An excerpt from Chapter Three

The hallway is enormous, with vaulted ceiling and walnut wainscotting. A suit of polished German armor stands sentry between a staircase leading to the second floor, and a door leading below. I sense this family's history is long. As to whether or not it is illustrious, I have my doubts. The walls are cluttered with gigantic canvases of what are no doubt Usher ancestors in various states of repose. These contrast sharply with normal portraits of upright human beings, but the Usher's, it appears, were a tired lot who preferred reclining.

We are led unceremoniously by the cheerless, drably costumed maid into a drawing room of sorts, lit only by the fire glowing in the marble hearth. Both Jeremy and I stop just inside the door, transfixed by a figure in a grey silk dressing gown by the window, a man, rather tall and slender, his back to us. He is mostly in shadow, staring out the bay window at the storm, as still as a statue, yet I have the sense of someone older than I, perhaps close to forty.

The maid retires at once, closing the door behind her.

"You are late. I do not tolerate tardiness," the man by the window says in a voice laced with harshness. Alternately shivers of fear and expectation crawl up my spine.

"Late?" I blurt out before I can stop myself.

"Master Usher," Jeremy begins, in a most obsequious tone, "please forgive..."

"Not only I," the man in shadow says, "but my sister, whom you will regret angering."

"Sir," I add, "the mode of transport was by coach, not by rail. One cannot predict arrivals and departures with much accuracy, even were we in the best parts of this country."

The figure turns slowly and, despite the shadows in which he stands, I behold the hint of a profile, so classically handsome my breath catches in my throat. Instantly he is obscured again, although I recall his hair was silver and his brow black, his cheek and jaw sculpted and firm. Instantly I recognize the similarity in physique to those of the ancestors I'd just seen lining the walls. If anything, he resembles an angel of purgatory, neither of the light nor the dark, and I am at once aware of feeling nearly overwhelmed by his presence.

Although I cannot see his eyes, I feel them fix on me in a most penetrating manner. It is as though he has the ability to see past my clothing to my naked body and my womanly parts. My nipples tingle, and I feel heat rise from my neck and know I am blushing uncontrollably. Embarrassed, I look away.

"Master, I..." Jeremy begins to move across the room.

"A tongue quick as a cat of the nine-tailed variety."

Both Jeremy and I spin around. A woman stands behind us, in the doorway. She opened the door, apparently unnoticed by either of us.

She is tall, her hair caught at the back of her neck prematurely silver in the same manner as the man's, and her jaw is just as firm. She possesses the identical slimness and alabaster coloring, or as much as I can see through the several layers of thick grey veil she wears over her face. Her body is not that of a girl, but of a woman, and I judge her to be of similar age to the man. I wonder if they are related. I hope they aren't married, I think, and feel embarrassed that I should care.

The fire light picks up a steely glint from her eyes, a gaze as cooly penetrating as what I felt from the man. Although I can barely make them out, her lips appear to be thin and sharp, although well defined. Some might say erotic. Her bodily beauty is that of an athletic woman, one accustomed to functioning on equal footing in a man's world. Indeed, she wears gophers, a matching jacket, a riding hat with the long grey veil, and carries a riding crop in her hand, although she could not have been riding in this storm.

At once I feel a mixture of emotions foreign to me. I both admire her and feel intimidated. I also feel wanting in my appearance, for water still drips from my hair, and my boots are soggy. This makes me a tad insecure and perhaps short.

"I should like to know who is addressing me," I declare.

"You are Charlotte O'Hara," she says in her crisp, firm voice, more a statement than a question, ignoring my question.

"Yes, I am."

"You are English. On your father's side only. Your mother was Irish, a small woman with a full bosom, like your own, who developed an equally sharp tongue to compensate for her stature. You are from the country where such coarseness is indulged and thought to be a blessing."

"What, have you investigated me?" Indeed, this all seems highly inappropriate. I wrote her, of course, but not of this.

"Your silly ways, yes. And your inability to please, which is why you are here, is it not?"

"I expected a warmer greeting from such a renowned mistress of a sophisticated realm, perhaps even a cup of tea, not an interrogation. But then, we country folk are simple in our needs and are accustomed to offering a proper greeting."

Before I am aware of her movement, she has grasped me by the upper arm. In three strides she hauls me to the fireplace, whereupon she slams her booted foot securely onto the metal guard and throws me forward over her thigh until I am bent in half and on tiptoes. My face is dangerously close to the hearth. Flames snap as though they wish to lick my cheeks. All this is done so quick I do not realize what is transpiring until I find myself lying across that leg in a compromised position, struggling for balance.

"Lift your skirts at the back, Charlotte. You are about to receive a warm greeting."