Subj: Charade: Chapter 22
Date: 2/10/02 12:38:29 AM Central Standard Time
From: Nicole

December 10, 2008, Collinwood, 1:40 AM-Parallel Time

“God Gwynneth! Why were you in the east wing?” asked Constance as she carried her delinquent child. “What if you woke Amy? If she even hints to Daniel that you’ve been in the east wing, I will never hear the end of it. You know this! You have to be more careful.”

“Yes mam,” whispered Gwynneth. “Anything you say.”

“Hmm . . . are you okay, Gwyn?”

“Yes, momma,” answered the girl slowly. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Constance wasn’t so sure. Gwynneth had given in much too quickly to being forcibly sent to her room. The girl normally put up terrific fits when being dragged anywhere. For a child, Gwynneth Marie was entirely too moody. Yet this fact made the child’s current behavior seem normal. Constance knew that her daughter’s morale changed with the wind. ‘She’s probably too tired to counter me,’ she thought wistfully. ‘She’s fine. Just believe her.’ “If you say so, hon.”

“And I do.” Gwynneth shifted in Constance’s arms, moving her sleep heavy face in front of her mother’s and easing her miniature fingers around her chin. The little girl began to giggle as her fingers slipped from Constance’s face and landed back at the child’s side. “Okay,” whispered Gwynneth, “this is just strange.”

“What’s strange?”

“Oh . . . nothing. It’s nothing.”

Constance let the subject drop. Knowing Gwynneth, it probably was nothing. She would not spend the rest of their walk back to the main building arguing over the definition of “nothing,” thereby thoroughly awakening the child and making her that much harder to send to sleep.

For the rest of the walk, the two remained silent. Gwynneth laid her head against Constance’s shoulder, breathing softly as she fingered a stray strand of her mother’s hair. Constance was pleased with her daughter’s progression. It would only take a few minutes, if that, to send the girl to sleep. It meant that Constance would be able to fall into bed only that much quicker. She was convinced that no one needed the sleep more than herself. Battling with a physically and spiritually bruised Daniel Collins had been arduous enough. She had not expected her husband to take up the old bastard’s nagging flag. David Blake knew well what he was getting into when he married her. Constance could be loving and cuddly, but could also turn on a moment’s notice, proving herself to be both vicious and detestable. He knew as well as anyone that her bad side was most aggravated by her family. He wouldn’t have gotten snapped at had he only kept his distance. Constance thought that her husband was too sensitive for his own good. She was slightly disappointed that she had yet to wean him out of that. Sometimes their seven-year age difference felt more like thirty. This was one of those times.

Besides, she had much bigger disappointments than the problems between her and David to deal with. Once everyone had settled down and scurried back to their respective lairs to regroup, Constance decided that it was time to search for the letters she had sent to Quentin so long ago. She would have preferred to begin her search in the office, but Daniel’s pained mutters from the other side seemed reason enough to stay away. Instead, she wandered off toward the old master bedroom. Constance had no clue as to why Daniel decided to pick another room. Who wouldn’t want the most spacious bedroom in all of Collinwood? Constance always thought that if you were forced to live in what amounted to one of Hell’s better hotels, you should live in comfort. She knew that she had always enjoyed her time in that room. Then again, that might have been enough reason for Daniel not to want to live there. Constance was willing to bet that his knowledge of that would keep him far from the master bedroom. No one else ever ventured near it. She had more than ample time to sneak.

Much to Constance’s chagrin, this was not to be. The moment her fingers touched the familiar brass doorknob, she sensed that someone was behind her. She spun around to meet the heavy gaze of Mrs. Castle. Constance had hated the old woman since her early days in Collinwood. The elderly housekeeper had always been suspicious of the younger woman, always following her around when she entered a room or watching her from a window when she left the building. Of course, the jealous bat knew all about Constance and was unafraid to tell her so. It was no real surprise to her that this woman had been the one to catch her as she tried to enter Quentin’s old room for the first time in more than 15 years.

“There’s nothing for you here, missy,” spat Mrs. Castle. She moved in front of Constance, doing her best to put her frail old form between the door and the intruder. “I suggest you go back to your room before you cause any more trouble.”

“What do you care?” asked Constance. “This is none of your concern.”

“And who are you to tell me what my concerns are? You’re nothing more than a . . . ”

“That’ll be enough, Jessica.” Both women turned around to see Sylvia approaching them, her gait a bit off but her face marred by frustration. She had probably just come in contact with her frustrated husband and she had probably gotten a piece more of his mind than anyone would care to receive on any basis. Sylvia strolled up to them and made her stance firmly beside Constance. “You’re off duty, Mrs. Castle,” she muttered spitefully. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”

“But this one,” said Mrs. Castle, her finger blatantly pointed in Constance’s face, “has tried to tell me where I’m supposed to be. She doesn’t have the right.”

“She is a Collins and she lives in this house. She has more than a right to tell you what to do. Now, will you please leave this building and go visit your brown-noser grandson or whatever it is that you do on your nights of?”

Mrs. Castle huffed and slowly stepped away from the door. As she moved sluggishly down the hall, Constance could hear the woman speaking beneath her breath. If Constance honestly had the right to boss her old adversary around, she was more than willing to make use of this power. “Hey!” she called down the hall. “Come back here and repeat yourself.”

“Do I no longer have the right to speak my own mind?” asked Mrs. Castle.

“Yes but when you speak of me, I’d prefer you to speak your mind to my face,” replied Sylvia wearily. “I’m sure my mind would have much to say after one of your ‘noble’ diatribes.”

“And I’d expect to hear as much come out of your mouth.” Mrs. Castle hobbled back toward the younger women, contempt glossing her pail gray eyes as they drifted between Constance and Sylvia. “You,” she said, her gaze firmly implanted on Sylvia, “are nothing more than a two-dollar hussy, just some idiot goldigger whose only goal is to take poor master Daniel’s money. And you . . . ”

“What about me?” asked Constance playfully. “Sylvia and I were friends long before she was married to ‘poor master Daniel.’ Does this make me worse? Am I Sylvia’s pimp?”

“You . . . you take nothing seriously and you don’t give a damn about anyone else. You’re just like . . . like him!” squealed Mrs. Castle. “You know how he treated his poor wife, never giving her all she needed while cavorting around with . . . ”

“I’m not going to argue with you on that point,” whispered Constance. “Would you believe that I told him that he should pay her more attention?”

“Anything’s possible, but I hold it highly unlikely. You’re all such horrible people. Almost every single one of you is either a liar or a thief. God, I know enough about this family, and you, to shame the Collins name for a century.”

“So does half of Collinsport,” replied Sylvia. “Take a number.”

“Hold up, hon, let’s think this over.” Constance moved closer to Sylvia and whispered, “There’s a lot about Mrs. Castle that you don’t know.”

“I have nothing to hide,” replied the old woman proudly. “You have nothing on me.”

If the situation hadn’t been so tense, Constance would have burst into laughter. Mrs. Castle was disgusting in her sanctimony. Constance would have given anything to see her knocked down a few thousand pegs so that she might actually live on the level of the people she looked down upon. “You’ve forgotten it so easily. I suppose age has finally left its mark on your mind.” Constance turned back to Sylvia and asked, “Did you know that Quentin fired our dear housekeeper about a week after mother came back?”

“Oh My God! I had no clue,” replied Sylvia, her face perking up at the mere mention of intrigue. “Do tell!”

“Well, it seems that Mrs. Castle had been gossiping to the townsfolk about the goings on of Collinwood. She told all the wrong people all this tantalizing information about the family and they, in turn, told Quentin. He was, shall we say, pissed and fired the esteemed Mrs. Castle on the spot.” Constance twisted toward the object of her anger and added, “Quentin told us all about the reason why you were fired and even mother agreed that it was the right thing to do. And you KNOW how bizarre it was for mother and Quentin to agree on . . . well . . . anything! We all knew that you would’ve been on the street had it not been for that sickly son of yours, but we felt that our dignity was more important than your free room, especially since you were becoming very lax in your duties!”

“I could’ve made money by . . . ”

“Telling the papers about us? No dear, we’ve got the papers in our back pocket. Even if they had printed something, we would’ve sued them for libel and scared everyone out of listening to a word you said.”

Mrs. Castle seemed to tear up for a moment. “You care so little for an old woman?”she moaned.

“An old woman? No, I’d care a great deal for some old woman who happened to have fallen on hard times. I care nothing for you. You are more than the kindly old grandmother you appear to be. You are nothing more than a bitter hag, Mrs. Castle! Nothing more.” Constance slipped in closer to the woman, careful to keep her gaze downward sloping as she stepped forward. “Bitterness is ugly on both the old and the young. I can barely even look at you because of it.”

Mrs. Castle only seemed able to stare at Constance. At least five minutes passed before she was able to respond, stuttering, “You . . . your words will . . . come back to . . . haunt you.”

“I’d be disappointed if they didn’t.” Constance looked away and muttered, “Now leave, Mrs. Castle. Your services are not needed here tonight.”

Sylvia’s eyes followed Mrs. Castle until she left the hallway. When she turned back to Constance, her face seemed cold, distant. Constance had seen this look on her friend’s face before. It usually meant that she was either too frustrated to think or too stoned to care. She hoped for everyone’s sake that Sylvia was just frustrated. “When was she rehired?”

“She’s been here as long as I have,” answered Sylvia. “I had no idea that she had been gossiping about the family. I don’t understand why Daniel would let her inside the house if he knew that she was a snitch.”

“I think Daniel’s the kind of person who likes to keep his friends close and his enemies closer, if you catch my drift?” Sylvia nodded painfully. Constance knew exactly what that meant. It took no stretch of the imagination to see that Daniel wasn’t the most loving of husbands. On any other night, Constance would have offered to listen to Sylvia’s story, taking the time to console her friend and see if she had any advice that she could give that would somehow ease the tension. This, however was not one of those nights and Constance, who knew getting into that bedroom was now out of the question, just wanted to go to sleep. She tried to quickly say goodnight and leave but Sylvia caught her by the arm before she could slip away. “I’m sorry but I really have to go.”

“I know,” said Sylvia softly, “but I want to talk to you again. We’ve not talked in such a long time and I want to catch up with you. Is that okay?”

“That’s fine,” answered Constance. “Just tell me when and I’ll be there.”

Sylvia didn’t say another word. She hugged Constance without warning, pulling her friend in tightly before releasing her and scurrying down the hall. After that last little scene, Constance knew exactly what was wrong with Sylvia: she was stoned. Constance knew that she had to say something to her old friend about her behavior, but it was much too late to do anything on this night. Constance did her best to push all thoughts of family from her head as she lay down for what she hoped would be a good night’s sleep.

Yet a few hours later, she found herself still awake, tossing and turning next to a man she rather not be sleep by in a house she’d like to watch burn to the ground. The stress of just lying in the quiet room eventually began to gnaw at Constance’s nerves, forcing her to flee her room and begin to walk around the house. But pacing Collinwood’s floors brought her just as little relief as attempting to sleep had. She would have headed back to bed had she not felt the strange urge to remain awake. She fought it as best she could, but Constance soon gave into her feelings and remained on her feet. Had she gone to bed, she would not have noticed that the door to the east wing was still open. She would not found Gwynneth wandering through its halls. Angry and irritated, she swept her daughter from the floor and stormed back to the main building.

Needless to say, Constance was ready for the day to end. Gwynneth’s weakening reserves only made her more than hopeful that about the fact that her night would soon be over. The child’s relaxing muscles boded well for sleep. If Constance was lucky, Gwynneth would fall asleep in her arms, making it so she only had to be deposited in bed with little fuss. The door to her room was only feet away. Nothing would stop Constance from dropping off her daughter and heading to bed herself.

“Oh God.”

Constance glanced up to see that Gwynneth was fully awake. She could feel the girl’s body tightening in her arms, curling up as if she was frightened and ready to run. She followed Gwynneth’s wide-eyed gaze and gasped. Standing next to Gwynneth’s door was the distinct figure of Quentin Collins. He looked as solid, as real, as anything Constance had ever seen in her life. “But it can’t be,” she whispered. “You can’t be here.”

He seemed to notice her distress, even from a far. He raised a single finger to his lips, hoping that the action would silence any further sound. Constance took the hint and immediately shut up. That didn’t mean that she now understood the situation. It all seemed so bizarre. Quentin, dead and sorely missed, was standing in front of her child’s door! How could this be? Was she so tired that she was beginning to hallucinate? But Constance knew that wasn’t the case. Gwynneth saw him too. They couldn’t both hallucinate the same thing . . . could they? Constance did her best to shake off her fear as she looked at what stood before her. She mouthed the words “Why are you here? What do you have to say?”

Quentin seemed to laugh, smiling broadly as he leaned his shoulder against the night dark wood of Gwynneth’s bedroom door. “You never change,” he said soundlessly. “I remember that you questioned everything when you were younger. You were never able to let anything stand without an explanation. Can’t I just be here?”

“But you weren’t like the others, at least it seemed that way to me. There was always a purpose with you,” responded Constance. “Please tell me, what is it?”

“They’re not in the room,” he answered. “You were looking in the wrong place.”

“The notes?” asked Constance. Quentin nodded. “But I didn’t think you would hide them anywhere else except for the office, but Daniel was always rustling around in there. I didn’t think you’d take the chance of him finding them.”

“They were once in the bedroom, but they’ve been moved since, if you catch my drift.”

“Yeah, unfortunately. No wonder Daniel didn’t want to stay in that room. He knows everything and probably has known for some time.” Constance looked down for a moment, suddenly embarrassed to be thinking about what she was with her child in her arms. Could the girl feel Constance’s growing shame over things she had done long ago? Apparently not. Gwynneth’s eyes remained glued to Quentin. She appeared mesmerized by the sight of him, seemingly unable to get enough of the specter that was stationed only feet in front of her.

Quentin, in turn, seemed just as interested in Gwynneth. He stared at her intently, studying the child’s every feature as if looking for some abnormality. His eyes soon grew wide and he pulled away from the door. “This could ruin everything!”

“Ruin what?” Quentin didn’t answer. He just continued to stare at Gwynneth, his gaze growing more frenzied with each passing second. Constance couldn’t watch any longer. What was his problem? She had to know. More than that, she felt like she had to be near him again, to touch him and know, at least for the next few moments, that he was real. Constance, clutching Gwynneth tighter than normal to her chest, rushed over to Quentin. The moment she reached him, however, he disappeared. Constance looked around her, hoping to see some trace of him, but finding nothing. “What is this?” she whispered. “Am I imagining things?”

“You’re just tired,” whispered Gwynneth. “Put me to bed and then go to bed yourself.”

“But I . . . ”

“No ‘buts’ mom,” insisted Gwynneth. She wrapped her tiny arms around Constance’s neck and hugged her tight. “I don’t need a story and I don’t need songs to go to sleep. Just tuck me in and head to bed yourself. It’ll all be okay in the morning.”

On any other occasion, Constance would have gone against her daughter, staying with the child until she was certain that she was asleep. But this was no ordinary night. She thought that Gwynneth might actually be right about the situation. Maybe all she needed to do was sleep off some of the day’s stress. Constance kissed her daughter’s cheek as she opened the door to her room. She laid the girl in bed, tucked her in, and, after giving her one last kiss on the forehead, left the room.

When Constance entered her own room, she felt disappointed. She wanted sleep, but she felt odd about actually getting into bed. “Woo, sleeping in the same bed as your husband,” she murmured softly. “There should be no guilt involved with this one.” She pushed as much of the oddness from her mind as she quietly slipped into bed. She hoped that she had been able to accomplish this without waking up David. Upon meeting wide-open hazel eyes when she turned onto her right side, she learned that she had not. “Sorry.”

“It’s no big deal.” David’s brows furrowed into a languid ‘v’ as he inched closer to Constance. “Where were you? I heard you get up around one.”

“I couldn’t sleep, so I took a walk around the house,” yawned Constance. “Found Gwynneth in the east wing.”

“You found her first, right?” Constance nodded. “Thank God! Daniel would kick us all out if Amy squealed to him about Gwyn.”

“Damn straight.”

“How is she?”

“She’s asleep.”

“I’m going to go check on her.”

Constance made no attempt to stop him. She watched as David rolled out of bed, threw on his robe, and walked out their bedroom door. Once he was gone, Constance stretched out before curling into a loose ball. She was almost shocked by how much sleepier she felt after her husband had left the room. Then again, she knew that she would have never rested if he had remained. She knew that was a bad sign. She had this problem before. Months after “the incident,” she had been unable to lay, let alone sleep, in the same bed with another person. For some reason, it didn’t feel right.

Dark Shadows is a Dan Curtis Production.