The Only One Left by Riley Sager
FIVE
Budgetary restrictions force us to keep only a small household staff,” Mrs. Baker says as we return to the foyer. “Outside work is done by Carter, whom I believe you’ve already met.”
I stiffen, slightly unnerved. How did she know that?
“I have, yes,” I say.
Mrs. Baker guides me past the Grand Stairs and into the hall leading to the other end of the house. “Inside the house is Jessica, who cleans, and Archibald, who cooks.”
“And what do you do?”
Another bold question. Accidentally so. This time, there’s no mistaking Mrs. Baker’s reaction. Definitely displeased.
“I am the housekeeper,” she says with a sniff so disgruntled it lifts her bosom. “I keep the house in the best condition possible under severely limited circumstances. All decisions are made by me. All decisions I make are final. With Miss Hope unable to serve as caretaker of this estate, I have assumed the burden. That is my job.”
“How long have you been with Miss Hope?”
“Decades. I arrived in 1928, hired to tutor Miss Hope and her sister in the ways a young woman should behave. Only nineteen myself, I’d intended to stay a year or two. That plan changed, of course. When the household staff was reduced following the . . . incident, I left and went to Europe for a time. When my fiancé died, I chose to return to Hope’s End and devote my life to Miss Hope’s care.”
Not the choice I would have made. Then again, I’ve never had a fiancé. Or even a boyfriend for any significant length of time. The job doesn’t allow it. “Get out while you’ve still got your looks,” a fellow Gurlain Home Health Aide once told me. “Otherwise you’ll never snag a man.”
Now I wonder if it’s already too late. Maybe I’m already fated to become like Mrs. Baker—a woman in black with white hair and pale skin, drained of all color.
“If you never got married, why are you called Mrs. Baker?”
“Because that’s the title given to the head housekeeper, dear, whether she’s married or not. It commands respect.”
Continuing down the hallway, I survey my surroundings. Double doors closed tight straight ahead, open doorway to my right. I peek through it to see a formal dining room, unlit but brightened by two sets of French doors that lead to the terrace. Between them is an ornate fireplace so big I could park my car inside it. A pair of chandeliers hang over each end of a table long enough to seat two dozen people.
“Hope’s End has thirty-six rooms,” Mrs. Baker says as we reach the closed double doors at the end of the corridor. “You need only concern yourself with three. Miss Hope’s quarters, your own quarters, and here.”
I follow Mrs. Baker as she cuts right, around the corner and into a kitchen large enough for a restaurant. There are multiple ovens and burners and a brick-lined fireplace, inside of which a small blaze crackles. Shelves full of porcelain containers line the walls, and dozens of copper pots hang from the ceiling on wrought iron racks. A massive wooden counter sits in the center of the room, running from almost one wall to another.
Decades ago, an army of cooks and servers likely scurried over the black-and-white-tiled floor on their way to the adjoining dining room. Now there’s only one—a man with a thick chest and even thicker stomach wearing checkered pants and a white chef’s coat. In his seventies, he has a shaved head and a slightly bent nose, but his smile is wide.
“Archibald, this is Miss Hope’s new caregiver,” Mrs. Baker says. “Kit, this is Archibald.”
He looks up from the counter, where he’s kneading dough for homemade bread. “Welcome, Kit. And call me Archie.”
“All of Miss Hope’s meals are prepared by Archibald, so you won’t be needed in that capacity,” Mrs. Baker tells me. “He also cooks for the rest of the staff. You’re free to prepare your own meals, of course, but I’d advise against it. Archibald is the best cook on the Maine coast.”
It dawns on me how quickly my life has changed. This morning, I woke up in the same bed I’ve had since I was ten. Tonight, I’ll be falling asleep in a mansion that has a professional cook. And a maid. And a terrace with a bird’s-eye view of the sea.
As if to silently bring me back to earth, Mrs. Baker moves on, guiding me to a set of steps tucked into a corner of the kitchen. The opposite of the Grand Stairs, these are steep, narrow, and dark. Clearly meant for servants. Of which I am one. I can’t forget about that.
“Archibald and Jessica have rooms on the third floor,” Mrs. Baker says, her voice echoing down the narrow stairwell as she climbs. “Your quarters are on the second floor, next to Miss Hope’s room.”
“She’s upstairs?” I say, surprised. “If she’s immobile, shouldn’t she be on the ground floor for easier access?”
“Miss Hope doesn’t mind, I assure you.”
“The house has an elevator?”
“Of course not.”
“Then how do I take her outside?”
Mrs. Baker comes to a dead stop halfway up the stairs. So quickly that I almost bump into her. To avoid a collision, I drop down a step, which allows Mrs. Baker to tower over me as she says, “Miss Hope doesn’t go outside.”
“Ever?”
“Ever.” Mrs. Baker’s on the move again, quickly climbing the rest of the rickety staircase. “Miss Hope hasn’t been outside of this house in decades.”
“What if she needs to see a doctor?”
“Then the doctor comes to her,” Mrs. Baker says.
“But what if she needs to be taken to the hospital?”
“That will never happen.”
“But what if—”
There’s an emergency. That’s what I try to say. I can’t get the words out because Mrs. Baker stops once more, this time at the landing.
“Miss Hope was born in this house, and this is where she will die,” she says. “Until then, she is to always remain indoors. Those are her wishes, and my job is to enact them. If you take issue with that, then you may leave right now. Am I understood?”
I lower my eyes, fully aware that after less than five minutes on the job I’m this close to being fired. The only thing keeping me from being forced to return to my old bedroom and my father’s silence is what I say next.
“Yes,” I reply. “I apologize for questioning Miss Hope’s wishes.”
“Good.” Mrs. Baker gives me a red-lipped smile that’s as brief and cutting as a razor slash. “Let’s continue.”
We start off down a long corridor. Like the downstairs hallways, it runs from one side of the mansion to the other, with the top of the Grand Stairs positioned in the middle. Unlike those wider, better-lit corridors, this one is as narrow as a tunnel and just as dim. The carpet is red. The wallpaper is peacock blue damask. A dozen doors line each side, all of them shut.
Moving through the corridor, I feel a strange sensation. Not dizziness. Nothing as strong as that.
Instability.
That’s what I feel.
Like I’ve just had a few very strong drinks.
I touch the wall for support, my palm skimming across the blue wallpaper. It’s overwhelming. The color is too dark and the print too florid for such a confined space. All those ornate petals bursting open and intertwining give the impression of a garden that’s grown wild and vicious and is now overtaking the house. My hand recoils from the wall at the thought, which sends me listing ever so slightly in the other direction.
“What you’re feeling is the house,” Mrs. Baker says without looking back. “It tilts slightly toward the ocean. It’s not very noticeable on the first floor. You can only feel it on the upper levels.”
“Why is it tilted?”
“The cliff, dear. The ground here at the top has shifted over time as the cliff has eroded.”
What Mrs. Baker doesn’t say, but what’s abundantly clear from the slanted floor, is that Hope’s End has been eroding with it. Someday—maybe soon, maybe a century from now—both cliff and mansion will break apart and slide into the ocean.
“Doesn’t that worry you?”
“Oh, we’ve all become quite accustomed to it,” Mrs. Baker says. “It just takes some time. Like getting your sea legs.”
I wouldn’t know. My sailing experience is limited to a whale-watching field trip I took in the sixth grade. But I can’t imagine ever getting used to this. When Mrs. Baker stops at one of the tightly closed doors on the left, I lean against the wall, relieved.
“These are your quarters,” she says, turning the knob but not opening the door. It does that on its own, creaking ajar thanks to the mansion’s pernicious tilt. “After you’re done changing, I’ll introduce you to Miss Hope.”
“Change?” I push off the wall into a standing position. “Into what?”
“Your uniform, of course.”
Mrs. Baker steps away from the door, allowing me to peek inside. The room is small but tidy. Butter yellow walls, a dresser, a reading chair, a large bookshelf blessedly filled with books. There’s even a view of the ocean, which under different circumstances would make my heart sing. But I’m too focused on the bed and the white nurse’s uniform sitting on top of it, folded as neatly as a napkin in a fancy restaurant.
“If it doesn’t fit properly, I can find a seamstress who’ll be able to do some alterations,” Mrs. Baker says.
I eye the uniform like it’s a ticking time bomb. “You seriously want me to wear this?”
“No, dear,” Mrs. Baker says. “I require that you wear it.”
“But I’m not a nurse.”
“You are here.”
I should have known this was coming. I’d seen Jessica in her ridiculous maid’s outfit and Archie in his chef’s gear.
“I know you think it’s silly,” Mrs. Baker says. “The nurses before you did as well. Even Mary. But we abide by the old ways here. And those ways involve a strict dress code. Besides, it’s what Miss Hope is accustomed to. To deviate now would likely confuse and upset her.”
It’s that last bit that makes me concede defeat. While I don’t give a damn about abiding by the old ways—why follow them if no one is ever here to notice?—I can’t argue with not wanting to upset a patient. I have no choice but to suck it up and wear the uniform.
Mrs. Baker waits in the hall as I close the door and strip out of my coat, skirt, and blouse. On goes the uniform, which doesn’t quite fit. It’s loose at the hips, just right at the bust, and tight at the shoulders, making it simultaneously too snug and not snug enough. By the time the winged cap is pinned to my head, I feel positively ridiculous.
In the adjoining bathroom, I check to see how I look.
It’s . . . not bad, actually.
While undeniably formal, the tightness in the uniform’s shoulders makes me stand a little taller. Forced out of my perpetual slump, I appear less like a caregiver and more like a legitimate nurse. For the first time in months, I feel resourceful again. A refreshing change of pace.
Mrs. Baker certainly approves. When I emerge from the bedroom, she lifts her glasses to her eyes and says, “Yes, that’s much better.”
Then she’s off again, to the next door down the hallway.
Lenora Hope’s room.
I suck in a breath when Mrs. Baker opens the door, feeling the need to brace myself. For what, I don’t know. It’s not as if Lenora Hope will be standing just inside, a knife in one hand and a noose in the other. Yet that’s the only thing I can picture as Mrs. Baker gestures for me to step inside.
After another deep breath, I do.
The first thing I notice about the room is the wallpaper. Pink stripes. Exactly like in the portrait downstairs. The white divan is there as well, its fabric darkened by time but clearly the same one Lenora posed on. On the wall behind it is the gilt-edged mirror glimpsed in the portrait. Staring at the entire mirror—and my uniformed reflection in it—makes me feel a bit like Alice going through the looking glass. Instead of Wonderland, though, I’ve ended up inside the portrait of Lenora Hope and now stare at myself from outside the frame.
The next thing to catch my eye are the tall windows that face the Atlantic. The view beyond them is even more stunning than the one in the sunroom. The ocean is visible from here—a vast canvas of churning water that looks like a fun house–mirror version of the sky. Two blues, one scudded with clouds, the other whitecaps. The second floor’s higher vantage point gives me a better idea of how close the house is to the cliff’s edge. Right against it, in fact. There’s no land beyond the terrace railing. Just a straight drop directly into the sea.
Because of the slight tilt of the house, the view seems extra vertiginous. Even though I’m in the middle of the room, I feel like I have my forehead pressed against one of the windows, looking down. Another twinge of instability hits me, and I spend a fraught moment worrying I’m about to tip right over.
But then I finally notice the wheelchair parked in a corner of the room, facing the windows. It’s old-fashioned, constructed of wicker and wood, with two large wheels in front and a small one in the back, like a tricycle. The kind of wheelchair that hasn’t been used in decades.
In it is a woman, silent and still, her head lolled forward, as if she’s asleep.
Lenora Hope.
My vertigo fades in an instant. I’m too spellbound by Lenora’s presence to notice the tilted floor anymore. Or the view out the windows. Or even the presence of Mrs. Baker behind me. All I can focus on is Lenora, seated in that old-timey wheelchair, bathed in sunlight so bright it makes her look pale, almost translucent.
The infamous Lenora Hope, reduced to a ghost.
Everything about her, really, seems sapped of color. Her robe is threadbare and gray, as are the slippers on her feet. Gray socks run to just below her knees, where they bunch and sag. The nightgown under the robe was likely white once upon a time, but too many washings have left it the same ashen shade as her skin. The grayness extends to her hair, which is kept long and straight and cascades down her shoulders.
It isn’t until Lenora lifts her head that I see a single bit of color.
Her eyes.
Their green is almost as bright as her eyes in the portrait downstairs. But what’s fascinating in the painting is downright startling in person, especially when surrounded by all that gray. They remind me of lasers. They burn.
That blazing green draws me in. I find myself wanting to stare into those startlingly bright eyes and see if I can recognize a piece of myself in them. If I can’t, then perhaps it means I’m not as bad as people think.
Even my father.
I take a wobbling step toward Lenora and the tilt returns, more pronounced this time. Then again, maybe it’s not the slanted floor that’s causing it. Maybe it’s simply because I’m in a room with Lenora Hope—a realization as surreal as it is surprising. The chant snakes back into my thoughts.
At seventeen, Lenora Hope
I wonder if I should be scared.
Hung her sister with a rope
Because I am.
Stabbed her father with a knife
Even though there’s no reason to be scared.
Took her mother’s happy life
This isn’t the Lenora Hope of that awful rhyme. It’s not even the Lenora of the portrait downstairs—young and ripe and possibly that very moment plotting the murders of her family. This Lenora is old, withered, a wisp. I think of reading The Picture of Dorian Gray in high school. This is like the opposite of the book—the painting in the hall getting fresher by the day as Lenora’s crippled body atones for her sins.
I take a few more steps, no longer bothered by the tilting house. Maybe Mrs. Baker is right. Maybe I am getting used to the place.
“Hello, Lenora,” I say.
“Miss Hope,” Mrs. Baker says from the doorway, correcting me. “The help must never refer to the lady of the house by her Christian name.”
“Sorry,” I say. “Hello, Miss Hope.”
Lenora doesn’t move, let alone acknowledge my presence. I kneel directly in front of the wheelchair, hoping to get a better look at her startling green eyes. My body tenses, bracing for whatever insights might be gleaming within them. About Lenora. About myself.
But Lenora isn’t cooperating. She stares past me, out the window, gaze fixed on the churning sea below.
“I’m Kit,” I say. “Kit McDeere.”
Lenora’s eyes suddenly lock onto my own.
I stare right back.
What I see is unexpected.
Curiosity, of all things, shimmers inside Lenora’s gaze. As if she already knows me. As if she knows everything about me. That I’ve been trapped. And accused. And judged and ostracized and ignored. Gazing into Lenora Hope’s eyes feels like looking into that gilt-framed mirror and seeing my reflection staring back at me.
“It’s very nice to meet you,” I say. “I’m going to take care of you from now on. Would you like that?”
Lenora Hope nods.
Then she begins to smile.
Before we continue, I need to make one thing clear. Don’t try to help me write this. I know what I want to say. You’re simply here to replace the hand I can’t use. Just do what I need you to do, when I need you to do it.
Understand?
Good.
Second, I’m not writing this so you’ll feel sorry for me. I neither want nor need your pity. I’m also not doing it to prove my innocence. That’s for others to decide, if and when I ever finish this.
I’m writing it because when I die, which could be any day now, I want there to be a record of the facts. This is the truth--good and bad.
And the truth is that it all started the day of the portrait. The beginning of the end, although I had no idea then that would be the case. It was eight months before the murders. A lifetime when you’re as young as I was then.
It was also my birthday. The last birthday ever celebrated in this house.
That year, my father decided to have everyone sit for a portrait on their birthday. It was his idea of a gift, which might have been fine for him and my mother, but not so much for my sister and me. No girl our age wanted a portrait as a present, especially when it meant getting dolled up and sitting for hours on end, not being allowed to move. The best thing about it was the artist, who was quite handsome.
Peter was his name.
Peter Ward.
Since my father had commissioned him to paint portraits of every member of the family, it was his fourth time at Hope’s End. By then, I was quite enamored of him. I put on my best dress--a pink satin gown--and made sure I looked as pretty as possible. I very much wanted to catch his eye.
Unfortunately, so did my sister, who hovered over him the whole time, even though Miss Baker was already keeping a close watch on the artist. Because the portrait was being painted in my bedroom, she was worried something inappropriate might happen if Peter and I were left alone. Such behavior was typical for Miss Baker, who had been hired a year earlier to teach us etiquette and elocution. I knew what she really was, though. A governess for girls who didn’t need a governess.
I sat on the divan, trying not to move. Miss Baker stood rigidly in the corner, a disapproving look on her face. My sister, though, mooned about the room behind Peter, checking his canvas and saying things like, “Oh, that’s wonderful. It’s her very likeness.”
Every time she did it, I couldn’t help but laugh, which caused Peter to reprimand me several times.
“Keep still, please,” he’d say in a tone so deathly serious it made me laugh even more. I spent most of the sitting trying not to crack a smile, although it came through anyway in the finished portrait. My sister had been right about that. Peter captured me perfectly.
“But I’m so bored,” I said as the sitting dragged on well into the afternoon. “Can I at least read a book while you paint?”
“You could, but then I wouldn’t be able to see your eyes,” Peter said. “And you have such lovely eyes.”
Now that was a birthday gift any girl my age would want. No one had ever called any part of me lovely before, and hearing it from Peter made my whole body quiver.
Out of the blue, I began to wonder if Peter had ever painted someone nude. Someone more mature and developed than me, someone who was unashamed of her body. I wondered what it would feel like to slide out of my pink dress, lean back on the divan, and have Peter gaze at my naked form. Would he still think I was lovely? Would he feel compelled to leave his easel, join me on the divan, touch my skin, caress my hair?
I began to blush, shocked by the wildness of my thoughts. I looked to Miss Baker, who contemplated me with dark eyes, as if she knew exactly what I was thinking.
Apparently, my sister did as well. She approached Peter, coming up behind him until she was pressed against his back. She placed a hand on his shoulder, where it remained as she cooed, “Peter, you really are the most talented man I’ve ever met.”
The room suddenly felt hot, and in that moment, all I wanted was to be away from all of them. I longed to be outside, perched at the cliff’s edge with the cool wind in my hair.
“Are we almost finished?” I asked.
“Another hour or two,” Peter said.
“Be patient,” Miss Baker added.
But I no longer had any patience left. I hated her. I hated my sister. I hated my father for bringing Peter into this house. At that moment, the only member of my family I didn’t despise was my mother.
Her I pitied.
Unable to sit still a moment longer, I leapt off the divan and headed for the door.
“I’m not finished yet,” Peter called after me.
“I most certainly am,” I called back.
I hurried down the back steps and into the kitchen, which was a riot of activity as the cooks and maids readied my birthday dinner. My anger surprised me. I knew my sister had no real interest in Peter, and that Peter had no interest in me. Honestly, I had no interest in him, either. But I did so desperately want someone to notice me, to see me, to understand me.
Also, I was sick and tired of being at Hope’s End. The name fit, for it felt like we were at the end of the world, cut off from any hope of being anywhere but here.
My father built Hope’s End as a tribute to himself. He claimed otherwise, of course. A peculiar trait among most self-important men is the need to try to hide their self-importance. My father did this by claiming Hope’s End was constructed for his beloved wife and the baby girl she had just given birth to.
Not true.
He built it because he wanted to show everyone just how rich he was.
It worked. For one cannot get a glimpse of Hope’s End without thinking, “This is the home of a very wealthy man.”
Wealthy we were. Happy? Not so much. And the house, though opulent, reflected that. It’s a cold place. An unwelcoming place. I know you can feel it. There’s little comfort to be found here.
And all I wanted to do was meet people, go places, experience the things I’d only read about in books. It was 1929, and the world was alive with fast cars and jazz and dancing all night while drinking bathtub gin. I had experienced none of it. And how was I to become a great writer without having any experiences to write about?
Some days, Hope’s End felt so much like a prison that I thought I’d scream if I had to spend one more minute inside its walls. Whenever I got that way, the only cure was to be outside. I loved the grounds and the sea and the sky. They always managed to soothe me, which is exactly what they did that day.
Standing on the terrace, I inhaled the salty air and felt the cool wind on my face. I leaned against the railing and stared up at the tall windows that ran around the southeastern corner of the house. My mother’s bedroom, which was separate from my father’s. The two of them had long stopped sharing a bed.
The drapes were drawn, which meant she was suffering another one of her “nervous episodes.” By then, she rarely left her bedroom.
I shuddered at the sight of those tightly closed curtains. I couldn’t imagine being trapped in my room all day, every day, never leaving. To me, that seemed like a fate worse than death.
Yet here I am, living that exact scenario.
It turns out I was right.
Because here’s an intriguing fact about Hope’s End: The doors to all the bedrooms can only be locked from the outside, with individual keys required to open them. When my sister and I were young, one of my father’s favorite games was to lock us in our bedrooms. Whoever went the longest without begging to be let out received a prize. Usually a bit of money or a fancy dessert and, once, a gold bracelet. The winner also got to decide how much longer the loser had to stay in her room.
My sister won every single time.
She never minded the game, but, oh, how it drove me crazy. I could never last more than a few hours before the walls felt like they were closing in and would trap me forever if I didn’t get out.
Because I was always the first to beg my father to open the door, I then had to stay in my room for as long as my sister decided. Once, she chose to keep me locked in for an additional twelve hours. I spent that entire night screaming and pounding on the door, demanding to be let out. When that didn’t work, I tried breaking down the door by throwing myself against it. The door never budged. Even though I had lost, my father and sister never relented. I remained locked inside until midmorning.
That’s how it feels to be in this house, this room, this body. Like I’ve been locked inside during one of my father’s games and there’s no one on the other side of the door holding the key that can set me free.
