by Graham West
We sat in the drawing room while Clara occupied herself in the library. “I have a matter to discuss with you,” she told me. “It is with regard to your duties within the house.”
It was then that Mrs. Stanwick revealed that, during one of her husband’s frequent and prolonged absences, she had become intimate with another man. “We spent many hours together, walking in the grounds. He was intelligent and self-educated, with impeccable manners and a kindly heart. I loved him and one night he came to me.”
Mrs. Stanwick’s mood was solemn. That is when I learned that she had become pregnant with her lover’s child. As the governess, I felt it was my place to listen and not to enquire, but having encountered the rather unpleasant Mr. Stanwick, I was slow to judge the woman, despite having found myself unable to disguise my shock.
When Mr. Stanwick learned of the pregnancy he beat his wife so badly that a doctor was called. He was, however, unrepentant and made it clear that he never wanted to set eyes on the child and left the house, remaining abroad for several months. It was during this time Mrs. Stanwick gave birth to a girl.
She had arranged for medical assistance and insisted that no one beyond the walls of The Grange should ever hear of the birth. The baby was not to be registered. Stanwick insisted that it was to be raised in the attic room at the top of the house, and his daughter, Clara, was never to know of its existence, although I am at a loss to know how this was kept from her during the nine months she was with child.
“And that is everything you need to know,” Mrs. Stanwick said, rising from her chair. “And I think you know what I am going to ask.”
It was with much trepidation that I followed Mrs. Stanwick up a narrow flight of stairs to a wooden door. She turned briefly. “It is not my choice,” she informed me coldly. “I have taught the child as much as I know. I owe her an education.” With that, she turned the key and pushed open the door. The room was small and bare, with only a tin bath tub, a bed, a wooden trunk and a desk, where a small girl of five sat staring out of a tiny window.
The child, her black hair tied back into a bun, turned as we entered. “This is Amelia,” Mrs. Stanwick told her. “She has beautiful eyes.”
I gasped, for indeed, her eyes were unusually large. I was alarmed by the paleness of her skin yet when she smiled, I knew that I could learn to care for that wretched child.
I committed two hours of each day to the education of little Amelia who, unlike Clara, seemed anxious to learn. She spoke well and took great delight in recording almost everything I told her in a diary that her mother had provided. She had a beautiful hand. She addressed me as Miss Bell but corrected me when I referred to her as Amelia Stanwick. “My name is not Amelia Stanwick,” she told me. “My name is Amelia Root.”
I enquired as to why this was. Amelia smiled. “That is my father’s name,” she said in a whisper. “He works in the gardens.”
Amelia’s father would visit every few days, taking her into the gardens. I, too, would take Amelia out, careful that Clara was not present. Amelia would wonder at everything. The trees, the breeze on her face, the blue sky and white, rolling clouds. She would sob on her return to the room and take solace in her books and her diary, where she would record the things she had seen and would often sketch the world beyond her tiny window from memory alone.
I feel only joy when I recall those days, watching the little girl as she grew into a young woman in the body of a child. She was small, developing little, but when she closed her eyes, I realised that there was an unusual beauty in that face. Her mind was sharp and I loved her. I loved her as if she were my own child, and it is with a heavy heart that I relate the following.
On Amelia’s seventeenth birthday, I was asked to inform her that the minister from St. Jude’s was to pay her a visit. Amelia was perplexed by the news, wondering what a man of God could possibly want with her. Just after lunch, I heard Mrs. Stanwick arguing with a man at in the main lounge. I considered it wise to move into the garden and take an afternoon stroll.
Later that day I passed the Reverend Allington on the main stairs. The man appeared extremely agitated and barely acknowledged me. I found Amelia sobbing uncontrollably, but the girl would not be pressed as to what had caused her distress, and I felt it was prudent to let the matter drop, choosing not to report the incident to Mrs. Stanwick.
Reverend Allington visited Amelia several times over the following weeks, and it troubled me to see the change in her quiet and friendly disposition. The girl would begin to cry over the most simple matters and would frequently leave her food. On one occasion, I found her standing in the tub, naked and scrubbing her body with a brush, her skin raw and bleeding.
Eventually, I brought my concerns to the attention of Mrs. Stanwick, who promised to look into the matter. It was shortly after this that one afternoon, Clara became unwell and, with no further duties that day, I decided to visit Amelia. When I arrived at the attic door, I heard sounds from inside. Fearing that Amelia might harm herself, I pushed open the door.
It was with horror that I saw the figure of the Reverend Allington forcing himself on Amelia, who was naked, her legs wrenched apart, her screams muffled by the pillow held over her face. The minister turned, his face the colour of a ruby. “Get out!” he bellowed. “Get out now!”
I slammed the door shut, fear overtaking my desire to come to Amelia’s rescue. I waited, consumed with hatred and guilt, until the Reverend Allington appeared minutes later. He addressed me curtly. “This is God’s will,” he said, “and it is no business of yours. Should your tongue ever be loosened, you will never set foot in the house of God again.” He smiled grimly. “And your soul will burn in hell!”
I discovered shortly after this that Mrs. Stanwick had knowledge of the Reverend’s visits. “The Reverend Allington and his wife are childless,” she told me tearfully. “We have an agreement with them, arranged, quite naturally, by my husband, who cares nothing for Amelia’s welfare.”
“But why? Amelia is protesting!” I told her. “She is resisting his attentions and she is becoming increasingly distressed.” Mrs. Stanwick raised the palm of her hand. “Say no more! There is nothing I can do!”
I discovered the Reverend Allington learned of Amelia’s existence and had been visiting for months without my knowledge, offering spiritual guidance to Mrs. Stanwick, but his kindness was to be rewarded with a child.
I continued in the service of the Stanwick family only for the sake of Amelia, who, ten months later, gave birth to a baby. A certain Dr. Ellis delivered the child while the Reverend Allington waited in the lounge. Ellis passed the child to Allington at ten past five in the evening, assuring him that the baby was healthy, and agreed to accompany him home.
I was allowed to visit Amelia after two hours and found her sitting up in her bed, her eyes closed. At that time, I felt as if my heart would burst with sorrow and shame. Amelia opened her eyes and I have never seen such grief. “They have taken my baby,” she said. “They have taken my poor baby!”
I could not console her, and over the following weeks, she became impossible to teach. Ellis would visit Amelia to salve his own conscience but cared little for his patient. Then, one day, I found that Amelia was not in her room. I immediately reported this to Harriet, and we both searched the house and gardens for several hours, but Amelia was nowhere to be seen.
We came across Jacob Root in the lane, and Harriet, still clearly smitten with her gardener, asked him if he had seen Amelia. “She will be at the church,” he said. “For the christening of her child.”
Harriet was taken aback and asked how Amelia had found out. Jacob looked angry. I could tell that he now despised Harriet. “I informed her,” he replied. “It is, after all, her child.”
I was not there to witness the moment Amelia intruded upon the ceremony, with her claims that were dismissed by the congregation and indeed the whole community, as the ranting of a mad woman, but I remember the Reverend Allington calling at The Grange the following d
ay, his face contorted with rage.
Amelia had returned and, ignoring her mother’s rebuke, taken to her room. I tried to stop the Reverend Allington, but he shook me away like a child’s doll. I followed him, up the narrow flights of stairs, until I reached the open door. Amelia stood when she saw him. He stepped forward.
“You ungrateful child of hell,” he muttered. “How dare you enter the house of God and accuse me in front of my flock? You came from hell and it is there you shall return!”
Amelia stared at him. “Sir, I have read my Bible through. It is the same Bible that you read yet fail to understand. It is you who will stand before God on judgment day and it is you who will have to account for your actions.”
This enraged the Reverend Allington. “How dare you speak to me of such things, you daughter of a whore!” With that, he grasped Amelia’s shoulders and pushed her hard. I saw her falling backwards against the desk. I tried to intervene but again, reverend Allington pushed me aside. Amelia stared up at him. “Leave me be,” she hissed, her eyes fixed on the minister.
The Reverend Allington was furious and, with a single hand, took her by the neck. I swear before God that I could have done nothing to prevent the events that followed, for I didn’t notice her hand on the knife I’d used for peeling apples from the garden lying alongside her diary.
“God has put you on this Earth for a purpose,” he roared. The Reverend Allington tightened his grip on her neck just as Amelia raised her arm high in the air and plunged the knife into his chest with a force I had never imagined she possessed. I screamed as the Reverend stepped backwards. He looked at me, his eyes filled with terror, and I watched helplessly as he collapsed upon the floor. Amelia ran from the room as I remained, standing over the Reverend Allington as his eyes closed. I called for Mrs. Stanwick, who was quick to summon Dr. Ellis. But by the time he arrived the minister was dead.
Dr. Ellis told the Parish that their minister had died of a heart attack. I find it difficult to believe that such a thing could remain a secret, but not even his wife knew the truth. Jacob Root went looking for his daughter later that day, followed by three rather uncouth looking men who Dr. Ellis had ordered to find the girl. They never found Amelia, but I overheard one of the men telling Mrs. Stanwick that Jacob Root had been dealt with and his actions avenged. To this day, I believe they killed him. Harriet would not allow me to mention Amelia’s name, and I left two months later and with a generous remuneration in exchange for my silence. No one must ever know that Amelia Root existed.
I have borne the guilt of my silence for too long and would beseech you not to destroy this letter. It will serve as the only written evidence of Amelia’s pitiful existence and the inhumanity of those who profess to serve God. I, an undeserving soul, have found employment abroad and shall be leaving these shores within the week. May the Lord forgive me. Amelia may have no grave on this earth but she will always remain in my heart. Sarah Bell
Ellen Pascoe watched me as I folded the letter and replaced it in the envelope. “So now we know,” I said. “Amelia exists.”
Mrs. Pascoe nodded. “Yes dear. And it’s quite a story isn’t it!”
I wanted to smile. I should have felt elated, relieved that my daughter had been right all along, yet, I felt strangely burdened. “One thing that bothers me…” I said, staring down at the gold swirls in the carpet. “My daughter believes that Amelia is her ancestor…but she can’t be…she’s yours.”
And that is when I saw it in the old woman’s eyes. Knowledge. If I had not addressed her face-to-face, I’d have missed it but however fleeting that look might have been, I’d no doubt. “What is it, Mrs. Pascoe? What am I missing?”
“Missing?” The old lady replied wearily.
I leaned forward, meeting her eyes “I have an incomplete jigsaw here. There are pieces missing!”
Ellen looked down at her frail hands and shifted forward. “I can only offer you advice,” she said, her voice breaking. “You have found out all you need to know. Let it rest.”
“But I need to see the complete picture,” I replied continuing with the jigsaw analogy.
“If you find those pieces, Mr. Adams, the picture will change. Please leave it alone.” Ellen Pascoe stood, signalling that it was time for me to leave.
“Last night,” I began as I left the room behind my host. “Last night…I heard you crying.”
Mrs. Pascoe spun round with the agility of a woman half her age. Her eyes fixed on mine. “Last night, Mr. Adams, I was sound asleep!”
I saw fear. “At half past eleven, last night, you were crying.”
The fear turned to anger. “How could you know that? How? This is silly, Mr. Adams. I have helped you as much as I can, and I am beginning to regret it. Now, please go. Please.”
The look in Ellen Pascoe’s eyes haunted me, and as hard as I tried, my efforts to dismiss it as a mere figment of my over-active imagination failed. Conjecture is always a dangerous thing, leading its victims up blind alleys and abandoning them in dark places. My father had always taught me that you should only work with fact. Anything less was a waste of time. That night, I prayed for his strength.
***
Jenny could see the look in my eyes. I had always been an open book—heart-on-my-sleeve kind of person—and this was good news. I was a father with a gift for my baby.
“We’ve found her!” I said, slamming the door shut behind me.
Jenny sat upright in her bed.
“I spoke to Mrs. Pascoe. She had letters…”
My daughter listened patiently as I told her the story, starting with the tree and ending with the last words of a guilt-ridden governess, but Jenny was troubled by the same thoughts as me.
“But why did she call me her daughter? Why should everything else I’ve seen be right, yet this one thing…”
“It could have been a term—like women call each other ‘sisters’.”
Jenny shook her head. “She was inside my head, Dad—inside here—my heart. I know what she meant.”
A young male nurse interrupted us with profuse apologies and took the empty tea tray from the bedside table. Jenny waited until he had gone.
“I need to get out of this place, Dad. Amelia wants me out.” She stared ahead at the wall, as if a great burden had come to rest on her shoulders. “This will not be over—not until we find her body.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
I called Sebastian Tint the following morning. He sounded bright and cheerful, almost as if the news of my visit to Ellen Pascoe had already reached him on a strange, spiritual wind.
“I’m so glad,” he said after I’d told him the story. “I’m about to take a walk—maybe you could come with me.”
I had never felt quite so enthusiastic about such simple exercise—or maybe it was the company. I felt at ease with the old guy. He was eloquent and wise, yet the years had shaped him into a man of compassion, and it seemed to me sometimes that no one else on Earth could have filled my father’s shoes.
We walked for nearly an hour, taking public footpaths through fields and over streams, a man and his hound at peace with the world. I told Tint how Jenny had confronted me with Melissa Ingram’s name, which meant I then had to tell him the whole tale of my infidelity. The old man nodded, deep in thought.
“Have you asked yourself why the spirit of a dead woman would want to reveal such a thing to your daughter?”
I hadn’t.
“You see, Amelia wanted to bring this affair to light—therefore, it must have some relevance.”
“To what?”
“Well, that is what we need to find out.”
“But Jenny hasn’t had any dreams recently—”
Sebastian cut me short. “Because now she is speaking to you.” He raised his eyebrows. “The face in the tree?”
I had sailed through my brush with the spirit world without having stopped to consider its relevance. Had those leaves and branches really formed themselves into a shape? Or had it all been a
figment of my imagination, infiltrated by a restless spirit? Nor had I questioned whose face it had been. I knew. I knew without question and acted instinctively.
We walked for over an hour, stopping at a canal-side inn for a drink, leaving the subject of the paranormal alone in favour of lighter subjects. Ricky lay patiently, looking up occasionally to check that his master had not managed to sneak any food onto the table when he wasn’t looking.
***
I felt unusually optimistic that afternoon and arrived at Jenny’s bedside in a buoyant mood.
“You drunk, Dad?” she said with a frown.
“I had a drink with Seb,” I told her. “Only one…but I had a couple more at home.”
“A couple?”
“Don’t worry, I took a taxi…and I’m here!”
“So you are.”
“I’m just happy, that’s all.”
“About what?”
“Because I know it’s all going to be okay—I just know.”
Jenny grinned. “How much have you had…really?”
“Two pints with Sebastian and then, when I got home…” I had to think. “Erm…a bottle of beer and…and…wine. That’s it. Wine.”
“How much wine?”
“Well, there wasn’t a lot left in the bottle…I don’t think so, anyway.”
“How much exactly? A half? A quarter?”
“Erm…kind of a…well…I suppose…nothing, really!”
Jenny giggled. The alcohol had kicked in and my head had started to ache. This, I thought, is why I shouldn’t drink during the day.
***
The alcohol spun me into deep and beautiful sleep that night, having topped up my levels with a rum and ginger just to make sure I wasn’t awake when my demons paid their customary visit. When I woke, the autumn sun was filtering through the curtains. It was mid-morning, the longest sleep I’d had since Elizabeth and Hanna had died. It meant something…yes, something. But I wasn’t sure what.