Voices in a Haunted Room

by Philippa Carr

  What a maze my thoughts led me into at times! If I went on in that strain it would be difficult to tell the difference between good and bad. Romany Jake had committed murder to save a girl from an injury which could have affected her whole life. Good and evil walked very closely together.

  And now Dolly was hoping to have an illegitimate child. That was to be deplored. But on the other hand her rather sad life had taken on a new dimension and for the first time Dolly was happy.

  I was very interested in this matter and discussed it with Amaryllis. She listened to me and told me I was making a complicated issue out of something which was very simple. Amaryllis only saw the good in people. It does make life simpler to be like that.

  I wished I had not gone to Aunt Sophie’s that day. I wished I had not had that talk with Dolly.

  It had been decided that she should know nothing of Romany Jake’s sentence. Everyone knew, of course, that he was the father of her child. It was hardly likely that his visits to Grasslands and their being together on Trafalgar night could have passed unnoticed. Romany Jake was a man to attract attention wherever he went, and the fact that he had selected Dolly for his attention would cause some surprise and would no doubt be discussed at length in the kitchens of Grasslands and Enderby as well as in all the cottages.

  “To know would upset her,” said my mother. “She will have to in time, of course, but let it be after the baby is born.”

  I went into the room which had been assigned to her. It was one of the bedrooms on the first floor—the one with the speaking tube which went down to the kitchen. Jeanne had said she should have that room so that if she needed help there was another way of letting people know. It was Aunt Sophie’s room normally but she had given it up so that Dolly could have it. The midwife slept in the next room, but when the time grew nearer she was to have a bed in Dolly’s room.

  She was lying on the bed with the blue velvet curtains and I noticed as soon as I entered that she was not looking as serene as when I last saw her. Perhaps, I thought, she is growing alarmed now that the ordeal is coming nearer.

  She said: “I’m glad you have come, Jessica.”

  “Everyone wants to know how you are. My mother is asking if you need another shawl.”

  “No thank you. Mademoiselle Sophie has already given me two.” She went on: “I’ve been thinking a lot about… him, you know.”

  “Who?” I asked, knowing full well.

  “The baby’s father. I just have a feeling that something is wrong.”

  I was silent.

  She said: “If the baby is a boy, he is to be called Jake after his father. If it’s a girl she’s to be Tamarisk. He talked about the tamarisk trees in Cornwall. He liked them very much. I’ve never seen one. The east wind is too strong here for them, he said. He liked the feathery clusters of pink and white flowers with their slender branches. He said they are dainty … like young girls. So I shall call her Tamarisk. That should please him if he comes … when he comes …”

  I remained silent but she gripped my hand. “I feel,” she said, “that something is wrong.”

  “You mustn’t,” I replied. “You have to think of the baby.”

  “I know. But I can tell. I’ve always had something … I don’t know what it is … but I know when something terrible is going to happen. I wonder if it is being not quite like other people … deformed in a way. Do you think if you are short of something Nature gives you something else … to make up?”

  “Very likely.”

  “I’ve done some wicked things in my life.”

  “I expect all of us have.”

  “I’ve done especially wicked things … but all for love … in a way. I wish I hadn’t. Taking you, for one thing, when you were a little baby. I know now what they must have gone through. I knew then, I suppose … but I wanted to hurt them.”

  “Don’t think of that now. It doesn’t seem to have done me much harm.”

  “I’ve done worse things … much worse. I wanted revenge. That’s a bad thing.”

  “I suppose it is. People often say so.”

  “But I’ve always had a special feeling for you because of that time when I kept you in my room. I can see you as you were then. Those lovely big eyes and you just stared at me, you did … and then suddenly you’d break into a smile as though you thought there was something rather funny about me. I knew I couldn’t hurt you then. Jessica, I want you to tell me about him.”

  “Tell you what?”

  “There is a lot of whispering going on. I know something has happened. You went to Nottingham and it was something to do with him.” She gripped my hand hard. “I sit here worrying. Tell me. I have to know. When I ask questions Jeanne pretends not to understand. She does that. She pretends her English isn’t good enough. But she understands everything. And Mademoiselle Sophie, she won’t tell me either. She keeps saying everything will be all right. I know something is very wrong and I believe it is about him.”

  I half rose and said: “I ought to be getting back.”

  She looked at me reproachfully.

  “I thought you would have the courage to tell me. I lie here worrying. If anyone ought to know, I ought. They come south at the end of the summer. It will soon be summer. Something has happened to him, hasn’t it? I hear the servants whispering. ‘Don’t let her know,’ they say. ‘Don’t let her know till after the baby is born.’”

  She was restless and there was a hot colour in her cheeks.

  “You mustn’t upset yourself,” I began.

  “I am upset and will be until I know. However bad it is, I’ve got to know. He killed a man and they caught him. He’ll be tried. I know what that means. They think I don’t hear their whisperings but I do.”

  I burst out: “He killed a man who was attempting to rape one of the gypsy girls.”

  She closed her eyes. “Oh then, it’s true. They will hang him.”

  “No, no,” I cried. I had to ease her mind. I was sure now that it was better that she should know than fear the worst. “He will be all right,” I went on. “He will not hang. My father has saved him from that. Of course he could not get him freed entirely.”

  “Then he is in prison …”

  “He has been sentenced to transportation.”

  She closed her eyes and lay back on her pillows. I was frightened. The colour had faded from her face. She was as white as the pillow on which she lay.

  “It is only for seven years,” I said.

  She did not speak. I was afraid and called Jeanne.

  That was the beginning. I was not sure whether the shock brought on the birth prematurely, but it was only two days later when Dolly’s child was born.

  I explained to my mother what I had done, and she assured me that there was nothing else I could have done in the circumstances. But I was sorry to have been the one to tell her.

  The baby was a girl, healthy and strong. Not so, poor Dolly. The midwife said it was one of the most difficult deliveries she had ever undertaken. Aunt Sophie sent for the doctor. Dolly, he said, was not really suited to childbearing. In spite of the fact that she was in her mid-twenties, her body was rather immature.

  She was very ill for a week—unconscious most of the time, but there were occasions when she was able to hold the child in her arms.

  At the end of the week she died and there was great sorrow at Enderby and indeed at Eversleigh.

  Jeanne said: “She was so happy to have the child. I’d never seen her really happy before. And as soon as the child is born she leaves this world! Life can be cruel so often.”

  Claudine and my mother discussed at great length what should be done about the child.

  “We will take her,” said my mother. “The girls will love to have a baby in the nurseries. I shall like it, too. There is nothing like a baby in the house.”

  The child was to be called Tamarisk. I remembered Dolly had told me that she wished her to have that name. She must have told Aunt Sophie, too.

 
When my mother suggested that Tamarisk be brought to Eversleigh, Aunt Sophie was most indignant.

  Indeed it should not be. She had decided to adopt Dolly’s baby. She had always intended to look after her and Dolly. There was only Tamarisk now.

  Jeanne took charge as usual and a beautiful nursery was prepared. Aunt Sophie was better than we had ever seen her before.

  “It is a great interest for her,” said my mother.

  So Tamarisk lived at Enderby and flourished there.

  Tamarisk

  NOW THAT DOLLY WAS dead the question was what would happen to Grasslands. The baby Tamarisk was Dolly’s natural heir and it was decided that as the house would not be needed because Tamarisk was to live at Enderby, it should either be let or put up for sale.

  To let was not easy, and it seemed only reasonable that the house should be sold.

  My mother said: “I wonder whether the Barringtons would be interested in it.”

  We all stared at her. We had forgotten that they had talked of looking for a house.

  “It’s just a possibility,” went on my mother. “And think what pleasant neighbours they would be. Much nicer than having strangers here.”

  “There is no harm in letting them know about it,” agreed my father.

  Aunt Sophie was quite pleased when she heard we had a possible buyer in view but her interest now was centred on the baby and she gave little attention to anything else.

  My mother invited the Barringtons for a visit, and she told them about the house. Both parents as well as Edward and Irene came; and of course Clare Carson was with them. They were enchanted with Grasslands and with the prospect of living close to us—all except Clare, who seemed somewhat guarded in her comments.

  To our joy the Barringtons bought Grasslands and made it their main home. Clare came with them. Irene was shortly to be married to a Scot, so she would not be living in the house and Edward remained in Nottingham because of the business; but he often came down to stay with his family.

  I thought a great deal about Romany Jake and often wondered how he was faring in the penal settlement.

  My conscience was eased a little because we had saved his life but I would never be content unless I could talk to him and explain how it had all happened.

  Life at Eversleigh passed pleasantly, unruffled by what was happening in the outside world.

  It was April—one of my favourite times of the year because of the coming of spring.

  We had lived fairly serenely since the death of Dolly Mather. We were no longer apprehensive about a possible invasion though Trafalgar had not put an end to Napoleon’s ambitions. He had shrugged aside his failure at sea as he was making good his conquests on land and setting up his family to rule in the courts of Europe. Eager to found a dynasty of rulers, he had divorced his wife Josephine because she was barren and taken as his second wife Marie Louise of Austria in the hope of producing a son to carry on the line.

  The wretched war dragged on. There were defeats and victories and one wondered whether it would ever end, though it did not affect us greatly except in increased taxation. The nation found a new hero in Arthur Wellesley who—after the victories of Oporto and Talavera about two years before—had been created Baron Douro and Viscount Wellington, and we were having spectacular successes on the Continent.

  At home our poor old King was now blind and quite out of his mind; and in January of the previous year, the Regency Bill was passed, so that the Prince of Wales was now virtually the ruler.

  One evening as we were sitting over dinner discussing topics of the day as we often did, my mother turned to a more frivolous topic: “It will soon be time for the birthday party and this year it will have to be a special one. Just think of it. The girls will be eighteen.”

  She looked at Amaryllis and me as though we had achieved something rather wonderful in reaching such an age.

  “Eighteen!” said David. “Are they really? How time flies!”

  “They are no longer little girls,” said Claudine.

  My father persisted: “Perceval’s got a point. But now we are at war with America he’s got to be cautious.”

  “Wars!” said my mother indignantly. “How stupid they all are! I don’t even know what this one is about.”

  “It’s all a disagreement about commerce,” explained David.

  My mother sighed. “You would have thought they had learned a lesson, when they quarrelled before about the colonies.”

  “History may repeat itself,” said my father, “but it is certain that the lessons it teaches are hardly ever learned.”

  “One would have thought,” said my mother, “that war with France would have been enough for those who are so enamoured of it.”

  “This war with France goes on and on,” said Claudine.

  “Perceval’s a good man but I would say an uninspired one.”

  I said that it was strange that good people did not often make good leaders, and good leaders were often wicked in their private lives.

  David, who loved this sort of discussion, instanced the two King Charleses. Charles the First such a good husband and father and about the worst King we had ever had, leading us to Civil War; whereas the second Charles’s life had been one of moral scandal, and yet his rule had been really good for the country.

  My mother interrupted with: “What colour would you like to wear for the party, Amaryllis?”

  “I think perhaps blue.”

  “What about white, darling?” asked Claudine. “I can just see you in white. You will look like an angel.”

  “Jessica, are you going to have your favourite scarlet?” asked my mother. “Or is it going to be emerald green?”

  “I’ll have to think about it,” I said.

  “Such matters need weighty consideration,” said my father, “while the country is plunged into war on two fronts.”

  “We should never do anything if we waited for those wretched wars to be over,” commented my mother. “And the sooner they have finished one they start another. We’ll go to London to choose the materials. I think we should give ourselves plenty of time. Where are we now … April… Sometime in May. That will give us plenty of time to have the dresses made up. We’ll fix a date. August would be best… somewhere midway between the two birthdays. That’s fair enough.”

  There had always been one party to celebrate the two birthdays as they came so close together—mine in August, Amaryllis’ in September; and the parties were usually held at the end of August. Our mothers had started the practice when we were very young and had kept it up.

  That was how we came to be in London in the May of that year 1812. There were my mother and myself as well as Amaryllis and Claudine; and as my father never liked my mother to go to London without him, he joined the party. So we all set out in the carriage and in due course arrived at the family house in Albemarle Street.

  I had still retained that excitement which I felt when I came to London. The big city always seemed pulsating with life. Everyone appeared to be in a great hurry which always gave me a sense of urgency. I hoped we should visit the theatre while we were there.

  The very first day my mother and I, with Claudine and Amaryllis, descended on the shops and after much debating a beautiful white silk was bought for Amaryllis’ dress. It was more difficult to find the acceptable shade of red to enhance my darkness; but my mother said we should not be hurried.

  My father always had business in London—rather mysterious business as well as his banking concerns, and one thing we had learned was not to ask questions. We did know that he worked less in the field than he had in the past and that his son Jonathan had lost his life because of his connections with this mysterious espionage. I knew that Claudine was delighted that David had no part in it. Amaryllis had told me so.

  I often wondered whether Jonathan’s son, also named Jonathan, who was at this time living with the Pettigrews, was also involved.

  However, my father’s interests did not absorb him so
much that he could not pay a visit to the theatre and we had a glorious evening watching A Tale of Mystery which was not exactly new but was the first of the melodramas which had since become so popular. It had a wicked villain who the audience liked to pretend struck terror into them when he appeared; and although we laughed we could not help being caught up in the drama, particularly as it was accompanied by the most expressive music which rose in volume for the villain and played sweetly for the unsullied heroine.

  When the play was over we all returned home and sat up late drinking hot chocolate and discussing the improbabilities of the plot, laughing heartily at the actions of the villain and the gullibility of the heroine; and admitting that we had enjoyed every moment of it.

  The next day was Sunday. We had attended church and afterwards walked in the Park; and my mother said that the following day we really must come to a decision about the material for my dress.

  There were callers in the morning and an invitation to dine a few days later.

  “And after that,” my mother said, “we must think about getting home.”

  “It is a strange thing,” I said, “that when we are at Eversleigh, a visit to London seems very desirable; and when we are here we think how nice it would be to get back.”

  “Perhaps anticipation is more satisfying than actuality,” suggested Amaryllis.

  “I think you may be right,” I agreed.

  “It reminds us that we should enjoy everything as it comes along.”

  “Amaryllis, if you are so wise at eighteen, you’ll be a veritable sage by the time you are thirty.”

  The callers delayed our visit to the shops but my mother was determined that we should go, so about four o’clock we set out.

  We examined bales of material—emerald greens and vivid scarlets, both of which my mother declared were my colours.

  I had my mother’s dark hair, but alas, not her vivid blue eyes. Mine were deep set, black lashed but of a deep brown; and I needed strong colours to set them off.

  She was determined that I must look my best and she spent a long time selecting the right shade.