The Haunting of Aldburn Park

by Amy Cross

  “Lawrence,” he says finally, “I...”

  Again, I wait.

  After a few seconds, I see that there are tears in his eyes.

  “Lawrence,” he says again, sounding almost as if he is choking now, “I -”

  Suddenly there is a brief, loud metallic banging sound, and we both turn and look at the door that leads out to the hallway.

  “Blast it,” I hear Mrs. Ferguson saying, accompanied by the sound of footsteps hurrying from – I believe – the conservatory to the kitchen.

  For a moment, I wonder whether she might have been loitering outside the door, attempting to listen to our conversation. Then I remember that she mentioned something about polishing the silverware in the conservatory, and I come to the realization that she must simply have dropped one of the items. After all, the sound – if she had been just outside the door – would have been louder. I also do not think that Mrs. Ferguson is an eavesdropper.

  I turn back to His Lordship.

  “It is quite alright,” I say. “Just a small mishap.”

  He stares at me for a moment, before shaking his head and then breaking into a rather embarrassed smile.

  “Sir?” I continue. “Is everything satisfactory?”

  “I think I need to rest, Lawrence,” he replies, sounding relieved. “The journey was rather tough, you know? I know it sounds terribly weak, but I might take forty winks.”

  “Of course,” I say, heading around to the top of the makeshift bed and starting to rearrange His Lordship's pillows.

  As I work, however, I cannot help but wonder what His Lordship had been about to say just now, before the banging sound interrupted us. I do not wish to push, of course, but at the same time I am extremely curious.

  “I believe,” I say finally, “that His Lordship wished to tell me something.”

  He takes a moment to settle down with the back of his head against the pillow. For a few seconds he seems lost in thought, almost as if he has forgotten that I am here.

  “Never mind all that,” he mutters finally, sounding weary. “Lawrence, tell Mrs. Ferguson that I probably shan't want dinner tonight. It'd be nice if there could be something left aside, just in case, but my appetite isn't so good these days. I'm sure you'll both understand. There's just too much...”

  He continues to speak, but the rest of his words are lost. He is mumbling now, as if talking to himself, and I once again feel as if I am in some way intruding. And then, when he turns his head away slightly and closes his eyes, I realize that it might be prudent of me to simply leave the room for now and return later, when he is rested. Yes, a short nap will surely do him the world of good. So I turn and head toward the door, ignoring my instinct to stay. Even though my master is still mumbling away to himself, I leave the room and go to find Mrs. Ferguson.

  Yes, all His Lordship needs is a rest. Then he will surely be his old, vital self again.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Night is Coming

  “Now listen up,” His Lordship says, striding purposefully across the bright lawn and then stopping and raising his walking stick, pointing toward the roof of the house. “I'm going to have some work done on this place. I'm going to modernize Aldburn Park and drag it into the twentieth century.”

  “I see, Sir,” I reply, a little breathless now as I hurry to catch up to him. “Perhaps I might be permitted to -”

  “It all looks so wretchedly old, doesn't it?” he continues. “More like a mausoleum than a proper house that people live in.” He turns to me and smiles. “Then again, I suppose perhaps that appeals to you, Lawrence, doesn't it?”

  “I cannot say, Sir.”

  “I feel as if it's still my father's house,” he says. “Do you understand what I mean? The old man's been dead for a decade and a half, but I feel as if I haven't yet put my stamp on Aldburn Park. Now that I'm to be married, I really must start planning for the future. Why, one day I shall have a son of my own, and he'll probably want to refurbish the place all over again and put his stamp on it all. It's natural. It's normal. And I'm going to get started!”

  “Very good, Sir,” I reply, nodding slightly.

  “It'll all be in good taste, of course,” he continues, turning to look back at the house. “I shan't do anything ghastly.”

  “Mr. Lawrence?” Mrs. Ferguson says cautiously.

  “It'll still be easily recognized as Aldburn Park,” His Lordship says. “I'm not a maniac. I just want to spruce up a few of the old rough edges.”

  “Mr. Lawrence?”

  “All that gray stonework is so dull, isn't it? Do you know something, Lawrence? I'm starting to wonder whether it might be possible to completely change the color of the house. White would be nice, wouldn't it? I want Aldburn Park to look happy and striking, not like some sad old pile of rocks.”

  “Mr. Lawrence.”

  Startled, I turn and see that Mrs. Ferguson is at the foot of the stairs. Then, equally startled, I realize that I myself am halfway up, with one hand resting on the banister.

  “I'm sorry, Mr. Lawrence,” she continues, “were you...”

  Her voice trails off.

  “I was just going to check on something,” I say, as I start to realize that I must have started daydreaming while I was making my way up to the top floor. “Is there any matter that requires my attention?”

  “No,” she replies. “Not that I am aware of, at least.”

  I wait for her to continue, but finally I understand that she disturbed me not because she needed anything, but because – I imagine – she was rather struck by the sight of me standing here in this manner.

  “Awful weather, isn't it?” she continues, evidently trying to make light, pleasant conversation. “I wish it'd rain properly and get it over with. This constant dribbling rain is so horrible, isn't it?”

  “I dare say the plants in the garden are happy enough,” I reply.

  “Well, you might have a point there,” she says, before pausing for a moment. “And are you quite alright, Mr. Lawrence?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Are you alright?” She stares at me. “I was just thinking, how strange it must be for you to be back here. And you've been in His Lordship's service for so long, it must be difficult to see him in his present condition. So I thought I'd ask if you're okay, and let you know that if you ever need to talk...”

  Again, her voice trails off.

  “I am quite alright, thank you,” I reply, although in truth I feel rather uncomfortable. Never before has Mrs. Ferguson asked such a personal question. “Although His Lordship says that he does not want a meal this evening, I hope that you will have something ready, in case he changes his mind.”

  “Of course, Mr. Lawrence. But -”

  “Something light,” I add, interrupting her before she has a chance to change the subject again. “Something easy to digest.”

  “Of course.”

  She hesitates. It's clear that there is a great deal more that she would like to say, but perhaps she finally understands that it is not her place to do so? One can but hope.

  I turn to continue my journey upstairs, but then I stop as I realize I can hear a voice in the distance. I listen for a moment, and then I turn to Mrs. Ferguson and see that she too has heard the voice.

  “Is that...” She stares at me for a moment. “Mr. Lawrence, is His Lordship talking to someone?”

  ***

  “No, you don't understand,” His Lordship is saying, sounding quite anguished as Mrs. Ferguson and I approach the door to the study. “Please, I'm begging you, don't come any closer.”

  I stop as soon as I see him. To my surprise, he has climbed off the makeshift bed and is now cowering in the far corner of the room. He has one hand outstretched toward the window, as if to ward something away. I look toward the window, but all I see is the fresh spattering of rain hitting the other side of the glass.

  “Your Lordship?” I say, stepping forward. “Is something wrong?”

  He turns
to me, and I am shocked to see an expression of absolute fear on his face. He stares at me for a moment, and then he looks back across the room. His mouth is hanging open slightly, and I confess that in all these years I have never seen him with such a haggard, terrified appearance.

  “Perhaps,” I continue, making my way toward him, “His Lordship would be more comfortable if he returned to the bed. Or if he at least reposed in one of the chairs.”

  “Didn't you see her?” he asks, still staring at the window.

  I look again in that direction.

  Light rain continues to fall.

  “You must have seen her,” His Lordship continues. “Come on, Lawrence, you're not an idiot. You have eyes. She was right there when you walked in.”

  I look over my shoulder and see that Mrs. Ferguson is watching us from the doorway, and then I turn once more to His Lordship.

  “Oh God,” he stammers, “I knew she'd come. I knew it.”

  I walk over to join him, and then I look yet again at the window.

  “I just didn't know it'd be like that,” His Lordship continues, sounding close to tears now. “Oh God, Lawrence, I've never seen anything like it. The look on her face, the way she looked at me. At first I thought she was outside, but then I realized it was a reflection. She was right in here with me, Lawrence. She was in the room, she had her back to me but her reflection was -”

  Before he can finish, he lets out an anguished cry and covers his face with his hands. I can hear him sobbing now, although at the same time he seems to be trying to say something, mumbling through the tears. The only word I can make out, however, is his wife's name, which he is repeating over and over again. His Lordship has always been a strong and steadfast man; to see him brought down so low is, for a few seconds, rather overwhelming.

  “She was right here with me,” he whimpers finally. “I could only see her reflection, but she was in the room! Dear God, save me from her! I cannot stand to see her face again! I just can't!”

  “Let's get him up,” Mrs. Ferguson says, suddenly stepping past me and crouching next to him. “Your Lordship, we're going to get you into a chair. Can you understand?”

  He lowers his hands and turns to look at her, but his face still shows that horrified, tortured expression. It is as if his features are twisted into the most terrible state. He barely looks like himself at all.

  “One, two, three,” Mrs. Ferguson continues, and to my amazement I see that she is managing to get him up from his position in the corner. “There we go,” she continues, talking to him almost as if he were a child. “It's not so hard, is it? Now just one more little heave and you'll be in that nice comfortable chair. How does that sound?”

  He lets out a faint murmur, and – as he allows himself to be led forward – he remains terribly hunched. His face is lowered, as if he dares not look around the room, and he has the overall appearance of a man who expects something horrific to suddenly lunge at him at any moment, from any direction.

  “I knew she'd be here,” he sobs, as he slowly lowers himself into the armchair, “but I didn't think she'd be like that. I thought she'd forgive me.”

  Mrs. Ferguson glances at me briefly, and then she turns and continues to help settle him into the chair.

  “You'll be perfectly fine here, Your Lordship,” she says, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder as he continues to shiver. “Now perhaps it would be as well to eat a little something, even if you don't entirely feel like it. You need your strength, after all, and I happen to have made a lovely stew, just like the ones you always enjoy in the winter. Would that be to your taste, Sir?”

  He pauses for a moment and then – rather shockingly – he reaches out and clasps her hand with both of his, holding her tight as if to gain some strength from her proximity. I have never before seen him show such emotion in the company of a member of staff, yet now he clings to Mrs. Ferguson as if she is of great importance.

  “Mr. Lawrence will wait here with you,” she says soothingly, before slowly slipping free of his grip. “I shall be right back with some food.”

  She waits, as if to make sure that he does not panic now that she is going, and then she steps away and comes to join me.

  “Wait here with him,” she whispers.

  I turn to follow her.

  “Mrs. Ferguson, I -”

  “Wait here with him,” she says again, much more firmly this time.

  I stop in my tracks and open my mouth to admonish her for being so forthright with me, but she casts a glare in my direction that immediately gives me second thoughts. Then she hurries out of the room, and I am left standing with my mouth still slightly open, poised to offer a response.

  “Mmm,” I say finally.

  For a few seconds, I do not quite know what to do next. Then, hearing a faint shuffling sound, I turn and see that His Lordship is looking once again toward the window. There is a keenness in his eyes, a sense of expectation, as if he is convinced that at any moment he shall see something quite terrible.

  I want to calm his worries, but I cannot find the words.

  “You saw her, Lawrence, didn't you?” he says finally, before turning to me again. “Tell me truthfully. You saw my wife. Just now. When you came into the room.”

  “Sir, I -”

  “Tell me the truth, damn it!” he snaps.

  I take a moment to compose myself.

  “I cannot say that I saw anyone else in the room,” I say, hoping that these words will be enough.

  “Not even in the window?” he asks. “That's where I saw her. It's where I saw her before, too. A reflection of her face.”

  “I am sorry, Sir,” I reply. “I did not.”

  “What about before I arrived?” he continues. “You were here alone for a time, were you not?”

  “I was, Sir.”

  “And there was no...”

  I wait, but he seems struck by a sense of absolute disbelief.

  “What I mean, Lawrence,” he adds finally, “is that while you were alone here, was there not so much as one time when you felt... or saw... I...”

  I wait.

  He seems unable to complete the sentence.

  “I was quite alone for the first night,” I tell him, “and then Mrs. Ferguson arrived for the second night, and now you are here for the third night.” I pause, hoping that this explanation will suffice, but his expression remains one of absolute terror. “And that is simply how it is,” I add.

  “Oh,” he sighs, before sinking back into the chair as if he has lost all the fight in his body. He seems exhausted. “It's just me, then. I was afraid it would be so, but I suppose I held out hope that... I knew she would be waiting for me. I knew I had to come back here at the end.”

  Again I wait, but I am beginning to think that His Lordship is talking more to himself than to me.

  “Night is coming,” he continues, still staring at the window. “She's waiting for me, I know she is. Night is coming and she will surely have her vengeance.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  A Final Breakdown

  It was here – right here in this very room – that I first perceived the signs of a final breakdown between Lord and Lady Fetchford. It was on a cold and wet night that I first realized that His Lordship could not be expected to deal with such histrionics.

  “My wife has changed her mind about dinner,” His Lordship said as I entered the room, carrying a second bottle of red wine to replace the one that they had already drunk. “She has suddenly decided to stop eating meat.”

  “When I look at those poor animals,” Lady Fetchford said with a grin, seated at the opposite end of the dining table, “I just think it's rotten to eat them, that's all. It's barbaric, and we should – as a species – move on from that sort of thing.”

  I stared at her for a moment, not quite understanding her point, before turning to His Lordship for some further explanation.

  “It means she won't be wanting the beef for dinner,” he said through gritted teeth. �
�I know that makes things difficult, what with Mrs. Ferguson having gone back to the townhouse today, but is there something you can rustle up alone, Lawrence? Maybe some salad leaves?”

  “I...

  For a moment, I was quite lost for words. Then, remembering my duty to protect Lord Fetchford from such trivial concerns, I merely nodded courteously – while not having a single clue what I would manage to make. After all, Mrs. Ferguson had planned the meals out for the next few days, and she had left me strict instructions as to how everything was to be put together. There had been no suggestion, at that time, that meat might be off the menu.

  “It should be possible,” she said after a few seconds, “to make a nice meal without killing a poor, defenseless little animal.”

  “Oh, for pity's sake,” His Lordship muttered, rolling his eyes, “where did this stupid idea come from?”

  “There is no need to be concerned,” I said diplomatically, before making my way over to one end of the table and beginning to un-cork the wine, some of which I then poured into His Lordship's glass so that he could give it a taste. “I am quite sure that I can deliver a fine meal, although I would caution that it might take a few minutes longer, since I shall have to deviate quite drastically from Mrs. Ferguson's fine and measured instructions.”

  His Lordship tasted the wine, and then nodded his assent.

  I turned and made my way to the other end of the table, and then I poured Her Ladyship a large glass before returning to His Lordship's side and pouring him an equally large serving.

  “Am I causing trouble again?” Her Ladyship asked.

  I turned to her and saw that she was watching me with startling intensity. I had by that point grown very accustomed to her strange ways, but this time she seemed even more disturbed than normal. I recall feeling that her stare, at that moment, seemed like something of a challenge. It was all I could do to remain my usual diplomatic self.

  “It's no trouble at all,” I told her. “Please, think noting of the matter.”

  “No trouble at all?” she replied, seeming rather skeptical. “I up-end your plans for dinner, and you won't even admit that you're irritated?”