Calista Read online

  CALISTA

  Copyright 2021 Laura Rahme

  Paperback ISBN-13: 9798728861942

  Cover by Ross Robinson

  www.rossrobinson.com.au

  Original artwork

  Hendrick de Fromantiou

  A still life with flowers, c.1633

  This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, locations and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locations or events is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any forms, or by any means, without the prior written permission of the Author.

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 1

  Miss Vera Nightingale

  SHE had never warmed to the Greek village girl. She found her peculiar in the manner she wore those coral beads round her neck, the way she barely spoke, and made few efforts to adjust to her new life in England.

  Halfway down Alexandra Hall’s grand staircase, Vera paused and raised her eyes to the towering oil portrait. The young woman in the painting had been an illiterate peasant once, yet here she was, in all her glory, decked out like nobility in a blue crinoline dress. She sat on a chair of dark velvet, beside a stained-glass window, the red glow of a lit candlestick in the background. Vera ran her gaze across the canvas in disbelief.

  Aaron had once boasted about commissioning this portrait but Vera hadn’t believed him. He’d acted upon just another one of his whims. Her deluded brother had called upon an artist to remake his wife’s nature, despite all evidence it was pure foolishness.

  Vera scrutinised the portrait, taking in what she called the affected grace of the peasant girl. She felt a familiar wave of contempt as she stared at the subject in the painting. Beneath the layers of silk and despite the netted braids on her raven head, there was not a trace of English blood in that woman. The sitter of the portrait was an imposter. Vera shuddered, feeling suddenly uneasy. She looked down the stairs, expecting to see a shadow lurking there.

  When she had first met Calista, the Greek girl was only twenty-two, spoke not a word of English. What had planted the idea in Aaron’s head? There had been many women in his life, including the middle-aged Russian countess who doted on him in his twenties, but Vera had waved off his philandering. She saw his rampant thirst for discovery as the passing fancy of a young man.

  Surely at forty-five, which he was, upon returning from the Mediterranean, he knew better. He had not. She remembered their ultimate discussion at their parents’ home.

  “Brother, you will stop this nonsense before we all regret it, won’t you, now?” The snow had begun to fall and icy crystals burst on her lips as she spoke.

  He had turned to her, a maverick in a fur coat. The swarthy outline of his face seemed harsher after months in the islands.

  “Vera, has it ever occurred to you that I set out on this journey to find a wife? And find a wife, I did.”

  “You’ll shame us.”

  “Well, you’ll have to learn to live with it because I shall marry that girl and that’s my final word.”

  Upon delivering this unexpected rebuke, he had deserted her. She’d felt like a frozen statue in their family’s snow-swept garden. She had watched as he hurried off to his carriage in large strides. She’d even wondered if he wore such a thick coat to better conceal his soul’s secrets. She’d never felt so estranged from her beloved Aaron.

  Vera recalled her wounded pride, and how days afterwards, she’d taken friends into her confidence over cakes and Darjeeling tea.

  “My dear brother has expressed his wishes to marry a Greek peasant girl.”

  She’d sat in mortified silence as her two close friends exchanged glances and carefully absorbed the news.

  “What shall you do, my dear?”

  At those words, deadly thoughts had crossed Vera’s mind. She’d sunk her butterscotch fingers deep into the tea.

  “I suppose I shall have to make my peace. After all, I am only a woman,” she had muttered beneath her breath. “If only our parents were still alive. My father could have put sense into Aaron’s head.”

  Her friends had shaken their heads but Vera sensed that their sympathy had in it something that smelled like relief. They were eternally grateful to not belong to such an incongruous family.

  “Fancy that, wandering off to the United States of the Ionian Islands. And whatever for?” had sighed her childhood friend.

  Vera had pondered over this, losing herself in the never ending stirring of her tea.

  “You should see her eyes,” she had replied. “She’s seen things.”

  Her friend then had the presence of mind to remember the Greek War of Independence. “Didn’t Lord Byron set off to Greece and die there?” she’d asked, hoping to change the subject with some vague political statement.

  Vera had not answered. Her thoughts had drifted.

  “Do you think she endured much hardship during the war?” insisted her friend.

  Vera had startled.

  “The war? Well, I… perhaps. I don’t know. But she’s a queer one. The look in her eyes... I think she’s half-mad. Yes, that’s what I think.”

  “Well if you ask me, Vera dear, your brother is as strange as they get.”

  “Yes, of course. But this girl…”

  On the staircase, Vera bit her lips, recalling this conversation. She had suspected it, hadn’t she? Still staring at the portrait, it seemed to her that a hint of menace shone out of the sitter’s eyes. They came alive. Vera quickly averted her gaze. Her trembling hand clutching at the balustrade, she stepped down to the entrance hall.

  As Vera reached the landing, a coldness clung to her spine; a fear that the woman in the portrait had followed her. She rubbed the back of her neck where the hair had risen. Alexandra Hall’s desolate silence tormented her. She fought her mounting dread by assembling pieces of the past.

  Before his marriage, Aaron had built Alexandra Hall, god knows why— a Georgian masterpiece in the middle of the Berkshire countryside. After marrying Calista, he had changed. Her brother had adopted the life of a recluse. Vera remembered how she’d confided to her friend:

  “It’s her, you know. She won’t have anything to do with us. No pity for his family.” No room for the sister who loved him more than anyone.

  “Just dreadful,” had replied her friend.

  “She has him trapped, and nowadays, he barely leaves his cursed mansion.”

  As her memories flooded back, Vera lingered in the entrance hall, the sound of her own voice echoing in her mind. His cursed mansion.

  Odd, how she had sensed it all along.

  Her silk shawl slipped off her shoulder. She reached with her hand to wrap it back over her thin frame. She picked up the lamp by the window sill and walked with it towards the parlour. Her full skirts traced a giant black shadow on the wall.

  The entire parlour was shrouded in darkness save for its far wall. There, within a marble fireplace, embers glowed.

  Vera advanced through the room, holding up the lamp, feeling her way past the sofa, the Empire armchairs. As she passed the main table, her heart raced. Two dozen pairs of eyes looked down upon her from the walls; a host of faces from afar, immortalised in oil paintings set in gilded frames.

&nbs
p; Portraits took up most of the height on each wall, rivalling with one another for space: here, a wealthy Dutch merchant and his pet monkey; there, a Polish hunter hiking in a thick forest with his dog; nearby, a fierce warrior in a golden armour rode a royal elephant from Siam; above, a spoilt Spanish princess sported a mean grin while cradling her puppy; and across, a lion was tamed by his Egyptian master…

  Over the last fortnight, Vera had stared at those paintings for hours. She knew them all. Her brother’s tastes sent a chill down her spine.

  A distant sound rose in the entrance hall. Somewhere in the house, a door had slammed shut. Vera calmed herself. It was likely one of the maids.

  She reached the low-back chair near the chimney. She would rest here, by the fire, well away from the malevolent presence that had watched her for days. It could surface in every room if it wished. It liked to play games. But here, by the warmth of the flames, she felt safe. It did not like the fire. She leaned over, and threw a log into the hearth. A pleasant crackling sound filled the parlour which glowed a bright red.

  Vera glanced apprehensively at the dozens of portraits. They were no longer just paintings. A hundred eyes held her gaze and watched her. This room was the heart of Aaron’s questionable home, the heart of Alexandra Hall.

  With a name as grand as Alexandra Hall, one could sum up her brother’s delusions of grandeur. It was an understatement to say that Aaron Nightingale relished adventure and drama in his life. No sooner returned from an expedition with his amateur archaeologist friend based in Egypt, he had built Alexandra Hall two years before his marriage. Right here, on the land of their grandparents.

  He had the old Berkshire cottage demolished and in its stead, he’d laid foundations for a Georgian mansion. If it had seen visitors, for Aaron preferred to dispense with visitors, this house would no doubt have been the talk of London.

  It possessed all the graceful airs of a wealthy country estate. Its heavy entrance doors had come at a pricey sum, with each upper glass pane engraved with a majestic A, entwined with an N — Aaron’s initials. In the years following her brother’s marriage, the upper pane on the right door sported the new initials, C and N, in honour of his wife.

  Gentle shade was a welcome balm in the summer when one strolled the veranda along the colonnades. As far as the eye could see, the lawns stretched for acres and were well-tended. At least for a while, thought Vera, cynically.

  English pleasures abounded in this oasis of peace and one had only to venture past the rose garden with its mosaic fountain, and there, one would find a small creek shaded by willows.

  This magnificent house made of large brick, boasted two storeys with high ceilings, an enormous entrance hall with a grand curved staircase, and three dozen rooms of which the parlour was the largest. Or was it? Vera recalled that there existed another room somewhere in the house. She had seen it in the construction plans, but it was years ago.

  She entertained the idea that if Aaron had ever amassed a treasure then it would be kept in that room, wherever it was. But so far, she had found nothing. Instead, a terror had welcomed her.

  Vera had only visited Alexandra Hall on three occasions upon its completion. There had been the awkward welcome when the peasant girl, Calista, had arrived in England. The wedding had followed a couple of months afterward, and it had been the only time when Aaron had suffered guests. Friends from as far as France had attended, together with past medical colleagues, scientists, and Aaron’s questionable business partners. Even their younger brother, John, had stayed over.

  John was an engineer. He actually did something for a living, unlike Aaron whose profession Vera had never defined. To think that all those years when he attended lectures in Paris had amounted to nothing.

  The third occasion came a few years later. Vera had travelled to Berkshire upon receiving Calista’s letter. That awful letter… It had not changed her mind about the Greek girl. Nothing pleased her about Calista.

  And even then, in that month spent near Aaron, Vera had sensed there was something not quite right about this house. How could she explain it? It was a feeling that the entire structure existed as a shell for something other than a home.

  For within its walls were thousands of curious objects. There were rooms filled with oddities from decades of travel. They showcased the gifts Aaron had been granted by friends, figures of import in fields as varied as archaeology, museum curation, and natural science.

  Her brother had stocked these treasures, and now they were neglected, arranged only for display purposes, and on the face of it, Alexandra Hall dazzled with elegance while serving as a coffer for the spoils – however strange these were — of an intrepid life. But Vera was no fool.

  Aaron once boasted of the fortunes he made as a private moneylender and his knack for investments. She’d heard him say that he would never strive to earn an income. And after he wed the peasant girl, Vera had imagined Aaron would cease to roam. He would sire children and fill this new home with the sound of laughter.

  Mrs. Cleary, the housekeeper would serve tea and cakes to rosy cheeks, as all of them sat by the colonnades, and Aaron would open Alexandra Hall to his family and friends. Later in the afternoon, Auntie Vera would read books to the children by the willow trees, her forgiving gaze falling upon her half-breed nephew, or maybe a niece who had the decency to resemble Aaron; both children dressed in starched white clothing.

  Alas, the last time Vera had imagined this scene, it was during her last visit, while Calista lay ill in her bed. Vera had been reduced to tears, her thoughts overrun by the endless sound of that garden fountain. She recalled how she had clamped her hands over her ears and wished for that noise to die.

  Had the water’s rush reminded her of the inevitable passing of time? Perhaps like the ticking minutes she had lived? Or did its torrent evoke what she’d felt towards a brother who – while she had been barred from romantic love and happiness – had consumed everything life had given him, with abandon?

  Yet her distress concealed much more— the secret torment of Aaron’s rebuff, the slights endured throughout her marriageable years, and the endless gossip she had suffered since her brother’s marriage. These memories, they had screamed at her and filled her with anger. But nothing, nothing had roared louder than that fountain whose ghastly mouth spewed waters with such force.

  For deep in the fountain’s gurgling throat, Vera knew not how, but she sensed echoes of something worse.

  Vera startled. She stared out from the parlour, suddenly alerted by the sharp noise arising from the entrance hall. It was the din of metal on marble tiles. Again, she heard it. It resembled the sound a spoon or another metal object might make when dropped.

  “Who’s there?”

  A fear that the parlour might not be as safe as she once thought overwhelmed Vera, and she rose from her seat. Her heart raced as she felt her way out towards the entrance hall, the lamp unsteady in her trembling hand.

  “Is that you, Shannon?” Perhaps the maid had come out to check upon her. Vera stepped out of the parlour. She studied the floor and frowned. A tiny silver spoon gleamed on the tiles at her feet. Surprised, she lowered herself to pick it up. A violent blow struck her other hand and the lamp fell from her grip, shattering across the floor. Vera felt herself trip. She tumbled forward, landing on her palms with a gasp. The light had gone out. Only remained the moonlight seeping through the glass doors and into the entrance hall. Its beams shone onto another spoon that had caused Vera’s fall. Alarm seized her. She raised herself and ran to the staircase. She climbed the stairs without looking back. She would not remain another day in Alexandra Hall. She’d pack her bag tonight and ask the gardener to take her to Reading Town in the morning.

  As she reached Calista’s portrait halfway up the stairs, Vera froze. She thought she saw the Greek girl grin back at her. There was something hard under her foot. Clinging to the banister, Vera reached for the object. Another damned spoon. And another…over there…on the previous step.
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  And below it, reaching out towards her, there was…

  Vera tried to scream but her throat felt tight. She opened her mouth, but no sound came.

  Chapter 2

  Maurice Leroux

  “YOU don’t let me find you, Maurice. Don’t let me find you. Because if I find you, you bet I’ll whip you so hard you won’t forget it.”

  The woman he called mother spun upon her feet and strode back towards the kitchen.

  “Maurice! You come out now.”

  She opened the pantry cabinet, peered in. Did she not know, it was the last place where he would have hid? He’d rather get caught than be trapped in there. She slammed it shut.

  “Where is he? Where has the little demon got to?”

  Maurice’s heart leapt in his chest as he watched Therese’s stained clogs move past the kitchen table. Therese had nasty powers. She could change the manner in which she spoke at will. “Come out Maurice. Mummy won’t be mad.”

  It always made him sick to the stomach to hear her take on that sweetened voice. If truth be known, he preferred it when she screamed at him.

  Therese always went everywhere with her imaginary friends, women that you could count upon, women that never let you down and who, like Therese, fought their way into the world. There was no one else in the room, but she muttered bitter words under her breath. “What did I tell you, girls? Just like his father. A mouth to feed and nothing in his little pea-sized brain. Little runt will get what he deserves. And when I catch him…”

  Her steps became frantic. She agitated herself. Now she was mad.

  She had eyes everywhere. Nowhere could he hide. For this was home.

  At four, he was too young to understand that no matter how dearly he wished it, sitting still, crouched into a ball with his knees tucked in beneath his belly, even halting his breath and shutting his eyes did not make him disappear. No one could achieve such a feat. If he could, he might have merged into the rug, taken on the crimson of the fabric, become one with the splintered wooden slats. He would have…