Chapter Text
Monday, 4th November 2024.
By 9 am, Theo had opened every window on the ground floor. All of the window curtains were removed, but he kept the curtains over the portraits. It seemed rude to disturb them. And the damage from the light wasn't ideal either.
He took a swig from his water bottle and wiped the excess away with the back of his hand. The curtains would need to be aired out or washed or something—the musty smell wasn't pleasant—but that wasn't his priority. He left the curtains in the entrance hall, stacked up neatly, and blinked.
Now in the bright light, the true state of the house's ground floor was revealed. It was not good. Whoever else had been sent to do the work had clearly walked in and walked out immediately, as no one with any appreciation for heritage (or cleanliness and safety) would allow the state of things to continue.
To start, he'd need to know where everything was.
The sitting room by far was the most dangerous, but luckily contained the least for his interest. The once grand and comfortable room had faded to time. The lights were all broken, leaving shards of glass like spikes upon the ground surrounding a large hole where, off the side, was a piano stool knocked sideways.
The dining room was covered in dust and contained a persistent cold air, despite all the windows being shut.
The door to the butler's pantry worked, but was horribly rusted, and the door to the downstairs servants quarters must have been locked on the other side because no matter how hard he tried it would not open.
The smell coming from the servants quarter's locked door was almost like rotten food but worse, so he happily skipped over it for the time being. He doubted there was anything of interest down there but mould anyway.
The most interesting was the library, which was home to everything he needed to start with.
"Here we are," he muttered to himself, picking up the books on the nearest shelf.
It was such a shame the library was teeming with dust. The dark wood shelves looked ten shades darker in the shade of negligence and the cobwebs in the corners of the ceilings created a mockery of decorated banners in what must have been a beautiful collection in its prime.
Despite all of the wear and tear, Theo found the chair and desk beside the library window were in good condition and perfectly placed, overlooking the street. But the glass was dirty, so the view was far perfectly clear. All the buildings looked blurry.
An old candle in a brass holder, the first candle he'd found, sat on the beck of the desk.
The window had a window seat, complete with embroidered cushions, and a long blanket left haphazardly folded on its edge. On one of the cushions was a copy of The Horrors of Oakendale Abbey with a bookmark placed towards the end.
He wondered if the owner ever got to finish it, before…
While the window seat looked comfortable, he was there to work and not relax. And… It felt wrong to take that spot.
He had a working office. That was the main thing.
Theo spent a few hours on starting a record of every book in the Bridgerton House library. The entire time, he felt a prickle on the back of his neck, like an itch he couldn't scratch.
But making some progress did make him feel better.
"Must be the dust," Theo whispered, scratching his nose. "We'll get you all sorted out, don't worry."
As his record continued, Theo noted the library had one of the best 17th - early 18th century private Gothic novel collections in Britain.
When the light started to fade, he lit the candle. He thought, for a moment, about getting up. Leaving the house for dinner. There was a pub around the corner, he could, or a takeaway, but then he'd have to go and pick it up… No, best to just stay in.
It had started to rain, after all. He'd rather not go out in that, especially when he'd forgotten to pack umbrella.
He finished the log well into the evening and the candle had hardly burned down at all.
"Guess it's true what they say. They don't make stuff like they used to," Theo said, then stretched his arms above his head.
He stood and picked up the candle holder, leaving the log on the desk. He turned around, and saw a faint outline of something white shifting past the doorway.
Were some of the windows open? Was something blowing away? He didn't feel a breeze, actually, the air was very still.
He stepped out of the library, looking where the white outline had gone, and saw nothing. Nothing to the right either, nor in front. He rubbed his eyes, then shrugged.
More importantly, he'd have to make the entrance hall suitable to sleep in. As he stepped out into the corridor, back towards the entrance hall, the candle snuffed out.
"God damn it," he muttered.
His eyes adjusted to the fading light in a few moments, but the creak of the library door closing behind him made him jump. He tutted at himself for getting worked up and walked back to the entrance hall, carrying the unlit candle, and tried to make a semi-decent sleeping spot.
He should have brought a sleeping bag. He still could. No, it'd take too long to get one and lug it back. He needed all the time he could get to sort out the house.
The window curtains, which he'd stacked at the side of the entrance hall, seemed messier than when he'd left them. No that it really mattered, but it felt disrespectful to leave them in a state. He re-lit the candle, cursing softly at having to use another match, and placed them back into position.
Maybe, if he aired one out another day he'd have a great blanket.
He took his phone from his suitcase and put it in his pocket. While it had no signal and there was no way of charging it in the house, it would make a decent torch if he needed it.
For the time being, Theo found a spot on the floor close to the staircase and settled down with his suitcase.
It wasn't the first time he'd slept on the floor.
And the house was warmer than the street. Not by much, but he didn't have to worry about rain.
He closed his eyes, snuffed out the candle, and was ready to sleep and rest for the next day, when he heard the sound of heels—a woman's footsteps heading down the stairs.
"Hello?" he called out, scrambling for his phone in the darkness. He found it and switched on his phone's torch, using it to scan around the large room. "Is someone there?"
He didn't see anyone, but he didn't remember leaving the door to the sitting room open. Hands shaking a little from the nerves and from the cold, he took a step closer. One more. And another.
And with every step, the sound of piano keys grew louder.
When he stood in the doorway, his phone held out in front of him, light pointed directly at the piano, he saw the keys of the instrument moving by themselves.
There was no one there.
But they were moving.
Beethoven.
It was not possible. Not unless the instrument was some sort of mechanical invention. But how had it wound up to play? How long would it play?
He tightened his grip on his phone and walked forward, light and eyes glued to the increasingly loud and fascinating music. The instrument had started out gentle, but now each press of the keys came with an echo, a sorrow like the bass of thunder outside, longing and sadness falling like raindrops through the broken window panes, like the instrument had reached such notes they had shattered, as though this room could not hold the depths of it all, and so had torn apart, unable to stay hole in the windows and the floor and its very being, torn apart because he was gone, another one lost—
When had he reached the edge of the floorboards?
Even knowing the danger below, his arm didn't move.
He couldn't move it.
Something was gripping him.
The keys kept playing.
"I'm sorry," he said, finding his voice. "I just want to know what's in the house."
The grip on his arm loosened.
Theo released a shuddering breath and lowered the phone light away from the instrument, whose sound was now beginning to fade.
A quiet and soft voice responded, in a gentle and feminine tone.
"I am sorry too." Though the grip on his arm had faded, that sensation, one of cold stillness, like a frozen pond in the depths of winter, pressed into his back, sapping away at his energy. "You should not have come here. Not when Daphne is playing."
That force—she—pushed him away.
And he was thrown out of the sitting room, back into the entrance hall, into the pile of window curtains. He landed with a grunt and rolled onto his side, hearing his phone land and crack beside him a moment later on the floor. The phone light pointed back towards the sitting room door, and he caught a glimpse of a beautiful young woman with brown hair and unsettling blue eyes in an old-fashioned white nightgown, before the door slammed shut with the crash of lightning.
He dived for his phone and ran to the front door.
He touched the handle.
What was he doing?
He couldn't leave now.
Running outside to get a signal in the middle of a bad storm, just because he'd seen a girl doing a piano trick in the middle of the night, after stressing and work?
There was no point calling an ambulance—he felt well—or the police—the girl was likely another volunteer Mr Thomas forgot to mention was still there—that was all—he didn't have to leave.
Regardless of the reasons why and the details, he had a job to do and a point to make.
He couldn't leave now.
Another shot of lightning made him jump, which jolted his hand and grip on the front door.
That should have moved the door.
But so what if it didn't, they were old doors. It was alright they didn't move.
No, it wasn't. He had to leave.
No, he didn't.
Something was wrong. He had to leave. He should call someone. He should take the log, show someone, and have the house sorted properly. It would take an entire team to do it right. It would take time, but no one else was bothered to do it and they were all so scared whenever they came and accidents happened—
Theo shook his head frantically.
Something was wrong and he refused to convince himself otherwise.
He was tired, that was all.
Grasping onto the handle, tightening his grip on his thoughts, he pushed the door with all his might.
It didn't budge.
He couldn't leave. He couldn't leave. He couldn't leave. He couldn't leave. He couldn't leave. He couldn't leave. He couldn't leave. He couldn't leave. He couldn't leave—
"Let me go—"
I can paint her so vividly, but I can not hold her.
My heart is too weak now.
Mother, I need you here. I need you here. Don't go!
I will write from France.
"Open the door, I beg you. I meant no harm."
The door didn't budge.
His fingers slipped from the handle, sweaty and shaking, and he fumbled with his phone. The screen was broken, but the time read it was 5:48 am on Tuesday the 5th of November 2024.
What was he doing at the front door?
He had work to do. Exactly. He couldn't be wasting time standing around.
He returned to the library to continue his record.