“Ah yes. Exhausting. I know. Well, we understand that.” Napier was looking at me and I could not read the expression in his eyes.
“Triumph,” he whispered.
“Thank you.”
“I trust you approve my choice of pieces.”
“They were magnificent.”
He bowed his head smiling and people began to approach to tell me how they had enjoyed my playing. I could not escape for a time. I was aware of Miss Stacy—lavender bows in her hair—looking excited and fey as though she were in touch with the ghosts she was sure would be visiting us that night; I saw Mrs. Lincroft sending the girls to their rooms and I listened to compliments; several people mentioned my husband. Few of them had heard him play, but they knew his name.
It was some time before I could escape.
In my room I could not stop looking at my reflection. The faint color under my skin, the luminosity of my eyes; my hair seemed darker and my skin gleamed magnolia color against the rich burgundy velvet.
“I did it,” I whispered. “Pietro, I did it.”
In a country house. To an uncritical audience. What do they know of music?
“They loved it!”
Pah! They would have been pleased with Essie Elgin. She could have done as well. Gymnastics, my dear Caro.
And I wanted nothing but to be with Pietro to quarrel with him ... anything, but to be with him.
My cheeks were burning; I felt that I was stifled in this room and impulsively I left it and went down by means of a back staircase and out into the gardens.
The June night was warm, and it was a perfect night, for a near-full moon was high in the sky. I went to my walled garden and sat there, and I was filled with a longing to go back to those days when Pietro and I had sat outside the Paris cafes and talked. I should have had both Pietro and my music and how much better it would have been for us both if I had. I should have been closer to him; he would have respected me; I should have been better able to look after him; I should not have allowed him to subdue me; firmly I should have safeguarded his health.
I covered my face with my hands and wept for the past and longed to live it all again.
I sat there for some little time, my head buried in my hands; and then suddenly I gave a little cry of dismay for there was a movement beside me. Someone was sitting close to me on the seat.
“I hope I didn’t startle you,” said Napier.
I drew away from him. He was the last person I wanted to see. I half rose but he took my wrist in a firm grip. “Don’t go,” he said.
“I ... I didn’t hear you come.”
“You were engrossed in your own thoughts,” he said.
I was horrified. I believed there might be a trace of tears on my face, and that he should see them was unendurable.
He seemed different, softer. That should warn me.
“I saw you come here and I wanted to speak to you,” he said.
“You ... saw me?”
“Yes. I was a little bored with my father’s guests.”
“I hope you did not tell them so.”
“Not in so many words.”
“You are...”
“Please go on. You know you need not choose your words with care as far as I’m concerned. I’d rather know exactly what you think.”
“Then I think that you are a little ... uncivil.”
“What more can you expect, brought up as I was. But enough of me. You are far more interesting.”
“Surely you don’t find anyone as interesting as yourself?”
“At the moment—much as it may surprise you—I do.” He turned to me suddenly and went on: “Let’s drop the banter. Let us talk seriously.”
“Please begin.”
"We have something in common you and I. You realize that.”
“I cannot think what.”
“Then you are not seriously thinking. Our pasts, of course. That’s what we both have to put behind us. You tonight...” He put his hand up suddenly and with astonishing tenderness touched my cheek. “You are grieving for your genius. It’s no use. He’s dead. You have to forget him. You have to begin again. When will you learn that?”
“And you?”
“I too have much to forget.”
“You make no attempt to forget.”
“Do you?”
“Yes. Yes.”
“Tonight?”
“Those pieces I played.”
“I know, I chose them deliberately.”
“You knew.”
“I read it in one of the papers. The last he played.”
“How like you to remind me!”
“But you have taken a step away from your grief tonight. Did you know? You faced up to life. I’ll swear you had never played those pieces since he died.”
“No, not till tonight.”
“Now you will play them often. It’s a sign that you’ve moved on a bit.”
“And you chose them for my good?”
“You won’t believe me if I say yes. If I say I chose them to discountenance you, you will I suppose.”
“I believe,” I said, “that I should believe what you told me tonight.”
He turned to me suddenly. I wanted to hold him off yet to draw him on. I could not understand what had happened to him ... or to myself. He was different. I was different. I was unsure of myself. I felt I should not stay here with him. There was something evil about this night ... this moon ... this garden... and about him.
“Why ... tonight?” he asked me.
“I think you will tell the truth ... tonight.”
He lifted his hands; I thought he was going to touch me. But he refrained from doing so. Then he said: “I chose those pieces deliberately. I wanted you to play them because it’s better to face up to life and not turn away from it.”
“And you are doing that?”
He nodded.
“That is why you remind everyone that you shot your brother?”
“You see,” he said, “it’s true that we have something in common. We have to escape from the past.”
“Why should I want to escape?”
“Because you will go on grieving until you do. Because you have built up an ideal which grows rosier with every year and quite unlike what it was in reality.”
“How do you know what it was in reality?”
“I know a great deal about you.”
“What?”
“What you have told me.”
“You seem to be very interested in me.”
“I am. Didn’t you realize that?”
“I thought I was beneath your notice.” Then he laughed and it was the old laugh—mocking, taunting.
He said suddenly: “You are fascinated by this place.”
I admitted it.
“And the people in it?”
“I always find people interesting.”
“But we are a little ... unusual, aren’t we?”
“It’s usual for people to be unusual.”
“Have you ever known anyone else who killed his brother?”
“No.”
“Doesn’t that make me unique?”
“Accidents can happen to anyone.”
“You’re determined to dismiss the general view that it was not an accident?”
“I’m sure it was.”
“I should now take your hand ... so ... and raise it to my lips.” He did so. “I should kiss it in gratitude ...” His lips scorched my skin; the kiss was fervent, frightening.
I withdrew my hand as casually as I could.
“Should I?” he asked.
“Certainly not. There is nothing for which to be grateful. It seemed to me a perfectly logical explanation. An accident.”
“And you are always so logical, Mrs. Verlaine?”
“I try to be.”
“Dispensing sympathy where it is deserved.”
“Isn’t that where it should be dispensed?”
"You knew of course that I was sent to Australia ... to a cousin of
my father’s. He couldn’t bear the sight of me ... my father I mean ... after the accident. My mother killed herself. They said it was because of my brother’s death. Two deaths at my door. Well, you can understand it, can’t you? I was such a reminder. So off I went to my father’s cousin who was a grazier some eighty miles north of Melbourne. I thought I should stay there until the end of my life.”
“And you were content to do that?”
“Never. This was where I belonged, and when the opportunity came, I did not hesitate. I accepted my father’s bargain.”
“Well, now you are back and all is well.”
“Is it, Mrs. Verlaine?” He moved nearer to me. “How strange it seems to be sitting in this moonlit garden and talking seriously to Mrs. Verlaine. I know your name is Caroline. Caro, your genius called you.”
“How could you know that?”
“I read it. It was in the paper, you know. It said he spoke to you when you came into the dressing room. All he could say was: ‘It’s all right, Caro...’ ”
I felt my lips quiver. I burst out: “You are deliberately trying to—”
“To hurt you? I want you to face it ... Caro. I want you to face it and then you can turn your back on it. That’s what we both have to do.”
There was a strange tremor in his voice and I turned to him. He put out his hands and it was as though he said: Help me. And I wanted to say: We’ll help each other. Because oddly enough I believed him then. And I was glad ... glad to be there with him in that moonlit garden which had a kind of magic which had driven away the evil.
He took my hands in his suddenly. And I did not withdraw them. We sat on the seat looking at each other and I knew that something had grown up between us which neither of us could deny.
And suddenly I was afraid, afraid of my emotions—and his.
I stood up.
I said: “It’s a little chilly. I think I should return to the house.”
He had changed; the arrogance had dropped from him. Or did I deceive myself? Was the moonlight playing tricks?
I was unsure of all but one thing: I only knew I had to get away from him.
5
I had dined with Alice and her mother and had come to my room to prepare the next day’s lesson. I had not seen Napier since the night of my performance and it was very hard for me to believe that I had not exaggerated in some way the scene in the moonlit garden. I had been overwrought on that night: and he, of course, had been aware of this. I must not forget that he was Edith’s husband, and that he might well be a philanderer for there was Allegra to bear that out. And how foolish had I been on that night? It was true I had not lingered in the garden but looking back I was sure I had been ready to delude myself. I wondered whether he remembered that scene with amusement.
I really must get the man out of my thoughts and concentrate on work.
There was a knock at my door. Alice stood there; she looked excited or frightened out of her usual gravity.
“You asked me to tell you, Mrs. Verlaine. I—I’ve seen the light in the chapel. You said to tell you...”
“Where?” I said, moving towards the window.
“You can see it better from my room,” she said. “Please come.”
She led the way to the schoolroom which was close to her mother s rooms and her own. We climbed a short spiral staircase and she took me into a neat little room with dainty curtains and a small bed covered with a chintz counterpane—a dainty room reflecting Alice’s personality. She led me to the window and we stood side by side looking out across the grounds to the darkness of the copse.
“You could see from your room,” she explained. “But here you can see it really is in the chapel.”
An almost full moon gave a cool steady light to the scene. There was no wind.
“What a calm, clear night,” I said.
“The sort of night when ghosts would walk,” whispered Alice. I glanced at her; her grey eyes were wide; her little figure tense.
“You’re not afraid?” I asked.
She shivered. “I don’t know. I think I should be if I saw ... the ghost of Beau.”
“You won’t,” I assured her. "Don’t be afraid, Alice.”
“But if he ... walks.”
"The dead don’t, I’m sure of it.”
“If they’re angry, if they hate someone living ... if someone had set fire to the sanctuary...”
“Alice,” I said, “you are letting your imagination run riot.”
“But there is the light, Mrs. Verlaine.”
“Perhaps you thought you saw a light.”
“I’ve seen it several times. There is a light in the chapel. That’s not imagination.”
“It could be someone on the road.”
“It’s too far away. Besides, it’s right there in the chapel ... You can see it from this window. It moves about in the chapel, and then it goes out. I’ve seen it more than once since Mr. Napier came home.”
“There could be many explanations. People might meet there.”
“Lovers, you mean, Mrs. Verlaine?”
“Anybody. Why shouldn’t they?”
“It’s an eerie place. Besides it’s trespassing and if people were trespassing they wouldn’t show lights to betray themselves, would they? Look. Look! There it is!”
She was right. I saw the light distinctly. It seemed as though it were held stationary against the window which I remembered seeing in the burned-out ruin.
I stared and could not entirely suppress a shiver. Who was there with the light? Who had gone to the ruin in the copse after dark for the purpose of haunting it? I was determined to find out.
Alice whispered: “It’s the ghost of Beau.”
“No, no ... that’s absurd. But it could be someone pretending to be.”
“But who would? Who would ... dare?”
I did not answer her. I said: “Would you like to come down there now with me?”
She shrank away from me. “Oh ... no, Mrs. Verlaine. He—he might be angry. He might do something terrible to us. He might—”
“Who?”
“Beau.”
I said: “I don’t believe that. Beau is dead. And whoever is showing that light is very much alive. I want to know who it is. Don’t you?”
She lowered her eyes and then lifted them to my face. “Yes, I do, but something terrible could happen to us if we went down there.”
“What do you think would happen to us?”
“We might be turned to stone. He might change us into one of those figures on the altar. I always think they look as though they were once people.”
“Oh, Alice!” I scolded.
She gave a nervous laugh. “I know I’m silly, but I should be so frightened.” She seemed to believe I was going myself for she caught my hand and cried: “Mrs. Verlaine, please don’t go there. Please ... please!”
I was gratified that she should be so concerned for me. I said gently: “But, Alice, this is the sort of thing that should be investigated. No one should be allowed to play like this.”
“Yes, but don’t go now, Mrs. Verlaine. Perhaps some of us could go with you. But not now ... please.”
“All right. But Alice I don’t accept this idea of a ghost, you know. I am certain that we shall find a perfectly logical explanation if we look for it.”
“Do you really?”
“I most certainly do.”
“What a comfort.”
“Now, Alice, I think you should forget about this light”
“Yes,” she sighed, “otherwise I shall think about it in bed tonight and I shan’t be able to sleep.”
“Have you a good book to read?”
She nodded. “It’s Evelina. It’s fascinating, Mrs. Verlaine. It’s all about a young lady’s adventures in society.”
“Why, Alice, I believe you would like to be a young lady in society.”
She smiled and I was pleased because I could see that the fear and the morbid imaginings engendered by the light in the cha
pel were already receding. “Well,” she said, “I can imagine it, Mrs. Verlaine, though it could never happen to me. Allegra is always reminding me that although I live in a big house and enjoy some of the privileges of the family, I am only the housekeeper’s daughter.”
“Never mind, Alice. It is really what you are that counts.”
“Do you think so?”
“I am sure of it Now you get back to Evelina and don’t give another thought to that mysterious light which I’m determined shan’t be a mystery much longer.”
“You don’t like mysteries, do you?”
“Who doesn’t want to solve them?”
“A lot of people don’t bother. Perhaps they’re like me and imagine what happened. But you want to know. Like what happened to Miss Brandon.”
“I daresay a number of people want to know that.”
“But they never will now, I suppose.”
“One can never be sure what will be discovered.”
“No.” She was thoughtful. Then she said: “That’s what makes it all so exciting, doesn’t it?”
I agreed and went back to my room.
I was not really as unconcerned about the mysterious light as I had led Alice to believe. There seemed no doubt that someone was playing tricks; it was someone who wanted to pretend the place was haunted, and keep alive the memory of Beaumont Stacy. As if that were necessary! No, that was hardly the answer. The haunting was meant to imply, I was sure, that the ghost of Beaumont was in revolt against Napier’s return.
It was silly, childish, miserable and vengeful; and I was more angry than the situation warranted.
Napier undoubtedly had his enemies—and that did not surprise me.
Returning to my room I went to the window seat and looked out over the grounds. The moon had waned slightly since the night of my concert I thought of the moonlit garden and of Napier who was trying to put the past behind him and I wondered who it was who was determined that he should not. Who would go to the copse and wave a light about in the hope that it would be believed his beautiful brother had returned because he was displeased. It was childish. And yet it was just the way to keep the story alive.
I looked across the lawns to the copse. Alice was right it was not so easy to make out the ruin here as it was higher up. In fact I could not see the chapel—only the dark smudge of firs which was the copse.
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