Hauntings of Claverton Castle, Chapter 2
Welcome back to my Substack, Whimsical Words, and a gothic fantasy novel.
This chapter includes domestic violence. It’s not fun like Chapter 1, but it’s an important part of the plot—what gets Samantha to run away from home to Claverton Castle.
Chapter 1, Part 1:
https://open.substack.com/pub/whimsicalwords/p/hauntings-of-claverton-castle?r=5m2is&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web&showWelcomeOnShare=true
Chapter 1, Part 2:
https://open.substack.com/pub/whimsicalwords/p/hauntings-of-claverton-castle-chapter?r=5m2is&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web&showWelcomeOnShare=true
Hauntings of Claverton Castle, Chapter 2
A fortnight later
The drawing room’s paneled white door creaked open, and Samantha heard the stomping of her uncle’s boots on the hardwood floor. Her heart fluttered in panic, and she gripped the chair arms. She observed Uncle Bradford in her peripheral vision. He lurched into the drawing room and, in his deep and harsh voice, slurred words she failed to interpret. Despite the distance of several yards across the room, she smelled gin on his breath. She turned back to the cold hearth and closed her eyes.
Beside the unlit drawing-room fireplace, Samantha attempted to shrink herself in the armchair’s far corner. It was a challenge, since at five-foot-nine, she had long limbs. She blew her already reddened nose and regretted making that insignificant noise, since she might attract Uncle Bradford’s attention.
She certainly didn’t wish to peer at him directly. His features were coarse and his jowls a prominent feature. His eyes were too close together. He nonetheless had a high brow and fine eyebrows. He followed fashions from the previous century, so his lank graying hair was typically tied back from his pudgy visage.
Open before Samantha was a novel, Fanny Burney’s The Wanderer. She tried concentrating on her book despite Uncle Bradford’s slurred mumbling and thumping boots crossing the rug, increasingly nearer. Samantha sniffed and wiped away a tear—she had been weeping a great deal lately. She licked her dry lips and ran her tongue along the roof of her parched mouth.
Too aware of her uncle’s presence, Samantha reached with trembling hands for her forgotten cup of tea and gulped the cold, bitter brew. Her aunt had died scarcely more than a fortnight past. Samantha’s parents met their deaths when she was eight years old, and though nine years had passed, her aunt’s recent death resurfaced her parents’ demise.
Sensing Uncle Bradford standing over her, Samantha raised her head. He crossed his arms and stared at her. “Sitting idle, I see! How typical of you, hoyden! It is time I put you to some use.”
Samantha froze. Uncle Bradford was a full two inches shorter than his tall niece. Upon growing to her full height at fourteen, Samantha often suspected—from how her uncle glared up at her and sniffed—that he resented her standing taller than he. It didn’t help that he had developed a slight stoop, although he was only in his fifties. She strove to console herself with his modest height, yet her hands continued trembling and she imagined dashing out the door.
“Nothing to say for yourself, eh?” Uncle Bradford curled his thick hands into fists. “Why is there no dinner ready in the dining room?”
Samantha’s book fell out of her hand and slipped onto the chair beside her. Knitting her brow, she stared back. “As you know, Uncle Bradford, today is the servants’ day off.”
Uncle Bradford’s lip curled upward in one corner. Samantha felt a flutter of panic in her chest and hair standing on the back of her neck. The stench of gin was so strong she felt her gorge rise and suppressed a gag.
Her uncle had been glowering at her more frequently, as though he blamed her for Aunt Roseanna’s death. Two days ago, after he had been drinking, he slapped her across the face. Previously his vitriol toward her had been only verbal. Her grief and his anger, compounded with his usual yelling and insults, made life with him unbearable.
Uncle Bradford’s voice was slow, gruff, and slurred. “I have no wife now. You…you must take on some of her work, girl. I have a mind to dismiss a serving girl or two and put you to work. That would save a pretty penny, indeed.”
Samantha squeezed the arms of the chair. More to spend on your drinking. She deepened her voice, hoping it would disguise her panic. “You can help yourself to cold food in the pantry, Uncle Bradford. We have always done so on the servants’ day off, even whilst Aunt Roseanna was alive and thriving.”
“No excuses, impudent hussy! Get to work and make my dinner!”
Samantha’s heart pounded faster. She imagined herself fumbling about in the kitchen and opening cupboards. She didn’t know where anything was stored, other than the pastries she occasionally pilfered from the pantry. In the back of her mind, it struck her as absurd that she was distressed over something so banal as food preparation. “Uncle, you are aware I do not know how to cook. Might I fetch the cold food to the dining room for you?”
Samantha was visualizing the kitchen, when she felt a hard and heavy slap across her face. Her eyes teared up and her lower jaw dropped in incomprehension. She widened her eyes and, still grasping the chair’s arms, leaned away from her uncle.
“Get to work, shiftless hoyden!”
“What—what work do you expect me to do?” Samantha recovered her composure enough to award her uncle with an indignant glare. Her cheek still burned. “It is not as though I know how to cook.” She clenched her fists and feared he might notice her trembling.
Uncle Bradford glared and crossed his arms. Samantha struggled to focus sufficiently to calculate her next move. She rose from the chair and stepped forward. Without peering at the door, she knew its location in relation to the armchair.
Her uncle awarded her with another slap, so hard she fell back into the chair and felt her cheek stinging and her eyes watering. Her lip trembled from the shock, and she clasped the chair arms again as she wondered how exactly she would slip past this bull of a man.
Uncle Bradford leaned forward, gripped both her arms, and yanked her to her feet. He stumbled in the process; intoxication hindered his balance. “Cease your excuses, lazy girl! If I must, I’ll beat obedience into you!”
Her heart hammering, Samantha tried shaking off his hands from her arms, lightly clothed in white muslin. Her movements seemed delayed, like in a nightmare. She continued attempting to shake off his grip and, nauseated, gulped with a grimace. She wished to scream, but with the servants gone, nobody would hear her.
Uncle Bradford tugged at her arms and, dragging her until her arm sockets strained, began stomping toward the general direction of the dining room. She stepped forward, and he released one of her arms and, turning, tottered toward the door.
“Unhand me, Uncle!” Samantha shook her arm, but his grip was firm as he dragged her across the room. The fluttering of panic in her heart continued, and she figured that if she didn’t follow him, he would break her arm. Her eyes darted about the drawing room as, unaccustomed to physical violence, she struggled to plan her next action. She reached with her free hand and attempted to pry his thick fingers off her arm.
“You…you had better cooperate with me!”
Lunging, Samantha angled herself toward the door, but when she was about to start running, her uncle grabbed the wrist of her other hand. “You aren’t escaping!” His arm strained to reach her. “You’re shiftless and useless, and you will start working! My wife isn’t here to baby you anymore, insolent pup!”
“No doubt she would disapprove of your present behavior.” Samantha stared in disgust at his ruddy face.
Her uncle’s nostrils flared, and the gin on his breath triggered another wave of nausea. “How many smacks will it take to knock some sense into you, insolent girl? Come! Come to the kitchen!”
If Samantha could wrap her toes around floorboards, she would. She held her ground despite her smarting cheeks, pounding heart, and shaking limbs. He faced the door until he swiveled to pause and look at her. He stood entirely too close and tilted his head upward to glower at her.
Samantha balled her hands into fists. She grimaced, tipping her chin upward and peering down at him. She stood her ground but curled her lip at the stench of his breath. She imagined lunging for the door, but he was directly in her path.
He grasped her right elbow and released her wrist. He squeezed tightly, until Samantha flinched. “We didn’t sufficiently teach you to obey your elders!”
“If you wish someone to obey you, I suggest you acquire a dog!” Samantha struggled to pull her arm away.
He shook her arm until her teeth rattled in her head. “Such insolence!”
Samantha raised her left hand and slapped him hard across the face. His head moved sideways with the impact. He stumbled, so she darted toward the door. Whilst she focused on the exit, her uncle grabbed her arm again and yanked her backwards. She gasped and found herself swirling around to face him.
A fist slammed into her left eye. Disoriented and blurry-eyed, she staggered, fell on the rug, and landed on her back. All she knew was that her face throbbed with pain and she must escape. She raised her upper body, felt her head swimming, and pressed both perspiring palms onto the carpet. Before she could raise herself anymore, a booted foot kicked her back. She gasped, and another kick landed on her bottom. She shook convulsively from head to toe and strove to rise from the floor by pushing down with her palms and adjusting her legs so her feet pressed upon the carpet.
Despite her dizziness and aching body, Samantha was quicker than her drunken uncle. She managed to falter up off the floor, sway on her feet, and through sheer indignation stomped on her uncle’s boot. Her satin slipper had little effect.
He punched her in the stomach. She doubled over and gasped, clutching her belly. She remained folded in half and breathing heavily. He barked in a slurred voice, “How dare you, insolent brat!”
Her eyes were closed, but if they had been opened, she would have only seen the floor and her slippers. She felt a pair of hands shove both her shoulders, and she fell backward, landing hard on the rug.
Apparently, the effort was too much for Uncle Bradford, for Samantha heard him vomiting, probably onto the rug. Despite her pain—her back and backside throbbing with bruises and her face stinging from slaps and aching from the punch—she lifted herself from the floor through sheer will.
Uncle Bradford was still loudly choking out vomit, with much groaning, by the time Samantha stood. She lunged toward the egress and started running across the room. Heart pounding, she pushed aside a delicate shield-backed chair and heard it clatter behind her. Her evening slippers padded softly against the floorboards. She rushed to the white paneled door and threw it open.
Samantha charged into the hallway and up the flight of stairs. She heard her uncle yell, “I raised you like my own!” Samantha lifted a corner of her mouth in a sneer and continued running. How fortunate he and Aunt Roseanna could not have children.
She reached the top of the stairs, before she heard Uncle Bradford’s boots stomping in the hall. Considering his drunken state, she scarcely believed he could follow her. Fortunately, her bedroom door was only a few feet away. She was running in almost total darkness, but she knew this house well.
Samantha threw the door open whilst her uncle’s feet pounded up the steps. His thumping sounded unsteady, followed by a heavy thud, suggesting he tripped and fell on the staircase.
Samantha slammed the door shut behind her, locked it, and began shoving a lowboy in front of it. The room was only lit by moonlight streaming through the drapes. She suppressed groans in response to her many aching bruises and the long, low cabinet’s heaviness. Bracing her feet against the floor, she leaned forward and pushed with a gasp. The piece of furniture’s clawed feet scraped against the wooden floor, and she braced her teeth at the noise.
Once the lowboy was centered in front of the door, Samantha gasped and pushed one side closer to the door. She wiped her damp palms on her skirt before shoving the lowboy two inches forward. With trembling hands, she stopped and did the same with the other end of the cabinet, until it blocked the door. By the time the lowboy completely barricaded the door, her uncle was pounding on it. Samantha held in her breath and backed away. She imagined the wood cracking.
Uncle Bradford yelled, “It is but a matter of time till I strangle you, insolent girl!” He kept pounding on the door.
Gasping and clutching her side, Samantha stared at the door and retreated from it. The hinges rattled. Scarcely comprehending his words, she wondered what she would do if he knocked the door down.
She scanned the room for a weapon of defense. Her eyes alighted on the fire tools. Shuddering, she imagined him breaking down the door and clambering over the lowboy, as she plunged a poker into his skull.
Samantha was panting from running and from shoving the lowboy. She lifted a handkerchief from a small table and wiped her damp forehead. A pity she lacked the power to move objects with her mind. A greater pity, she reflected, that this was the servants’ day off.
He pounded again. “How dare you disobey me! You’ll be doing your household duties in my wife’s place, whether you like it or not! You think you’re so high and mighty, but you’re nothing but a spoiled brat!”
These words pierced Samantha in the heart, which now fluttered in panic. She struggled through a cloud of shock and revulsion and wondered if Aunt Roseanna’s duties included enduring such brutality. Indeed, she recalled a servant with a black eye, but she didn’t remember her aunt in such a condition. Aching all over, Samantha sank onto the bed and flinched at the pressure on her bruised behind.
Samantha needn’t fool herself: she had often heard Uncle Bradford yelling at servants and had heard slapping sounds. She had never seen him hitting a servant, but now she surmised he had deliberately never done so in front of Aunt Roseanna or herself.
Living with her uncle and aunt since the age of eight, Samantha had been too small and powerless for years to come to any servant’s defense. She imagined him dragging her to the kitchen, where she might have grabbed a knife and used it against him, but he would likely have overpowered her, even in his drunken state. Regardless of that fantasy, she couldn’t bring herself to thrust a knife into anyone. She often defended servants with her “impudent” words, without physical retribution.
Tonight, she had finally gotten in the way of her uncle’s fists. Perhaps she deserved this for never having saved her aunt or the servants from his brutal attacks. It was true her aunt had never defended her against her uncle’s stinging, hateful words, but those words didn’t cause bruises or sprains.
Her heart pounded, though not as loudly as her uncle’s fists on the door. Her limbs continued shaking, and she squeezed her handkerchief in her fist.
Her uncle continued shouting. “You’d better be grateful if I don’t send you out on the streets for defying me! I can relegate you to the position of scullery maid, if you don’t cooperate with my wishes, you hussy! I can do whatever I wish, including marry you off to the first man willing to have you! Open the door! Allow me in! I said let me in, you disobedient brat!”
Samantha’s mouth dropped open. She couldn’t think or move. Certainly, these threats to make her a scullery maid or to arrange her marriage were not the first indications that he considered her a financial burden; Samantha had often heard her uncle grumbling to that effect to Aunt Roseanna.
He pounded again. “You’re not free from obligation, hoyden! You’ve been idle all your life, but not anymore! It is time you do your share, after all your living off me!”
What an odd perspective, Samantha reflected, able to muster a few thoughts despite her shock. Apparently, her uncle considered her a waste of his money, as though she had no right to reside with her nearest surviving relations. Though she never worked in the kitchen, she had helped her aunt with the sewing, including making and mending her uncle’s shirts.
She held her breath, listening and staring at the lowboy, as though it held something horrifying in its drawers. Uncle Bradford ceased hitting the door, and his boots thumped on the hardwood floor and receded. She heard his footsteps pounding down the creaking stairs.
Samantha stood wringing her hands and staring at the paneling on the door. What the deuce should I do? She waited for more sounds. He might be heading back to the drawing room to drink more gin… or he might be fetching an ax.