I follow the sound as Father paces back and forth across the room above, where Agnes sleeps. She tuts and huffs to herself. I haven’t the patience for Agnes’s moods today so I leave her and go up by the kitchen stairs. When I reach the room I find it empty. Back out on the gallery I hesitate by the door to the old bedchamber, reluctant to enter. I press my ear to the wood for a moment, the memory of last night causing cold fingers to brush my neck, my heart to beat faster. Then, telling myself I’m being foolish, I go inside.
That room is empty too. The air is thick and mote-heavy. There are pathways in the dust where I shifted boxes. I go to the window and look out: nothing. When I turn back my eye falls upon the fire screen. The boy’s gaze is blank and staring, seeming to follow me. I turn the thing towards the wall and leave.
I search the rest of the upper floor. Father is not in his bedchamber, but finally I see him from the window of my own. He’s standing amid the kitchen beds in the walled garden behind the house, staring at something on the ground. How he can have got there without passing me is a mystery I’ll have to puzzle out later.
By the time I reach him, he’s kneeling in the dirt, beside a row of onions. Their green shoots are just starting to sprout. He grips one thin leaf between finger and thumb, leans forward until his nose almost touches it, sniffs long and hard, then sighs and sits back on his heels.
‘Father?’
He’s startled by my sudden interruption, turning to me with a wistful, faraway gaze. ‘Do you remember the gardens at Wickford?’ he says. ‘They had the most exquisite roses. I’ve never found a scent to match it.’
Wickford was my grandfather’s house – my mother’s father, whom I never met and who is long dead, his estate entailed away to a distant relative. Father rarely speaks of it, but when he does, he might be speaking of a fantasy – a mythical place of beauty and ease. I’ve never been there.
‘Do you remember how we would walk there?’ he goes on. ‘And we would stop and smell the scents. I would grow roses just as fine for you if I could, my dear, but the soil here is not right for roses. See how they falter . . .’
‘I’ve never been to Wickford, Father. You know that.’
He hesitates, eyes clouding, daydream dissolving. ‘Forgive me, child. For a moment I was lost in memory. You remind me so much of your mother at times. We used to walk in the gardens at Wickford in our courting days. Her father grew the most wonderful roses. I’ll never be able to match them here, no matter how I try. The soil is not right.’
‘We’ve never grown roses here.’
‘Have we not?’ He climbs slowly to his feet and looks about him, taking in the freshly weeded soil where we’ve planted beans, carrots and turnips, the bed of herbs that Agnes tends, the little patch of primroses. ‘No, of course not. The soil is not right at all . . .’ He prods the earth with his cane, distracted, lost in thought.
‘Are you unwell, Father?’
‘I’ve never been heartier.’ This is clearly untrue but there’s no sense in challenging him: he will deny his failing health till he takes the coffin path.
‘Then I must speak with you.’ I indicate a low stone bench against the wall of the garden. ‘Will you sit with me?’
He does so, following me to the seat. I notice how he looks about, frowning, confused, as if surprised to find himself outside.
I’m not sure how to begin, so I wait awhile, gathering courage.
‘Have we received a reply from Pastor Flynn?’ he asks, sitting, leaning his cane against the bench. ‘It’s been . . . how many weeks now?’
‘He spoke to us at church.’
‘We must have that blessing.’
‘But he assured us it had taken place. Don’t you remember?’
He frowns again. ‘I must see the thing done with my own eyes.’
A flicker of concern rises in me. ‘Why?’
‘I’ve been remiss in my duties of late. How can I have for-gotten about Cross Day? What will the good Lord think if the first man of the parish cannot show his face on such an occasion?’ Then, agitated, ‘Yes, I must be sure we have that blessing.’
‘Pastor Flynn is a man of his word. He wouldn’t lie to us.’
‘Even so, it would put my mind at rest to have a man of the cloth to pray with us.’
His eyes wander across the face of the house, searching for something. Then he turns to me. ‘My dear, I’m glad to have this moment alone with you. There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask.’
My stomach clenches. Does he know I’ve been keeping the coins from him?
‘Have you ever thought to live a different kind of life?’
I hesitate, surprised. ‘What do you mean?’
‘We live a mean existence here. Sometimes . . . sometimes I wonder if I’ve done right by you. We never have much in the way of company.’
‘I’ve no need for company. I have you and Agnes.’
There is regret in his eyes. ‘I always did what I thought best for you, but perhaps I’ve not done as I should. Do you never wish to live among others? Do you never wish for friends? Perhaps a husband?’
He’s never asked me this before. The question is like a pinprick in my heart. But the feeling is fleeting and quickly stilled – it’s been many years since I allowed myself to think that such a thing might be possible, or desirable.
‘I have all I need,’ I say, and I mean it.
‘This place . . .’ he says, looking again towards the house. ‘Have you never wished to leave?’
‘How can you ask it? You know Scarcross Hall is everything to me.’
‘Have you never wished to see more of the world?’
‘My world is here. I want no other.’
He takes my hand and grips it tightly. ‘I’ve done my best to protect you but I think, perhaps, I’ve failed.’
‘What do you mean? Why are you talking like this?’
‘There are things you don’t understand, my dear . . .’ He tails off and stares into the distance. ‘Yes, it’s imperative we have that blessing at once. We have need of God’s good grace, now more than ever.’ There is a quaver in his voice. Could it be fear?
I think of the coins, the missing inkwell, the dead lambs. I’ve an instinct he knows more than he’s willing to say. Why else this sudden idea? The prospect of leaving Scarcross Hall fills me with horror, more real and more urgent than any night-time terror I may have conjured. ‘Father, why do you need to protect me? What could harm me here?’
At the question his face crumples, as if he might cry. This is unlike my father, who is usually so sure of everything. I’ve never seen a tear from him in all my years. Even in temper he’s always been as solid and steadfast as the scar above the vale and I don’t recognise the weak, melancholy man before me. It shocks me to the core. I don’t know how to comfort him.
Whatever reason he has for saying these things, I must not give him further cause for concern. I must give him no reason to doubt our place here. Everything I know, everything I love, is in these walls, these fells, this wild, open sky. The thought of leaving makes a hollow ache in my innards that no prayer could fill. In that moment I decide I’ll not share my fears with him. I’ll not encourage such thinking. I must stay silent.
Father gathers himself, drops my hand. ‘I want only what’s best for you. What’s best for us all.’
‘I know that, Father.’
‘I’ll speak to Pastor Flynn on Sunday. I’ll ask him to pray with us. What do you say?’
‘Whatever you think best.’
He seems satisfied with that. He sits, seeming absent. He’s forgotten I wished to speak with him and that suits me now.
The breeze is getting up, sending chill fingers beneath my neckerchief. I shiver, and not just from the cold. I stand and hold out my hand. ‘Come, let’s go inside.’
‘Is the fire set in t
he study?’ he asks. ‘Tell Agnes to bring me some broth, will you?’
‘Of course.’
We walk slowly across the garden. Though our arms are linked it seems to me there is a new distance between us.
As we go towards the door I catch a glimpse of something gleaming at the casement of my chamber: a pale figure that quickly moves away. The hairs at the nape of my neck bristle. I pause a moment and wait for it to reappear, straining to see into the dark interior, until Father asks, ‘What is it, my dear?’
‘Nothing,’ I tell him. ‘Nothing at all,’
I tell myself the same: it was just the reflection of the clouds, racing across the broad springtime sky.
Chapter 13
That night, I sit with the coverlet bunched up to my neck, until the candle burns low and splutters in a pool of thick yellow tallow, the stink of mutton fat in my nostrils. I cannot settle to my Bible or to darning my holed stockings or any other useful thing because my mind is too restless.
I’m concerned about the rain that has fallen every night and most days in May. The ground is too wet and marshy for our oats and barley to prosper. The fell seems a mess of mud and new-sprung brooks. And Agnes complains that a plague of slugs has destroyed most of her summer crop. In a few weeks we need to wash the sheep, ready for clipping, and we need fine weather for that.
But these worries are the usual ones, of farm and flock and family. There is another reason I cannot sleep: I am listening.
I hear the night sounds of wind in the gables, the dash of rain against the casement, rats beneath the floorboards and the creak of old timbers in the walls. I’m listening for all the sounds I’m used to and for those I’m not. My senses seem heightened so that the smallest noise I might otherwise disregard takes on an unexplained and sinister meaning. The tap of a branch against a window becomes a ghostly hand rapping upon the pane; the whine of wind in the chimney becomes a ghoulish moan; the drip of rain from the eaves becomes the steady tread of unfamiliar footsteps. And all the time I’m straining to hear it, expecting to hear it, dreading to hear it – that sound, the memory of which sends freezing fingers playing up and down my spine: thunk . . . ssshrrrrrssssst . . .
Most of all, I’m fretting about Father, who spent the rest of the day locked away in his study, poring over old documents. I’m sure now that he’s keeping something from me. I’ve never seen him so distracted and unsure. What is it he fears? Like me, he’s not one to give credence to the old stories, but it’s clear to me that something has shaken him in a way I’ve never witnessed before.
I cannot blame him for hiding his fears: I’ve not spoken to anyone about my own. To do so would make them real and I cannot countenance that. So I spend the darkest hours listing the recent unsettling events and trying to explain them away. Of the missing coins – two now returned and in the pouch beneath my floorboards: this must be Sam playing tricks. Father’s inkwell, still not found, I put down to his recent absent-mindedness. The dead lambs must be the work of wild dogs; it’s just that we have not seen or heard them yet. The noises in the empty bedchamber can be nothing worse than rats. The figure I’ve glimpsed is mere imagination, my own fear taking shape in the moorland mist. And the unnerving sensation that I’m being watched can be accounted for when I think of Ellis Ferreby and his strange, unsettling stare.
Even so, there is a new and rare unease in me, a haunting instinct that tells me to pay these things heed. In the end I can bear my unceasing questions no longer. I rise, throw my thick coat over my nightgown and pull on stockings and boots.
Out by the byre the air prickles with storm threat. It is not yet midnight. The clouds hide stars and race across a high, hazy moon. I need the light of my lantern.
I climb over the gate and make my way to the corner where we’ve folded several ailing lambs. There is shelter here, a low stone wall and the straggling boughs of the willow copse. I slip and slide in hoof-churned mud, cursing myself for not dressing properly.
As I near the sheep, I become aware of that same creeping sensation: the feeling of eyes on my back. I’ve been thinking on strange things too much and have brought my fear outside with me. I stop and search the darkness. The lantern cast makes me blind outside its beam. The dim, cloud-covered moon does not give enough light to see by. Behind me, the sheep begin to stir and bleat. Something disturbs them.
My heart begins to climb into my throat.
I open my mouth to speak but hold back at the sound of someone moving towards me. I have an urge to run, to snuff my lantern and hide, but find I cannot move. My body thrills with fear. I’m alone, with no weapon, facing danger in the darkness. Someone is out here. Someone is watching me.
‘Who goes there?’ The voice is deep, male and threatening, but I know it at once: Henry Ravens. A flood of relief unlocks me. How foolish I’m being.
‘I said, who goes there?’
‘Henry, it’s me.’
I hear the creak of the gate, the soft squelch of footsteps. ‘Mercy? What are you doing?’
I’m almost trembling, but I must not let him see. ‘Checking the sheep.’
‘At this hour?’
‘I couldn’t sleep. I thought to look them over.’
He enters the circle of lamplight and comes to stand by me, a little too close. ‘I see,’ he says, a slow smile showing wolfish white teeth. ‘Is that not my job? Don’t you trust me?’
‘Of course I do. I couldn’t sleep . . . that’s all.’
‘I thought you were a thief. You should be careful – I could have shot at you. Garrick has given us a pistol, you know, to use against thieves, and we carry it loaded.’
‘I ordered it.’
I realise how absurd I’ve been, to be driven from my bed by thoughts of spirits and spectres, seeking comfort in something real and commonplace.
I’ve always found solace in the flock. I like to do the same work year in, year out, and know that those who’ve gone before me did the same. Even with the trials that Nature sends, I find a perverse consolation in knowing that, no matter how hard I try, we are at God’s mercy. When my hands are wrist-deep in fresh-clipped fleece, or slicked with the birth-slime of a trembling newborn, or I stand at the crest of the moor and look out over my land, I know I’m in my right place. This life is all I’ve ever wanted and all I shall ever need. The conversation with Father has disturbed me deeply and I’m seeking that same reassurance now. But what do I think I will find on a hillside at midnight?
The rain starts to come down. The candle hisses.
‘I know why you’re really here,’ Henry says, as if he can read my mind. ‘I know what you really want.’
He takes the lantern, fingers heavy over mine, then grasps my free hand. ‘You’re shivering. Come, leave the sheep till morning.’
Now he’s close I can smell the drink on him, pipe smoke, warm hay, and the strong musk of a working man. As we walk back across the field, my hand in his, I’m drawn towards that scent, and I know he’s right. I desperately want to forget myself.
‘You’ve not come to see me these last few weeks,’ he says, reaching the gate. ‘Am I to know why?’
I have no answer for him.
‘You know I can’t come to the house. There are plenty of other girls I could have for sport if I wished it. I needn’t wait on you. So what’s changed?’
The glow of the lantern softens the hard lines of his face. He’s a good-looking man with a straight jaw, a head heavy with brown curls, and sky-blue eyes that glitter when he laughs. He has a strong, well-shaped body too. I think of that now.
Since the first time, some five or six years back, I’ve told myself I should not go to him. He’s not a good man. He’s an adulterer and a drinker. But he’s a keen shepherd and he knows sheep. He knows women too – or, at least, he knows me. It has been a simple exchange, each of us taking something from the other, and it has suited me.
There is never any lovemaking or flattery with him. He never kisses me. He is quick and hard. When I’m with him I become nothing but flesh and bone and sensation. I abandon the self that wakes each dawn to work and live by God’s strictures and, just for that brief time, I am wild and I am free.
It’s true I’ve avoided him in these last few weeks and I cannot say why. It seems to me that every year he grows rougher. At times, I catch bitterness in his expression and a hungry look in his eye. This year, one of his teeth is missing, his smile not so perfect.
I cannot pretend that I hold back out of finer sentiments. I’m not concerned about the scandal should my behaviour become known. After all, why should a spinster like myself care about the gossip and scorn that can harm a younger girl, when shame and judgement are already forced upon me? It’s not even for the sake of my soul that I hesitate. The one thing that might give me pause is Father, for I know the heartbreak and disappointment he would feel if he were to know how short I’ve fallen of his own moral standard.
But none of these things has stopped me before and I don’t think they will stop me now.
‘Is it Ferreby?’ Henry asks. ‘Do you grow tired of your old friend? Do you mean to have a new one instead? You might find that harder than you think. What makes you think he’ll want you? You’re not so young any more and you’ve never been pretty.’
‘No . . .’
‘And I’ll not step aside as easily as all that.’
‘It’s not him.’
‘Some other easy mark, then?’
‘No, Henry, there’s no one else.’
‘I won’t share you.’
‘Even though I must share you?’
‘That’s different.’
‘Is it?’
‘I don’t like being ignored.’
I will not indulge his petulance. I put my hand on his chest, feel the firm curve of muscle beneath his shirt and the beat of his heart beneath that. Something stirs in me – desire, a sudden need, respite from the fears, real and imagined, that keep me sleepless.
The Coffin Path_'The perfect ghost story' Page 9