, betrayal laced with bitter anger. All I wanted to do was bring it to an end, intertwine my own melody of life and hope. I wanted to do as asked, give everything. I longed to do so, and as my senses left me… I felt something horrible grip my heart. It was all the discord made real, a physical presence that was both beautiful and terrible. I screamed when I felt a sharpness grip my chest, cut off as I gasped for breath. The arms that held me as I fell over were strangely gentle, waiting.
“No… no please!” I heard the desperation in my own voice, felt the nightmare become real as my body betrayed me. My heart was thundering in my ears, laboring. Something hot and sticky made my shift cling to my shivering body, and I knew… I knew I was dying. The music had lied to me… begged me to save it from the endless dark in return for exaltation. This was no salvation, it was painful and empty and terrifying. It had taken everything… and I had willingly given it. I was a stupid, foolish girl, and I was going to die for it.
Darkness more profound even than that which surrounded me settled in as I felt myself losing, slipping away. My last thought was that Uncle Henry and Aunt Sarah would never know what happened, that I had betrayed their love and kindness with idiotic dreams of saving someone else from a loneliness from which I had never been able to save myself. I coughed and then there was silence. My heart slowed… and I knew nothing more.