Marcia Talley - The Last Refuge

After we’d eaten supper, dancing began again until everyone was drooping with exhaustion. Even Derek and Chad seemed to have fallen asleep on their feet, propped up in their respective corners, the red eyes on their cameras relentlessly winking.

Around ten o’clock, we adjourned to the parlor for a second round of cards. Eventually, French dropped out to help Karen put away the food. That’s when I noticed that Gabe had curled up on a loveseat in the parlor and fallen fast asleep.

‘Amy?’ I gestured at Gabe with the cards in my hand.

With a sideways glance of apology to Alex, Amy laid down her cards and in a rustle of silk, rose from the table. ‘It’s time the children were in bed. I’ll take them. Michael,’ she added, ‘will you play out my hand?’

Michael assumed Amy’s chair and I invited Alex to take mine, leaving the four men to play on while I observed from the loveseat that Gabe – grinding his fist into his eyes – had just vacated. In the meantime, Jeffrey Wiley, our reliable valet cum butler, kept everyone’s wine glasses full.

At the end of the next round, George Washington stifled a yawn with his hand, then excused himself, with apologies, from the game. He bowed to Jack. ‘I thank you, sir, for your generous hospitality.’

I jumped to my feet when George Washington did, and he made a beeline for me then, took my hand, kissed it and said, ‘Thank you, madam, for a most delightful evening.’

I curtseyed and thanked him right back. It’s not every evening that you get the inside scoop on what it’s like to portray Detective Michael Tritter on television, making life a misery for Doctor Gregory House.

‘I’m for bed, too,’ Jack announced, and headed upstairs to Melody’s room, while Michael set off for the west wing with Alex, who would be sharing a trundle in his room.

A colonial housewife never trusted the fine crystal to the care of her servants, so I collected the dirty glasses that were scattered about the house and carried them downstairs to the sink where French and I would wash them in the morning. Then, I headed for bed myself. The long case clock in the upstairs hall was striking eleven thirty as I crept past, the candle in my hand casting flickering shadows against the wall. Not wanting to disturb Melody, I pushed the door to my bedroom open slowly, then slipped inside.

A candle still burned on the bedside table, but the bed was already occupied. Amy had removed her shoes and stockings and was fast asleep, propped against my pillows with Gabe’s head cradled in the crook of her arm. She’d been reading them a bedtime story – the book lay open, face down, on her chest. On the trundle next to the wall, Melody was snoring gently.

I tiptoed to the dressing table, removed my wig with a quiet sigh of relief and arranged the instrument of torture on its stand. Using my fingers, I fluffed up my hair, digging vigorously into my scalp. I doubted that I’d picked up any fleas, but it sure as hell felt like it.

I turned to consider my options. My bed scarcely had room for two, let alone three, so I smiled a motherly smile, blew out the bedside candle – waste not, want not, as Jack Donovan, the Patriot, had been known to say – picked up my own candle, still flickering on the dressing table, and quietly left the room.

I stood in the hallway for a moment, staring at the LynxE camera mounted on the back wall. Time to make an executive decision, Hannah . Shielding my candle with one hand, I tiptoed across the floorboards and descended the Chippendale staircase.

‘I cornered Amy on the back staircase the other day and gave her a kiss. Unfortunately, I think Hannah caught us at it. I hooked up with Amy later in the garden and we took up where we left off. As long as Amy’s here, I think I’ll be able to hack it.’

Alex Mueller, dancing master

Less than five minutes later, I stood on the second-floor landing of the west wing listening to Michael (or was it Alex?) snore. It had been a long night for everyone. With every muscle in my body aching, screaming out for rest, I slipped into Amy’s room just across the hall from Michael’s and silently closed the door.

I positioned my candle on the narrow walnut table next to Amy’s bed, sat down and kicked off my shoes. I couldn’t wait to get out of my gown and the underlying stays that had not seemed quite so tight that morning – before losing the battle against Karen’s excellent food and Jack’s fine wine. I unhooked my stomacher, slipped out of my gown and let it fall to the floor. Twisting and squirming like Houdini escaping from a straight jacket, I managed to reach the ties on my stays and release myself from their tyranny, too. Last came the stockings. Almost before they had time to reach the floorboards, I had crawled under Amy’s coverlet.

I lay flat on my back, staring at shadows dancing on the ceiling. Damn, the bed was uncomfortable. I wasn’t as sensitive as The Princess and the Pea , but something was digging into my back.

I hopped out of bed and knelt on the floorboards, lifted the mattress off the rope webbing that supported it. Nothing was underneath. I untucked the sheet, moved the candlestick closer so I could examine the mattress ticking. Horsehair was poking out through a four-inch slit in the seam.

Eureka!

I eased my hand through the slit, feeling around gingerly in the stuffing until my hand encountered the object that had disturbed my royal slumber – Amy’s iPhone.

I extracted it from the stuffing, pushed the ‘on’ button. When the screen lit up, I could see that the battery indicator was a thin line of red – almost exhausted – and the signal strength indicator read NO SERVICE. ‘Bummer,’ I muttered, and returned the useless lump of metal, silicon chips and microprocessors to the mattress, tucking it well to one side where it wouldn’t bother me.

That done, I crawled back into bed and pulled Amy’s coverlet up to my chin. Using my thumb and forefinger, I reached over and pinched out the candle.

Immediately, the room was plunged into a darkness so absolute that I felt as if a black velvet bag had been drawn over my head. It was a moonless night, and no streetlamps – ancient or modern – shone into the room from the garden side of the house. The Naval Academy had even been persuaded to turn off the floodlights that usually illuminated the Chapel dome. After straining for a moment to distinguish something, anything – the bulk of a dresser, the outline of a chair – in the profound darkness of the room, I closed my eyes and fell instantly asleep.

Paul is wearing a midshipman’s uniform. We’re having a race, and I struggle to keep up. As Paul runs he glances over his shoulder, signals with his arm – C’mon Hannah! – laughing like a boy. He’s leading me… where? Suddenly, he flings up his arms and disappears. I follow, panting. Wait for me! Wait! Then I’m falling, falling into darkness, suffocating darkness .

I couldn’t breathe.

A hand was clamped over my mouth, pressing hard against my nose. I flailed against it. Oh my God, I’m being raped! Desperately, I tried to remember what I’d learned in self-defense class: Scream. Scream bloody murder . But I can’t scream, I can’t even breathe with his hand pressing down like that, hard then harder.

Relax, don’t fight. Not now. You need air.

‘Shhhh, shhhh,’ his breath, rancid with coffee, hot in my ear. ‘It’s me, Amy, it’s me. Please don’t scream.’

Beneath his hand, I nodded. Mumpf .

I gulped air as his hand slipped away, traced my arm and found my waist, circling it, drawing me closer.

I breathed into the dark, eyes straining to see. ‘Alex?’