by Amy Cross
She reaches down and runs a fingertip against the top of the table.
“Dust,” she mutters, examining the fingertip once she's done. “So much dust.”
“I did some work in here last night,” I tell her, “but I left matters such as dusting to you. Well, and to your girls, as I thought at the time that they would be coming with you.”
I wait, but she seems lost for words. After a moment she looks up the stairs, and I notice that her mouth is hanging open in a most unladylike, unattractive manner. Indeed, the expression makes her look rather oafish. Finally, however, she closes her mouth, and then suddenly she turns to me.
“We must get started, then,” she says, as if filled with some fresh impetus. “There's no time to lose, and I should very much like to keep myself busy.”
“That's the spirit,” I reply.
“I shall begin by dusting this place to within an inch of its life,” she continues. “Then I shall have to get the kitchen up and running. Oh, I don't remember what state the oven was in when we left. Have you had a chance to examine it, Mr. Lawrence?”
“I have not.”
“I'm sure there's plenty of work to be done in there.” She steps past me. “Not to mention the pantry and the parlor. We have time to do all of this, but we mustn't dawdle.” She stops in the doorway and turns to me. “Can you fetch the dusters from the cupboard upstairs, please?”
“It would be a pleasure to help,” I tell her, relieved that she seems to be ready to work.
“And there are some spare curtains that I need.”
“Of course.”
“I would be very grateful if you could fetch them for me, Mr. Lawrence,” she continues, before turning to head through to the dining room. “They're in the summer house.”
A feel an instant flicker of concern in my chest.
“I beg your pardon?” I ask.
She stops and turns to me again.
“The curtains,” she says. “They're in the summer house. They're off-white with a rather delightful, decorated trim. Could you bring them in please, and take them into the sewing room? I'll examine them there.”
She turns to walk away.
“Perhaps you should fetch those,” I tell her.
She stops again, and turns again.
“After all,” I continue, “you're the one who knows exactly what to look for.”
“Don't be silly,” she replies, “there's only one set in there. They should be in the little room at the rear. Besides, they'll be ever so heavy and you know what my knees are like.” She stares at me for a moment. “You have no objection, Mr. Lawrence, do you?”
I pause, trying to think of an answer, but already my mouth feels dry and I worry that Mrs. Ferguson will see the fear in my eyes.
“I have no objection whatsoever,” I tell her, although I can hear the tightness in my own voice. I hope the tightness is not a giveaway. I take a moment to clear my throat. “I merely thought that perhaps there might be other items in the summer house that you would like to peruse,” I continue. “I would be happy to get the dusters from upstairs while you go out to the summer house and -”
“No,” she replies, turning and disappearing into the next room. “That's alright. Just bring the curtains in, Mr. Lawrence, and I shall take a look at them. Hopefully they can be used. I'd like to spruce the place up a little.”
She continues to talk, but she is getting too far away now and I can't hear her clearly. Finally, left standing all alone, I realize that my chance to talk my way out of this task is now over. It seems I must fetch the curtains from the summer house.
***
I suppose it was only to be expected that the summer house – exposed to the elements out here, as it is – would show signs of neglect. Indeed, as I get closer, I start to see that the white paint has begun to flake away on the side of the small building, and I find that sections of the path are now obscured by overhanging vegetation from the little ornamental garden that His Lordship once had planted here. All things considered, the area around the summer house is terribly overgrown, and I certainly hope that His Lordship does not want to come down here and take a look.
Then again, why would he ever want to come near the summer house again?
As I make my way along the path that leads to the summer house's double doors, I cannot help but glance at the pond. Even though I know I should not.
The water is disgustingly filthy, with green algae covering every area of the pond's surface. Slowing my pace for a moment, I begin to notice a terrible smell that seems to be rising from the pond itself, and I realize that returning the pond to its former glory would take many years. Not that His Lordship would ever want to undertake such a task, of course. Indeed, I would imagine that nobody in their right mind would seek to fix the pond and the area around the summer house. It would be better, I am certain, to just forget that this part of the property even exists.
Once I reach the summer house's entrance, I take a key from my pocket and use it to get the door open. I am not entirely sure what to expect, but once I have pulled the door aside I see that all the furniture inside has been left in absolute disarray. During the days when Aldburn Park was occupied, this summer house was maintained spotlessly, but the final hours of our time here unfolded rather differently.
I step inside and let the door swing shut, and I immediately notice something glinting on the carpet.
Crouching down, I see a solitary earring nestled amid the red, and I feel a shudder pass through my chest as I realize that this earrings once belonged to Her Ladyship. There is a hint of discoloration on the earring's lower edge, and I dimly recall her screaming once that an earrings had been ripped out of place. Was she bleeding from her ear on that fateful night?
Does it matter?
Nearby, a large spider scurries to safety behind a bookcase.
Getting to my feet, I take a moment to kick the earrings under a nearby chair, and then I pick my way past the overturned furniture. There is a fusty smell in here, no doubt due to the summer house having been left sealed for so many summers, and the air is distinctly dry and old. I struggle for a moment to climb over a set of chairs, and in the process I accidentally knock over one of the small tables that His Lordship sometimes had me position next to the pond.
The table bumps loudly as it lands on its side.
Extricating myself from the mess of legs, I finally reach the far side of the summer house. As I'm about to go through into the small storage room, however, I hear another bumping sound. I don't really think too much of the sound, but when I glance over my shoulder I see that the door to the summer house – which swung shut a moment ago – is suddenly in the process of very slowly, very steadily opening again. It is almost as if there is somebody else out there.
“Hello?” I say after a moment. “Mrs. Ferguson, is that you?”
I wait, supposing that perhaps she came down here after all, in order to help me. When there is no reply, however, I merely watch the door until it swings all the way open, revealing a view of the pond.
After a few seconds, I realize that I have inadvertently been holding my breath.
I turn and open the door that leads into the storage room. As soon as I have done so, I see several spiders on the far wall. I must confess that I am not a great fan of our arachnid friends, and some of these spiders look to be particularly large. I really would prefer to not take so much as a single step forward, but I can already see the curtains resting on a table and I know that Mrs. Ferguson would be highly suspicious if I returned empty-handed. Indeed, she can be irritatingly tenacious sometimes, when she believes that something is being withheld from her. It is in the spirit of determination, then, that I begin to pick my way through the gloomy storage room, until finally I reach the curtains and begin to pull them up.
Watching out, of course, for any further spiders.
“A butler who's afraid of spiders,” I remember His Lordship saying to me once, in a gentle and rather humorous ton
e. “I never heard of such a thing before.”
“I wouldn't say that I'm afraid, necessarily,” I replied. We were, as it happens, out by the pond on a gloriously bright day. “I certainly have never allowed a spider to get in the way of my work.”
“But they give you the frights, eh?”
“I tend to remove them from the house whenever possible,” I explained. “That seems, to me, to be a fair outcome for all concerned.”
“He'll never admit to being scared of them,” Her Ladyship interjected at that point. “He doesn't want to appear un-manly.”
“That is not the case at all,” I replied, keen to correct any false impression that might be generated by her words. “There is really no need to discuss the matter in any detail. Spiders are not a problem here at Aldburn Park.”
Now, as I carefully take the spare curtains from the table, I see several dead, curled-up spider corpses roll down the fabric and fall harmlessly to the floor.
“Mmm,” I murmur.
“It's okay to be scared of them,” Her Ladyship said on that sunny day, several years ago. “It makes you seem more human, Mr. Lawrence. Less like, I don't know, some kind of machine.”
“Fair play to the chap,” His Lordship replied, “I'd never say Lawrence is like a machine.”
“He doesn't smile much,” she said, grinning at me.
“I think you're mis-characterizing him quite terribly,” His Lordship said, and this defense made me feel rather heartened. “Lawrence and I have often exchanged good-natured, humorous comments. Come on, Catherine, don't be mean, and don't be overly critical. You don't know Lawrence like I do. You're not used to having a butler in the household, or to having staff at all. It'll take time.”
As I pull the last part of the curtains off the table, one final spider wriggles out from beneath a fold and falls onto the table. Relieved that it did not scurry onto my skin, I take a step back and watch as the wretched thing hurries off the table's far side and heads to safety in some other, darker part of the storage room.
And then, quite suddenly, and quite clearly, I hear Lady Fetchford laugh.
I instantly turn and look back out toward the main part of the summer house, and I can see the pond beyond the front door.
The laugh has ended, of course, but for a moment it was as if Her Ladyship's voice echoed across the years, as if I really heard her. I must admit, the effect is rather chilling and for a few seconds I can only stare at the open doorway and listen to the merciful silence.
And there is silence, broken only by the occasional tweet of a nearby bird.
Feeling rather relieved, I begin to pick my way back through the storage room, and then out into the main part of the summer house. In the process, I manage to knock over a couple of small boxes, but nothing is damaged. I seal the storage room once again, locking the spiders inside, and then I head to the main door and step out onto the path that runs toward the pond. Breathing a sigh of relief now that I have the – admittedly rather heavy and dirty – curtains, I take a moment to wipe a few cobwebs from my uniform and then I turn and carefully lock the door to the summer house.
There.
The task is complete.
I turn to carry the curtains back toward the main house, but then I stop as I see that the pond has been disturbed. Whereas before, there was green algae covering the entire surface, now a patch has been cleared, revealing the dark water beneath. I pause for a moment, before looking around, wondering what could have caused the patch to appear. Then I take a step closer and peer down into the water.
“Lawrence!” I remember His Lordship shouting out here on that final night. “Help me!”
I watch the water for a moment longer, before reminding myself that my duty is to the present day, not to the past. And with that, I turn and continue on my way to the house, while telling myself that the patch in the pond must have been caused by a bird or some other animal.
Chapter Eleven
The Story of Lady Harpingdon
“Well, will you look at this?” Mrs. Ferguson says as she turns to me in the music room, and she holds up a mask that must have been left over from one of His Lordship's masquerade ball.
She places the mask against her face, leaving only her eyes visible.
“Have you ever seen anything so funny?” she continues, her voice slightly muffled now by the mask. “Why, it's as if -”
“Please put that down,” I say, standing in the doorway, still holding the curtains.
“But Mr. Lawrence, don't you think -”
“Put it down!” I snap.
She does as I instructed, but now she is eyeing me with a curious expression.
“Mr. Lawrence,” she says after a moment, still holding the mask, “whatever is the matter?”
“I brought the curtains that you requested,” I reply. “If there is anything else that you require from the summer house, you really must go and fetch it yourself. I do not have the time to go out there over and over again.”
“There is nothing else I require from the summer house,” she says calmly, before looking down at the mask again. “This belonged to Her Ladyship, didn't it?”
“I have no idea,” I say, although in truth I am sure she is correct. “Where did you want me to put the curtains, again?”
“I wonder why it was left on that chair,” she continues, as if she either did not hear my question or did not consider it to be important. “Perhaps she dropped it there, toward the end, and nobody thought to -”
“Where do you want the curtains?”
“I keep finding little reminders of her,” she says, again dodging the question. “Aspects of her life.”
“Mrs. Ferguson -”
“I see you tried to wash that bloodied hand-print off the wall,” she adds. “You did a good job, but I shall finish it off with a little caustic soda. That night, she was so -”
“That is enough,” I say firmly, cutting her off. “Mrs. Ferguson, we do not have time to constantly think about the past. Indeed, even if we did, it would not be healthy. Please, let us focus on the tasks at hand, for they are plenty and we only have a few days before His Lordship arrives. Why, at any moment I might receive a telephone call, informing me that he has set a timetable for his journey. We must be ready.”
She hesitates, as if she intends to disagree with me, but then she nods.
“Set the curtains in the sewing room, if you would be so kind,” she replies. “I've put together a soup that we can eat tonight. There is no bread, but the soup will be hearty enough.”
“Excellent,” I reply, turning and heading out of the room before she has a chance to bring up the past again. “I look forward to it.”
***
Several hours later, with darkness having fallen outside, Mrs. Ferguson and I sit in the pantry with our bowls of soup. I must say that, while the soup itself is delicious, Mrs. Ferguson has a tendency to bang her spoon against the side of her bowl in a manner that I find rather irritating.
Still, I do not say anything.
I do not wish to cause offense.
“I found some jewelry,” Mrs. Ferguson says eventually. “It must have belonged to Her Ladyship. Some of it might be quite valuable. I put it on the dresser in her old room.”
“Mmm,” I reply.
We eat in silence for a few more minutes.
“Her Ladyship's clothes have been dreadfully attacked by moths,” she continues finally. “I do not think that anything can be -”
“Do with them as you see fit,” I reply.
“I think most are unfit for further use.”
“Mmm.”
We eat.
“Is that all you have to say?” she asks.
“Mmm?”
“Mmm,” she replies. “Mmm. You've started making that noise suddenly. Mmm. I think you do it more than you realize.”
“I had not meant to cause offense,” I reply. “I shall stop at once.”
“There is no -”
“And i
f you could refrain from hitting your spoon against the bowl,” I add, “I would be most grateful.”
“Oh.” She looks down at the spoon. “Well, I'm sorry.”
“There is no need to be sorry.”
“I shall not do it again.”
“Mmm.” I pause, staring at the bowl, aware that Mrs. Ferguson is probably staring at me with a smile. Finally, I glance at her.
I was right.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
“I have more work to do after we have eaten,” I tell her. “I imagine that you do too.”
“Endless quantities,” she replies. “I think the work will never end.”
“One hopes not,” I mutter.
For the next few minutes, we once again eat in silence, and I am relieved that Mrs. Ferguson does not see fit to bring up any further matters. Finally I finish my soup, and I set the spoon down before glancing at Mrs. Ferguson. I intended to inform her that I must go now and resume my tasks, but instead I hesitate as I see that she is glancing up at the ceiling with a most fearful expression.
“Is everything alright?” I ask.
She turns to me.
“Did you hear it?” she replies.
“Hear what?”
“You'll think me silly, Mr. Lawrence,” she continues, “but for a moment there, I thought I heard somebody... moving about, somewhere in the house.”
“Quite impossible.”
“I know.”
“It was the wind, perhaps,” I tell her, “or simply the old house settling a little. After all, it is being heated now for the first time in several years.”
She nods, but she does not seem convinced.
“So you heard nothing?” she asks finally.
“There was nothing to hear, I am sure.”
She nods again.
“And are you sure that nothing unusual happened last night?” she asks. “While you were alone here, I mean. Or supposedly alone. Did you really not... feel anything?”
“I was a little cold at first,” I reply, “but that was nothing that could not be remedied with an extra blanket.”