The Ghost
Page 13
He went to the bar and stayed until ten-thirty, and then finally he went up to his own room. There was no point standing around downstairs, watching everyone else laugh and shout and get drunk. Like Gladys Palmer, New Year's Eve was a night he had never loved. And at midnight when the horns blew and the bells rang and couples kissed, promising that this year would be different, Charlie was sound asleep in bed in his room.
He woke up bright and early the next morning, and saw that it was snowing and the visibility was poor. A strong wind had come up and it was cold, and he decided to go back. Charlemont was so close to where he lived, he could come back anytime he wanted, he didn't have to ski in bad weather, or force himself to stay, when he'd rather be at home doing things in his house. Three days of good skiing there had been enough for him.
He checked out at ten-thirty, and in twenty minutes was back at his house. The snowdrifts were building again, and there-+ was an exquisite silence blanketing everything. He loved watching it, and sat for hours in his den, which had been Sarah's boudoir, reading and glancing up from time to time to see the snow still falling outside.
He thought of the little girl he had met in Charlemont, and her life with the mother who was at the same time so angry and so sad. He would have liked to see the child again, but it was obvious that he and her mother were not destined to be bosom companions. And as he thought of her, he remembered the two books he had to take back to the historical society. He had lent one of them to Gladys Palmer and he wanted to see her anyway, so he made a mental note to himself to stop by the next day and pick it up. He could drop both books off at the historical society after he left her.
But as he thought about them, there was a strange shuffling noise in the attic over his head, and in spite of himself, he jumped, and then he laughed. He felt so foolish, in a house with a history like this, everything was attributed to the supernatural. It never occurred to anyone that there might be a chipmunk in the attic somewhere, or even a squirrel, or a rat.
He decided not to pay any attention to it, but as he read some new architectural journals he'd bought, he heard the same sound again. It sounded like an animal dragging something, and at times it sounded almost like a man. And then, there was a gnawing sound, which told him exactly what he'd thought before. It was a rodent. For once, he didn't even begin to suspect it was Sarah's ghost. He had already resigned himself, after what Gladys said about only having seen her once in her life, he was sure the vision was not returning for a second time. He still couldn't quite explain it to himself, but whatever it was, it was gone, and the house was empty. Except for the rat in the attic over his head.
It annoyed him all afternoon, and at twilight, as the snow still fell, he got out the ladder, and decided to go up and check it out. If it was a rat, he didn't want the wiring destroyed. The house was old enough without having rodents devour what was left, and cause a fire. He had promised Gladys repeatedly that he would be careful about that.
But when he opened the trapdoor that led to the attic, and lifted himself into it, he found everything quiet there, and no telltale signs of anything amiss. He knew he hadn't imagined it, and hoped they hadn't found a way to slip between the walls. But he was certain that the sounds he'd heard were directly above him. He had brought a flashlight with him, and he looked everywhere. There were all the same boxes he had seen before, the uniforms, the toys, an old mirror leaning against a wall, and then at the far end, he spotted something he hadn't seen on his first foray up here. It was an old hand-carved cradle, and he gently ran a hand over it, wondering if it had belonged to Gladys or Sarah, but in either case, there was a sadness to it now, an emptiness that touched him. The babies in both their lives were gone, and worse than that, they were all dead now. He turned away from it, and the bittersweet feeling it gave him, and cast a light into the far corners, just to make sure no little furry creature had built a nest there. He knew chipmunks did that sometimes. It might even have lived there for a long time, and as he walked slowly back toward the ladder, he noticed a little alcove beneath one of the big round windows, and tucked away in it was an old battered trunk. He didn't think he had seen it there before, although from the look of it, and the cloud of dust that rose when he touched it, it was obvious that it had been there forever. It would have been easy to overlook it, its battered leather cover seemed to blend into the wall. And when Charlie tried to open it, he found it was locked. The fact that he couldn't get into it intrigued him.
There were no identifying marks on the trunk, no initials, no name, no crest. As both people who had lived in the house before had been both European and titled, he wouldn't have been surprised to see a crest somewhere on it, but he didn't. And as he played with the lock a little bit, some of the very old leather flaked off. The covering on it looked extremely fragile, but the trunk itself was not. And when Charlie tried to lift it, it felt like it was filled with rocks. But it was small enough to carry with some effort, and Charlie carried it as far as the ladder, and then slowly let himself down, balancing it on his shoulder, and careful not to drop it.
It fell with a thud to the floor of the hall when he got down again. And after he closed the trapdoor, satisfied that there were no visible rodents upstairs, he took the trunk to the kitchen, and got out some tools to pry open the lock. He felt a little awkward, wondering if Gladys Palmer had some small treasures hidden there, or some papers she didn't want anyone to see. He almost called her before he started trying to force it. It seemed something of a violation, and yet at the same time, the trunk seemed so old, and something about it mesmerized him. He couldn't stop what he was doing. He couldn't let go, and as he wrestled with it, the lock suddenly gave way and fell off. The leather was dry and frail, and there were brass nail heads in it, and if: was easy to believe that the trunk had been there as long as the house. And as Charlie touched the lid, he felt strangely breathless. He had no idea what he expected to find, money, jewels, treasure, papers, maps, a small dried skull, some ghastly, wonderful trophy or trinket from another century, but his heart was pounding as he lifted the lid, and he almost believed he heard a rustle by his side as he did it. He laughed in the silence of the old kitchen, knowing that he had imagined it. This was only a thing, an object, an old box, and as it opened, he felt a small wave of disappointment wash over him. It was filled with small leather-bound books, they looked almost like prayer books or hymnals. They were carefully bound, and had long silk markers in them. There were over a dozen of them, and they were all the same. He suspected the leather might have once been red, but it was a dull, faded brown now. He picked one up, and opened it, wondering if the books had come from a church somewhere, or to whom they had belonged. There were no markings on them, no titles, but they had the look of something reverent, and then as he glanced inside, at the very first page, he felt a shiver as he saw her name in her own hand. The writing was small and elegant and clear. The ink had been dry on the page for more than two hundred years, and in the corner she had written Sarah Ferguson, 1789. Just seeing what she had written and reading her name filled him with longing ' how long ago it had been ' what had she been like? If he closed his eyes, he could imagine her, sitting in this room, writing.
And with the utmost gentleness and caution, afraid it would disintegrate at his touch, he turned the next page, and then he realized what he had in his hand. This was no hymnal. These were diaries, Sarah's journals. His eyes grew wide as he began to read. It was like a letter from her to all of them. She was telling them what had happened to her, where she had been, whom she had seen, what had been dear to her, how she had met Fran+oois ' how she had come there, and from where. And as Charlie began reading the words that had survived two centuries, a tear rolled down his cheek and fell on his hand. He could scarcely believe his good fortune, and he felt a shiver of excitement run through him as he began to read.
Chapter 8
SARAH FERGUSON STOOD at the window, looking out over the moors, as she had for the last two days. Although it was Augu
st, the mists had hung low since morning, the sky was dark, and it was easy to discern that there would be a storm before much longer. There was a dark, ominous look to everything around them, but it suited the way she felt, as she stood and waited. Her husband, Edward, Earl of Balfour, had been gone for four days.
He had said he was going hunting four days before, and he had taken five of his servants with him. He had told Sarah he was meeting friends. And she never asked questions. She knew better. She had told the men who were searching for him to look for him at the inn, or in the next town, or even among the serving girls at their farms or on their property. She knew Edward well, had known him for a long time. She knew his cruelty, his infidelity, and his unkindness, the mercilessness of his tongue, and the viciousness of the back of his hand. She had failed him bitterly and often. The sixth child she'd borne him, dead at birth this time, had been buried only three months before. The only thing Edward had ever wanted from her was an heir, and after years with her, he still didn't have one. All the children she had borne him had miscarried or been stillborn, or died within hours of their birth.
Her own mother had died in childbed with her second child, and Sarah had lived alone with her father since she was a little girl. He was already old when Sarah was born, and when Sarah's mother died, he never remarried. Sarah had been so beautiful, so whimsical, and such a joy to him, and he had cherished her. And as he grew older, and became inci'easingly frail, Sarah nursed him devotedly, and kept him alive for years longer than he might have without her. And when she was fifteen, it was obvious even to him that he couldn't last much longer. He knew he had no choice anymore, he could not delay, a decision had to be made. He had to find her a husband before he died.
There were numerous possibilities within the county, an earl, a duke, a viscount, some of them important men. But it was Balfour who was the most anxious, who wanted her so desperately, and whose lands were adjacent to her father's. It would make a remarkable estate, he'd pointed out to Sarah's father, one of the largest and most important in England. Sarah's father had added enormous blocks of land to his own over the years, and she had a dowry fit for a monarch.
It was Balfour who won her in the end. He was too astute, his interest too keen, his arguments too convincing to be ignored. There had been another, younger man, whom she far preferred to him, but Edward had assured her father that, having lived with an old man for so long, she would never be happy with a boy close to her own age. She needed someone more like her father. And Sarah knew so little of Edward, she didn't know enough to beg for mercy, to plead to be spared.
She was traded for land, and became the Countess of Balfour at sixteen. The wedding was small, the estate huge, and the penalties endless. Her father died within five weeks of her wedding.
Edward beat her regularly after that, until she got pregnant. Then he only threatened and berated her, slapping her as often as he dared, and telling her he would kill her if she failed to produce an heir. Most of the time, he was far from home, traveling over his estates, lying drunk in pubs, ravaging servant girls, or staying with friends all over England. It was always a bleak day when he returned. But the bleakest of all was when their first child died within hours of its birth. It had been the only ray of hope in her life. Edward was less distraught than she, as it was only a girl. The next three had been sons, two stillborn, one born far too early, and the last two had been girls again. She had held the last one for hours, lifeless, wrapped in swaddling clothes, just as she had prepared all of them. She had been half out of her mind with grief and pain, and they had had to take the baby from her and lay it to rest. Edward had barely spoken to her since then.
Although Edward was careful to hide his cruelty to her, like everyone in the county, she knew he had countless bastards, seven of them sons, but that was not the same. He had already warned her that if she did not produce an heir, he would recognize one of them in the end, anything rather than pass the title and his estates to his brother, Haversham, whom he hated.
I will leave you nothing, he had spat at her. I will kill you before I let you live on the face of this earth without me, if you do not give me an heir. At twenty-four, she had been married to him for eight years, and a part of her had been killed by him long since. There was a dead look in her eyes that she herself saw in the mirror sometimes. And particularly since the last infant died, she didn't care anymore if she lived or died. Her father would have been beside himself if he had known the fate to which he had condemned her. She had no life, no hope, no dreams. She was beaten, abused, detested, scorned, by a man she loathed, and with whom she had been forced to sleep for the past eight years, and constantly try to give him children, above all an heir.
At fifty-four, he was still a handsome man, he had aristocratic good looks, and young girls on farms and in pubs, who didn't know his ways, still thought him handsome and charming, but within a short time, they would be used and cast aside and savaged by him, and if a child came later of it, Edward had no interest in the girl or the baby. He cared for nothing, he was fueled by jealousy and hatred of his younger brother, and by the greed that caused him to devour every piece, of land upon which he could lay his hands, including her father's lands that became his when the old man died. Edward had long since used all her money, sold most of her mother's jewels, and taken even that which her father had left her. Edward had used her in every way he possibly could, and whatever was left of her was of no interest to him. Still, even now, after so many disappointments, so much tragedy in her young lif-o, all he wanted from her was an heir, and she knew that in the end, child or not, he would see her dead trying. She didn't even care anymore. She only hoped that the end would come soon. Some accident, some treachery, some merciless beating, a baby in her womb never to be born with whom she could slip into another world. She wanted nothing from him, only death and the freedom she would derive from it. And as she waited for him to return now, she was sure that he would come riding in on the spiteful horse he rode, fresh from some vile adventure. She couldn't imagine anything happening to him. She was certain that he was lying drunk somewhere, with a harlot in his arms. And eventually he would come home in order to abuse her. She was grateful for his absence, though this time everyone was worried, except Sarah, who knew he was too mean to die, too wily to disappear for long.
She turned from the window at last and looked at the clock on the mantel again. It was just after four. She wondered if she should send for Haversham, if she should ask him to come to search for Edward. He was Edward's half brother and would have come if she asked him. But it seemed foolish to worry him, and if Edward found him there when he came home, he would be livid, and he would take it out on her. She decided to wait yet another day before she called Haversham to her.
She walked slowly into the room again, and sat down, her wide green satin gown shimmering like a jewel, with a dark green velvet bodice, which molded her lithe figure so tighdy, she looked like a young girl again. And the creamy gauze of her blouse beneath the gown seemed almost the same color as her skin. There was something very delicate, and deceptively frail about her, but she was sturdier than she looked, or she wouldn't have survived the beatings.
The ivory of her skin was in sharp contrast with her shining black hair. She wore it in a long braid looped around several times to form a large bun at the back of her head. Sarah had always been elegant without being stylish. There was a classic dignity to the way she carried herself that belied the despair in her eyes. She always had a kind word for the servants, always went out to the farms to help with the sick children, and bring them nourishment. She was always there to help them.
She had a deep passion for literature and art, and had traveled to Italy and France with her father as a young girl, but she had been nowhere since. Edward kept her locked up, and treated her like a piece of furniture. Her exceptional beauty was something he didn't even notice anymore, it was of absolutely no consequence to him. He treated his horses better than he treated Sarah.
They both knew there was never any hope of getting together. And four years earlier, he had finally married one of his cousins, a foolish but well-intentioned seventeen-year-old girl named Alice. She had grown up in Cornwall, and was in many ways far too simple for her husband, but it was a good match economically, their families had been pleased, and in the past four years, she had given him four adorable little girls. But other than Haversham himself, there was still no heir, and Haversham's daughters did not solve the problem, since women could not inherit land or titles.