The Night Curse (Book one)

The first buds of roses are beginning to bloom, their fine, silken petals unravelling in the morning’s rays.

I marvel at their colours, delicate pinks, honeysuckle yellows, and scarlet red. I’m lost in their spiralled centres when I hear the sound of voices. Lady Harling marches down the gravel path with Clemintine in tow, the tulle of their dresses shuffling as they stride.

“Honestly, Mother, I think a masked ball is far more interesting than our usual affair. Even father agrees. You must join in with the festivities,” Clemintine pleads to her mother, who is walking several paces ahead of her.

They head in my direction, and I pretend to prune a rose bush. “I just think it will be odd and a little macabre seeing everyone dressed in masks. I don’t know where you get these ideas from Clemmy!” Lady Harling stops beside me and takes a rosebud between her fingers before sniffing its petals. “They are on the cusp of blooming are they not Mr Elworth.” She looks up at me, still clutching the rose in her hand.

“Yes, My Lady. Any day now.”

“Very good. Carry on,” she insists, resuming her attention towards Clemintine.

“So, will you wear a mask for my engagement party or not?”

“If I must,” Lady Harling huffs. “Where will I find a suitable design to match my gown by Saturday?” Her voice fades as they both saunter into The Lilypad garden.

A masquerade ball.

This Saturday.

I half-wonder if the Lord himself has intervened. This type of event is perfect for rummaging around the manor. If I can locate Amelia’s bedroom, then I might find something to help better understand why she can’t impact my dreams, but I’d need a disguise of my own.

I find the butler, Hugo, in the dining room setting up for dinner.

“Just the man that I needed to see,” I announce, removing my flat cap from my head.

“I’ve heard about an upcoming engagement party for Clemintine, and as the flowers haven’t blossomed enough for bouquets, I thought I’d head to the market and select some varieties for the occasion.”

Hugo looks me up and down with disdain. “We have a housekeeper that normally organises such things, Mr Elworth.”

I intercept him just as he goes to lay down a knife on the tablecloth. A man like Hugo will cave for either one of two things, blackmail, or flattery. I pray it is the latter. “Please, I want to make my mark here, like you, and with the season only just coming in, I’ve yet to show off my true talents. I want to do this for the Harlings. They’ve been so good to me.”

He scans my face, noting the sincerity of my request. “Very well, but don’t mess this up. Lord Harling will have your head on a platter.” He starts shooing me away. “Take Philip, the coachman. We have an account with The Horticulture Society at the Madison Market. Go there.”

“Thank you,” I say while ruffling the sleeves of Hugo’s suit jacket. “You won’t regret it.”

The floral hall is not what I expected. With its magnificent, barrelled roof and stunning ironwork, Madison Market is a sight to behold. The place buzzes with patrons, and the sound of bartering tradesmen fills the perfumed space. By the looks of things, intrepid travellers have brought back wild and outlandish specimens for sale. Blooming lilies, exotic foliage and flamboyant creations line the baskets. The calls of origin travel around the room.

Africa, Asia, and South America.

I navigate through the maze and spot an arrangement of tall rainbow tulips. The salesman ventures near, sensing my admiration. “Excellent choice. What is the occasion?” he asks with conviction.

“An engagement ball.”

He removes a single red tulip from the vase. “Then it must be the red tulip. They signify passion and love. Two things important for any marriage.”

I murmur my agreeance, inspecting the quality of the flower up close.

“You won’t get any finer than that. From none other than James Vick’s seeds.”

I raise my brows, trying to act like the name has some significance to me.

“You know, the seed company owner from New York?”

“Of course,” I say, no detection of falsehood on my tongue.

“I’ll need enough for the Harling Manor. The ball this coming Saturday.”

“But that’s two days aw—”

“Can you do it or not?”

“Of course, Mr…”

“Elworth. Please put it on our account.”

“Right away, Sir. They’ll be delivered fresh Saturday morning.”

I tip my hat and stop off at a couple more stalls to buy seeds for the spring season. The garden already has varieties of petunia, geranium, and morning glory. I find myself gravitating towards the darker hues, and purchasing seeds of purple allium, grape hyacinth, and bushy dahlia, imagining how they’ll complement the gothic charm of the manor.

I step out onto the street, seeing the coachman leaning against the carriage, smoking a cigarette. Around him, pedestrians amble in and out of shops, and the constant drum of life fills my ears. I absorb the scenery. Aside from market days, I’ve rarely explored the town centre. Certainly not for shopping. For a moment, I simply bask at the hustle and bustle. Listen and feel the heartbeat of the people as they go about their days, utterly oblivious of my observations. It’s only when a man with a cane comes clattering past that I recall my aims and begin searching for a seamstress.

I find a suitable business on the corner of the street. The shop door clangs as I enter. I’m pleasantly surprised to find it empty, save for a small lady behind the till rolling fabric. She lowers the material and flashes me a welcoming smile. “How can I help you, Sir?”

I rub the nape of my neck. The lady isn’t noble, but I still feel out of my depth, as if starstruck. “I’m after a mask for a masquerade ball. I don’t suppose you have anything suitable for a gentleman. Black preferably.”

She regards me and then settles back on that gracious smile. “I’d be happy to make it for you. Let’s select a fabric—”

“The ball is for this Saturday. Can you make it in time?”

“It will cost a little extra, but I can arrange for it to be delivered. Where is the address?”

“Harling Manor.”

Her brows lift into arches. “Shall I put it on the account?”

Lord and Lady Harling cannot know that I am attending the ball, especially when I haven’t had an invite.

“I can pay on delivery, Mam, if that’s alright.”

She nods. “This way.”

I approve a black, lace fabric and the lady takes my measurements. When she tells me the price, my eyes bulge from their sockets. “Thank you for your help.” I try to conceal the anxiety in my voice, but a thrill rumbles in my bones. Soon, money will no longer be an issue.

As soon as I leave the shop, the coachman is stubbing out his cigarette, searching for me. I hide behind a pedestrian and return to the flower hall, making it look like I am just leaving The Horticulture Society.

“All set,” I announce on the approach.

The coachman opens the carriage door, and I enter, mulling over how I need to write to my father, requesting money for a mask that I cannot afford.