Liz strokes the bark. It is like a piece of new leather stretched too tight. She pulls her fingers away quickly.
This world of trees and leaves and fresh air is like being in a foreign land. She will never know the intricacies of nature, never understand why one tree bark is different from another. Looking at Anne, who could be a forest fairie with her wild hair, Liz is struck by her own strangeness here; the forest seems to be squeezing her out, pushing her away, turning their backs on her ignorance.
‘What about that one?’ Liz points at another, this one the biggest of all around. Knots and bulbous joints protrude from the trunk, and its branches stretch over their heads like hands clawing for something invisible. Any minute, one of those wooden fingers could fall and crush her.
‘That is an oak, miss. The grand old oak. You can see all the acorns on it.’ Anne does not fear the creature; she smiles up at it then stoops to pick an acorn from amidst the fallen leaves. She holds it out to Liz in her pink palm, but Liz keeps her distance, afraid the acorn might hatch and scurry like a beetle.
‘This oak is the king of the woods, miss. And the beech is its queen. Da would bring me up here sometimes and sit me on that stump.’ Anne points to an ugly growth near the base of the tree.
‘He would tell me tales of how the oak were ever so lonely, up here, all on his own. He’s very old, you see. Hundreds of years. And as the years passed by, he reached his hands up to God to pray for a wife. And the more lonely and the more desperate he got, the harder he would try and reach for God, and the strain of it made him ugly, and made him grow a veiny nose, on which I used to sit.’
Anne skips over to the stump and perches on it. For one dreadful minute, Liz sees the oak drag the girl into the earth and eat her whole, but when she blinks again, Anne is still there, still smiling.
‘Finally, the old oak gave up. He looked down on himself and saw what an ugly creature he had become. And he began to cry. His tears were acorns that fell to the ground all around him. But the acorns brought squirrels and mice and rats and rabbits, which he let scurry over his feet and through his hair. And little oak trees sprouted up around him, giving him some company. The creatures brought seeds and nuts from other parts of the wood, and one day, he noticed a small shoot, just there.’ Anne points to where the beech tree now stands.
‘The old oak watched the shoot grow into a little branch. The little branch into a woody trunk. He scared away the animals who tried to eat it, shouted at the wind who tried to blow it down, and sheltered it from the storms that threatened to drown it. Eventually, the beech tree were full and strong and blossoming, and the oak tree thought she were the prettiest thing he had ever seen. Then, one day, he called over to her and talked to her for a while. He told her stories of how his cousin had once saved a king. He asked the animals to make a show for her that made her laugh. He told her how he had kept her safe all her life. And then, as her catkins began to fall and her flowers began to grow in the spring, he asked her if she would be his.’
Liz swallows. Her head is light, the ground uneven. She would lean on something to steady herself, but she cannot bring herself to touch anything in this place. She sniffs until the stars cease twinkling in her vision. ‘What did the beech say?’
‘She said yes. For she loved him and thought him fine instead of ugly. And now they stand with each other, their branches touching, their roots entwined, for eternity.’
Liz feels those roots now, stirring beneath her. She thinks of them growing and twisting. They will gobble her up if she stays too long, and shackle her forever.
She closes her eyes, breathes deeply, reminds herself she is safe. ‘Let’s keep moving. It’s too cold to stay still.’
They seem to walk for miles through the woods. It is like a maze to Liz, and each time she thinks there is a break in the forest wall, it proves only to be a deception. All the while, Anne tells her the names of plants, and Liz must nod and try to smile as if she is interested, as if her heart is not pounding beneath her bodice, threatening to break her bones.
A cry scratches to come out of her throat. Tears brim against her lids. Her breathing is getting shallower as the trees darken. The more she tells herself to be calm, the more her feet itch to sprint out of this wooden tomb.
Then there is light. Liz runs for it, leaving Anne behind. She emerges from the trees into the whiteness, like stepping onto a cloud, and the relief makes her head spin. She grips her knees so she won’t fall and sucks in the air as Anne catches up with her. The girl is mumbling to herself about the horrid weather before she stops abruptly several feet behind Liz.
‘What is wrong?’
‘It’s filling up.’
Liz follows Anne’s gaze. In front of them is a dip in the grassland, saucer-like and about the size, Liz would guess, of the walled kitchen garden. At the centre of the dip, a puddle of water has formed.
‘What is it?’
‘It is where the lake used to be. Where Mrs Buchanan drowned, miss.’
Liz remembers the story that Tom told her. She looks at the circular hollow in the surface of the earth and tries to imagine it brimming with deep water, adorned with lily pads and reeds, cradling the corpse of Mary’s mother. She blinks the image out of her mind.
‘Sorry miss.’ Anne gathers herself. ‘It gives me the creeps, seeing it like that, with water in it.’
‘It’s only a puddle, Anne.’
‘Do you think it means –’
‘I don’t think it means anything!’ Liz’s voice echoes back at her; the sound of a madwoman.
She forces her eyes away from the dip. The woods have scared her, that is all; she has never been one for confined spaces. And who can blame Anne, a poor country girl, for believing in superstitions and in stories of trees in love? It is all just nonsense.
‘The puddle is from all the rain we have had, Anne. It is nothing more sinister than that. Come. Let us continue. We were having such a nice time.’
Liz guides Anne away from the scene, holding onto her tightly for she is shaking. She lets Anne chatter for it soothes her nerves to hear talk of nothing but embroidery and Mrs Beacham’s sponge puddings and Anne’s excitement for Christmas, and finally, Liz’s breathing returns to normal, and she forgets the corpse in the water.
They skirt the woodland as they walk home. The rain continues, but the drops are smaller now, and Liz can see the sea to their left and its black-grey waters breaking into white waves. The red faces of the cliffs frown at the water as it lashes against them.
‘Your brother is a very nice man.’
Anne’s voice had been nothing but a noise floating on the wind until now. At the mention of Tom, Liz pulls her gaze away from the waves and gives the girl her attention.
‘I can’t help but feel sorry for him ... with Mrs Oliver.’
‘Why should you feel sorry for Tom?’
‘Well, how Mrs Oliver treats him. It is not only me who she ...’ Anne cannot say the words. It is too terrible to speak of a wife who hits her husband. Liz has seen his face, the scarlet mark of a small hand blazed across his cheek. It has happened twice now. When she has fussed over him, he has only laughed; he has taken worse.
‘He has no need of your sympathies, Anne.’
‘But I do, miss. I care for him.’
Liz stops. This is what she wanted, wasn’t it? Anne’s confidence, Anne’s trust, to know the girl’s secrets. And really, everyone sees the way Anne looks at Tom with round, wide eyes, hopeful and yearning. It should not come as a shock to hear Anne’s passions said aloud, but for Anne to confirm them, only makes Liz’s insides churn.
‘I think he cares for me too,’ Anne says.
Cold crushes Liz’s lungs as she stares at the maid. ‘What are you saying?’
‘Nothing, miss. Nothing.’ Anne is stumbling.
Liz knows her face must betray her rage, for the girl is blushing fiercely, regretting her moment of intimacy.
‘Are you saying my brother has feelings for you
? For a maid?’
‘No, miss. I only meant –’
‘I should hope not.’ Liz bites her tongue hard enough to taste the sweetness of blood. ‘And if I hear you spreading such lies I will throw you out of Floreat myself, do you understand?’
‘Yes, miss.’ Tears swell in the girl’s eyes. Anne’s chin wobbles.
Liz cannot look at Anne for another second; she will strike her if she does. She marches on, and Anne trots behind. She can hear the girl’s feet squelching in the mud, and the girl panting and snivelling.
Liz walks faster, until Floreat comes into view, like a boil on the horizon. She does not wish to return to it, but where else will she go? She curses Tom for bringing her here. She curses Mary and the child for ruining their plans. She curses herself for agreeing to such a stupid idea, and it is as she is muttering under her breath that something catches her eye. Something unusual on the heathland.
It is coming closer, a small black dot growing larger. Liz stops. She is breathing fast, and the cold air stings her throat as she drags it in. She wishes this damn drizzle would end so that she could see clearly.
It is a figure. Its skirts are billowing in the wind.
‘Who is that?’ Anne breaks the silence, coming to her mistress’s side.
‘Don’t you recognise her?’
‘No, miss.’
They wait in silence, the wind rushing around them, rustling their dresses, pushing the rain horizontally across their vision.
The stranger nears them and is now on the fringe of the heathland just past the walled garden. Liz brings her hand to her forehead, blocking out the rain that pummels her face.
‘Should we go, miss? Shall I call for Mr Chipman?’ Anne shifts on her feet, but Liz stands firm.
There is something familiar about this figure. Liz cannot discern it, but the way the thin body is draped in black, the way the head sits rigidly on top of the spine, the way the legs jolt with each step. Finally, it reaches the walled garden and is shielded from the wind.
The figure pulls off its hat and net veil to reveal a face twisted and scarred crimson, the features distorted, melted out of recognition. The deformed mouth opens into a hollow smile. A gloved hand rises and points at the two of them.
Anne screams in horror. Liz is paralysed.
‘It cannot be.’
‘Miss!’ Anne grabs Liz’s hand and pulls her hard. Liz stumbles, but Anne catches her and heaves her upright. The girl never releases Liz’s hand as they sprint over the lawn and crash through the front door, startling Chipman in the hallway.
‘Miss Oliver!’ He rushes to her side. ‘Anne, what has happened?’
‘Where is Tom?’ Liz tears her sodden cloak away from her and throws it on the floor. Chipman barely finishes the word before Liz is running towards the study.
‘There’s someone out there,’ Anne says, pointing towards the walled garden. Her arm shakes as she holds it up and water splatters on the floor as it falls from her cloak.
Chipman runs outside.
‘Who’s there?’ he bellows, over and over again as Anne follows him.
The rain is worse now – it slices into Anne’s face like a hundred knives. She cannot see properly. She squints, and the whole world blurs into odd shapes.
‘Will!’ Mr Chipman shouts. Moments later, the young lad is racing towards them from the back door, coatless and fearful.
‘Father?’
‘Go to the other side of the garden. There’s someone here.’
Will follows his father’s order, and Chipman slows as he nears the wall. Anne is inches behind him, focusing on the water droplets running down his back, sure that as soon as they round the corner, they will come face to face with the hideous figure. She holds her breath, and her fingers grip Chipman’s sleeve.
But there is nothing.
At the far end of the wall, Will is barely visible through the rain.
‘Check inside the garden,’ Chipman yells at his son. ‘What did she look like, Anne?’
‘She was dressed all in black. And her face ... it was awful, Mr Chipman!’ She can feel tears threatening to silence her.
‘All right, Anne. It’s all right.’ Chipman pats her on the shoulder. They do not like each other much, but she is grateful for his kindness now. ‘And she came from the heath?’
‘Yes.’
Chipman squints at the barren and wild landscape. There is nothing there but wet and wind.
‘Nothing, Pa.’ Will emerges beside them, panting, his face red and blotchy and soaking.
‘Get yourself inside, Anne, and see to Miss Oliver.’
Anne does as she is told, staggering nervously to the front door now that she no longer has the protection of Mr Chipman.
In the hallway, the silence rings in her ears. She hangs up her cloak, then creeps towards the study, her own steps making her uneasy. She is about to tap on the door when she hears their voices. The sounds are a little muffled, but she can just about distinguish the words.
‘How? Are you sure?’
‘How many times, Tom? Yes, I am sure.’ Miss Oliver is crying. ‘I cannot ... I don’t understand ...’
‘It’s all right.’
‘You must find her, Tom!’
‘I will. Do you trust me?’
The voices stop. Anne imagines Mr Oliver hugging his sister, comforting her like the good man he is. A little ball of fire stirs under her chest. She wishes Mr Oliver would comfort her like that. She imagines his arms around her. She imagines looking up at him as he brings his lips to hers, telling her everything will be all right.
She shakes off the thought.
Still, the study is silent. What are they doing?
Quivering, Anne kneels and presses her eye to the keyhole. Two figures stand close together. She is not sure where Mr Oliver begins and Miss Oliver ends, for they seem to merge together.
Her eye begins to twitch. If it would only focus better! But her eyesight has never been as good as Grace’s, who could spot a hare a mile away. She blinks, and it is just as the figures are beginning to come clear that the front door crashes open and Mr Chipman and Will can be heard in the hallway.
Heart pounding, Anne grapples for the wall, pulling herself up as quickly as she can. Footsteps come from the other side of the study door and, suddenly, she panics. She remembers her mother telling her about a maid who had been dismissed for spying on the mistress in her bedroom. The mistress had blacked the keyhole, and the girl’s crime was painted on her face for all to see.
Anne gasps at the thought, spits on her hand and rubs her eye. Her face is wet from the rain, and she is grateful for it. She does not have time to check herself in the looking glass before Mr Oliver careers out of the room and slams into her.
‘Anne! Sorry –’ He finishes his half-formed sentence with a nod, then moves her out of his way. His hands, firm and warm on her body, send a jolt of pleasure through her, and the little ball of fire in her stomach flips over.
Inside the study, Miss Oliver’s gaunt face stares back at her with dark, wild eyes.
‘Well, where can she be?’ Mr Oliver paces the hallway, raking his fingers through his hair. ‘She has to be somewhere!’
‘She is nowhere, sir. It is as if she has vanished.’
‘People do not vanish, Chipman.’
‘How did she make it across the heath, sir? It is one great bog out there.’
‘Maybe that’s it.’ Anne whispers into the silence. ‘Maybe she tried going back over the heath and got stuck? Maybe the bog’s got her?’
Mr Oliver stands before one of the mirrors, leaning on the table before it.
‘Yes. Perhaps Anne is right.’
Anne tries to catch his eye in the reflection of the glass, but he only looks at himself.
‘Or she’s a witch?’
Mr Chipman slaps his son across the head. ‘Do not say such daft things, boy. You will only frighten people.’
Mr Oliver sighs. ‘There is nothing we can do now.
She is gone. In the morning, you shall go to the village, Chipman, and ask if anyone has seen such a woman.’
‘What do you think she is doing here, sir?’
‘I don’t know.’ Mr Oliver’s voice is quiet. He looks at his sister. ‘Liz needs some rest. She has had a fright. We will speak no more of this tonight.’
Chipman nods and leaves. Will follows his father, glancing at Anne as he disappears through the concealed servant door.
‘Prepare Miss Oliver a hot bath, Anne. She is like ice.’
The travelling dress woman is here today. Elizabeth stands on a little round box while the woman flits around her with a tape measure. Mary sneaks a look at the woman’s notes and discovers, to her horror, that Elizabeth’s waist is over three times smaller than her own.
‘I don’t know,’ Elizabeth says, as the woman asks her if she has any designs or colours or materials in mind for her four new gowns. Elizabeth has been distracted ever since the sighting of that strange woman on the heathland yesterday. Mary has no time for it.
‘My favourite colour is green.’
‘You have enough green gowns, Elizabeth, I think you should try something different.’
Mary sits in her chair, her stomach protruding before her. She thought the visit from the dress-maker might have cheered her, but her breasts still ache and her feet still itch. She feels as ugly as ever.
‘Fetch me some tea, Anne,’ Mary says once the dress woman has gone. ‘I should like a little ginger in it too. And some for Elizabeth with sugar.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Can’t shake this wretched sickness.’ Mary holds her stomach as Elizabeth takes the seat next to her. They are both in their robes, their hair down, inside Mary’s chamber.
Sighing at Elizabeth’s lack of conversation, Mary fiddles with the sleeve of her robe. The baby kicks and makes her wince.
‘Are you all right?’ Elizabeth asks.
‘It is just the child.’
Elizabeth’s gaze returns to the window.
‘I am worried,’ Mary says.
Mary had thought she would not confide in Tom’s beautiful sister, after all, they have not had the easiest of relationships. Yet, it seems she has no one else to turn to – certainly not her husband – and her mounting fears have been dancing through her mind for days now and torturing her dreams.
Convenient Women Collection Page 28