The Lost Ones

by Anita Frank

  She got up, brushing herself down with precise strokes, buying time while she collected her thoughts and assembled her defence. When she deigned to give me a response, she was cool and collected.

  ‘I dare say there were a lot of folks shouting out bits of information that night, miss. He must have picked up on something and acted on it. He just got lucky.’

  ‘That night was chaos.’ My words were forced through gritted teeth. ‘No, your father had much clearer direction than a few jumbled comments and a little luck. I heard him, Annie. He was speaking to someone over his shoulder, someone behind him … but there was no one there, at least, no one I could see.’ She licked her lips, betraying her nerves. I steeled myself to conceal my own. ‘“You’ll have to take me to her,”’ that’s what he said. Someone … something … guided him to Lydia, and that’s how he found her.’

  It might have been my imagination, or possibly a trick of the light, but I swear the blood drained from her cheeks. She quickly recovered.

  ‘As I say, miss, I’m in no position to comment. I was just a child when it happened.’

  I refused to tolerate her chicanery. Fuelled by frustration I left my chair, the eiderdown slipping from my shoulders to pile on the floor along with my shucked-off my patience. ‘For God’s sake, we both know there was something else on that landing last night. I felt it, Annie – its hands on my back. I know you saw it – you tried to stop it.’

  ‘Forgive me, miss, if you’ve mistaken my words in any way.’ Her icy tone was bordering on insolence. ‘I called out, because it looked like you were too far over the edge, and I feared you were about to lose your balance and fall.’

  ‘I was not too close to the edge and I did not fall. I was pushed, pushed by whatever was on that landing with us, Annie, whatever it was that we heard crying. You’re not going to deny you heard the crying now, surely?’

  Our eyes locked. Defiant, her mouth remained shut, her secrets sealed within her. I was determined to prise them out, but before I could begin a fresh campaign Madeleine, to my great irritation, burst unannounced into my room. She looked remarkably refreshed considering last night’s events had robbed me of rest. She brightened even further when she saw I was not alone.

  ‘Are you discussing last night?’ Her eagerness was childlike and irrepressible, her wariness of Annie shamelessly forgotten as she turned to quiz her. ‘You heard it too, Annie, the crying?’

  ‘I was woken by something, ma’am.’

  ‘But it was crying? A young boy crying?’ Madeleine persisted.

  Annie considered her response, framing it with a carefully crafted flicker of uncertainty. ‘I suppose it could have sounded like that, ma’am.’

  ‘But you did hear something?’ Madeleine faltered.

  ‘Well, something disturbed me, ma’am, I’m not sure what … it’s all a bit strange, to be honest.’

  I could bear it no more. ‘Oh, stop it Annie! Stop with the lies!’

  She flinched. Madeleine appeared stunned by the ferocity of my outburst, but I didn’t care. I was tired and moody and on edge and I was sick of doubts and questions.

  ‘Why can’t you just be honest, for once?’ I snapped. ‘You were woken by the crying and you damn well saw something on that landing.’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘Yes, you did! Just tell us, now, exactly what you saw.’

  ‘I didn’t see anything, miss. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ She blanched, tears welling. ‘I don’t know why you’re saying these things to me.’

  Her contrived emotion failed to dampen my resolve. ‘Why are you trying to hide the truth from me, Annie? I know! I know about your father …’

  ‘Please stop talking about my father.’ The words escaped her as a broken whisper. ‘My father is dead, miss. I beg you, let him rest in peace, he’s done you no harm.’ Salty rivulets spilt down her cheeks to drip from her jaw. She turned to Madeleine. ‘Please, ma’am, might I be excused? I’m not feeling very well.’

  Before Madeleine could answer, I informed her she was not excused, not until she’d told the truth.

  ‘I am telling you the truth! The only truth I can tell,’ she cried, before appealing to my sister’s softer nature once again.

  Madeleine, clearly discomfited, gave her leave to go, instructing her to send Maisie to attend me in her place. Sobbing, Annie darted through the door. Madeleine stopped me as I went to follow her.

  ‘For God’s sake, Stella, what’s got into you?’

  I offered her no answer, I merely carried on my pursuit, catching up with Annie on the landing.

  ‘Please, miss, let me alone.’

  ‘Not until you’ve told me what I want to know.’ I grabbed her wrist. ‘I need you to help me, Annie.’

  She lunged towards me. ‘I have helped you.’ The heat of her resentment scorched me. ‘I helped that day at the lake when I could have left you to drown. I can do no more.’ Belligerent now, she wrenched herself free. ‘I will do no more,’ she said and without waiting for my response, she turned tail and ran, disappearing through the servants’ door concealed in the panelling.

  Her evocation of the incident at the lake left me as dazed as a boxer caught by an unexpected hook. I recalled her words that day – ‘He says it’s not your time.’ Last night, I had dared to contemplate that strange message anew.

  If I had hoped to elicit a confession from Annie I had failed completely. All I had done was force her further into that impenetrable shell of hers, a shell I now suspected to be constructed of lies and deceit. But in my heart, I knew I was right about her, and that conviction gave sustenance to the hope I had been nurturing all night: if Annie Burrows could see Lucien, then what other spirits might she be able to see? Perhaps it was unwise to encourage such thoughts, but had she not just thrown fuel on that fire herself? The hope of somehow communicating with Gerald once again gave me the courage and determination to pursue the truth.

  ‘What on earth was that all about?’ Madeleine asked, as I slunk back into my room. Thankfully Maisie interrupted us before I could answer, bobbing a curtsy as she came in, no doubt alert to the unfolding drama. I placated Madeleine with a promise to explain when we were alone.

  My thoughts were chaotic as Maisie helped me dress, and I was grateful she was so adept at her task for I was too discombobulated to be of much help. I sat at the dressing table as she did my hair. She met my eyes in the mirror a number of times, smiling shyly, as she applied the silver-backed brush. I began to relax under her careful ministrations, and I forced away the uncomfortable questions circling my brain. I tried to distract myself by engaging in conversation – at least Maisie’s answers would be reassuringly substantial.

  ‘I understand your mother worked here once upon a time, Maisie?’

  ‘Yes, miss. She was taken on when she was just a girl, when Sir Arthur first moved here. She left when she married my dad – they farm up the road now.’

  ‘Was she a maid? Like you?’

  ‘That’s right, miss – I’m following in her footsteps.’ She giggled. There was something utterly naive and charming about her. Her irrepressible ebullience evoked the first genuine smile I had managed all morning. ‘When I was little,’ she continued, deftly combing through a section of my hair, ‘my mum would tell me all about the glamorous parties here – the wonderful food and beautiful ladies in their gorgeous gowns – and it sounded like a fairy tale palace. All I wanted was to be a part of it – even if it was a part where I was scurrying about with a tray in my hand.’ She wound the section of hair and reached forward for a pin to secure it in place. ‘My mum used to say to me’ – she mimicked what I took to be her mother’s voice with the relish of a music hall actress – ‘“You get yourself a job at Greyswick, my girl, and you’ll be set up for life – just don’t catch Mrs Henge’s eye and avoid Sir Arthur’s wandering hands.”’ She giggled at her own impression and then stopped abruptly, her cheeks flushing scarlet as her eyes widened in horror at her faux pas. �
��Oh Lord, miss, I’m so sorry! I meant no harm, it’s just I forget myself – my mum always warned me my big mouth would get me into trouble.’

  I laughed and waved away her apology. ‘Never fear, Maisie, my lips are sealed.’

  She stepped back once she had finished, her embarrassment forgotten, her hands clasped behind her back.

  ‘Thank you, Maisie. I think that will be all.’

  ‘Breakfast is all laid out in the dining room as usual, miss,’ she informed me as she dropped a quick curtsy and beat her retreat. I was somewhat stunned to realise it was not yet nine.

  I faltered as I entered the dining room. I had expected to see Madeleine waiting patiently for me at the table, but I had not anticipated seeing Lady Brightwell or Miss Scott, as it was their habit to take breakfast early. Madeleine’s stiff posture as she sat eating her kippers and toast betrayed her discomfort, and I received cool glances from both older ladies as I quietly closed the door and issued my greetings.

  I began to explore the breakfast offerings, trying my best not to disturb the taut silence with the clanging of salver lids. I took some kedgeree and set my plate down opposite Madeleine, turning back to help myself to the tea urn.

  ‘I was just saying to Madeleine, Miss Marcham, that you two girls must be exhausted this morning.’ Lady Brightwell’s words were clipped and dipped in acid. ‘Mrs Henge tells me you were engaged in some midnight wanderings. Do tell me, what on earth were you doing up on the nursery landing at that time of night?’

  I pushed back the lever on the urn. There was no benefit to be gained from sharing the night’s events with an audience who were bound to be unequivocally hostile. I needed time to formulate my own conflicted thoughts and tackle the problem of Annie Burrows.

  ‘I thought I heard something,’ I said, taking my seat.

  ‘And what was that?’

  Madeleine shot me a pointed look across the table.

  ‘Nothing in the end,’ I responded as nonchalantly as I could.

  ‘No, that’s not true.’ Madeleine’s cutlery clattered against the edge of her plate. I tried to kick her under the table, but my foot wouldn’t reach. ‘We did hear something, all of us did.’

  ‘Madeleine.’ I hoped she would heed the warning note in my voice. Instinct told me we should keep our own counsel. Madeleine’s instinct was clamouring for exoneration.

  ‘We all heard crying. Myself, Stella, even Stella’s maid Annie heard it.’

  ‘Crying?’ The word dropped like lead from Lady Brightwell’s lips. Miss Scott’s teacup clinked into its saucer.

  ‘Yes. You see, it isn’t just me after all. I’ve been saying for weeks that I’ve heard something and none of you believed me, but now Stella has heard it too – so you see, it can’t just be me. There is something, someone crying in this house.’ Colour blistered her cheeks. ‘Tell them, Stella.’

  ‘Well, Miss Marcham?’ Lady Brightwell’s question spliced the air like a razor-sharp blade.

  Madeleine read my hesitation. ‘Stella,’ she begged.

  I cursed my soft-heartedness. Despite my misgivings, I could not do it – I could not turn my back on her.

  ‘Madeleine’s right. It was the sound of a child crying that woke me.’

  The brittle silence that met my declaration was shattered by the dramatic sigh of exasperation that escaped Lady Brightwell and a muttered ‘Oh dear’ from Miss Scott. Madeleine looked from her mother-in-law to the companion, her distress mounting as she realised the revelation had not been well received. It was as I feared: Lady Brightwell now thought us both deranged.

  ‘For goodness’ sake!’ she declared, shoving her plate away in disgust. Miss Scott unhooked her spectacles. With a dour expression she proceeded to clean the lenses on a handkerchief pulled from her cardigan sleeve, shaking her head in disappointment as she did so.

  ‘Miss Marcham!’ Lady Brightwell summoned my attention by banging both hands on the table. ‘Are you to tell me you are now condoning this nonsense?’

  ‘I can only tell you what I heard, Lady Brightwell, and I heard, quite distinctly, a child crying.’

  ‘Encouraged, no doubt, by your sister.’

  ‘I know what I heard.’

  ‘Then you are wrong, Miss Marcham. Do you not think if there were truly a child crying in this house then someone other than Madeleine would have heard it by now?’

  ‘They have,’ Madeleine said, emboldened by my support. ‘Stella’s maid Annie heard it too.’

  ‘Be quiet, child!’ Lady Brightwell’s withering look caused Madeleine to shrivel in her seat. ‘I am talking to your sister. Your sister, who – I had hoped – might possess a modicum more common sense than you yourself do. Clearly I was wrong.’

  ‘I am sorry, Lady Brightwell, but I know what I heard. It was very distinct. Indeed, I find it astounding that you have never heard it yourself.’

  ‘Miss Marcham, I have lived in this house since I was little more than a girl. We never had any of this nonsense until your sister came to stay this last time. I find it unbelievable for that very reason. And I’m sorry to say, I do not find you a reliable corroborating witness.’

  ‘There is my maid, Annie.’ It had not been my intention to offer the girl up, but my back was to the wall. I dearly hoped she would not be called upon to give testimony; I was under no illusion she would support me.

  ‘A servant girl? You expect me to believe the nonsense of a maid?’

  ‘I know what I heard, what we all heard,’ I said.

  ‘And do tell me, Miss Marcham, did you find a culprit, when you were prowling around in pursuit of this mysterious crying?’

  ‘No. No I didn’t … which in itself is telling, surely? I think it warrants investigation.’

  ‘“Warrants investigation”?’ she mocked. ‘The only thing that warrants investigation, Miss Marcham, is your state of mind.’

  I looked her squarely in the eye. ‘We can’t all be wrong, Lady Brightwell.’

  ‘I would beg to differ.’ She rose imperiously from the table. ‘I will have no more said on this matter, but know this, Miss Marcham, if you persist, I may have to reconsider your ongoing stay at Greyswick. Madeleine needs a calm and stable influence about her at this delicate time. I suggest you reflect very carefully on whether you can offer her that, given your own circumstances.’ She eyed my black attire and began to move away from the table. Relenting slightly, she hovered by me, her tone softening. ‘I say this as a mother, Miss Marcham. I only want what is best, for everyone.’

  She left the room with Miss Scott, her ever-present shadow. I sighed with frustration as the door clicked behind them, tossing my napkin upon my untouched breakfast.

  ‘Madeleine, why did you have to say anything?’

  ‘It would all have come out anyway.’

  It was a valid argument. Clearly Mrs Henge had wasted no time in recounting our midnight escapade to her employer.

  ‘Well, it didn’t go very well, did it?’ I pushed back my chair. ‘From now on, let’s keep our cards closer to our chests, shall we? Unless you want the old battleax to send me home with a flea in my ear.’

  ‘Oh no, Stella …’ Madeleine reached for my hand. ‘You can’t leave me, not now. I won’t let her send you away, whatever happens.’

  ‘You may have no choice in the matter,’ I observed as I got to my feet, any appetite I might have entertained completely gone.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Madeleine required little encouragement to join me for a walk in the gardens. I think we had both had enough of Greyswick’s claustrophobic atmosphere. Fresh air was what we needed.

  A warm breeze greeted us as we escaped. We crossed the lichen-covered flags of the terrace and descended its shallow steps, crunching along the gravel pathways that segmented the parterre.

  We walked without direction, the garden stretching endlessly before us. To the far left was a rhododendron-dotted arboretum – the gateway to the copse-covered hillside beyond – while to the far right was the
brick wall of the kitchen garden. Madeleine and I pressed on until the gravel gave way to soft sinking lawn, the grass overly long and in need of mowing. Leading away from the lawns was an avenue of cherry trees, and we turned towards it. The wind soughed through the blossom-laden branches, and the multitude of pink bouquets shivered with delight.

  ‘Something will have to be done, Stella,’ Madeleine said at last. ‘I cannot stay in that house with things the way they are. Something will have to be done.’

  I noticed how the buttons of her coat were straining at her increased waist. I folded my arms, hunching my shoulders against the brazen breeze. My heart ached for Gerald. He would have given me steady, sensible counsel and defended me to his very last breath.

  The cherry branches heaved and sighed. A flurry of petals danced on the wind until, tiring of them, it subsided, leaving them to drift to the ground. One landed on Madeleine’s shoulder and I lightly brushed it off.

  ‘I don’t know what we can do.’

  ‘What about Annie, Stella? What did you mean when you said she saw something?’

  I broke away from her, wandering over to lay my palm on the rough bark of a silver-hued trunk.

  ‘Stella?’

  I thought of home. We had some cherry trees at the edge of the gardens, a small cluster. When we were small – before the fire – we three girls would collect the best of the fallen blossom, giggling as we filled the scoop of Lydia’s pinafore to the top. Madeleine and I would take turns playing bridesmaid and bride, while Lydia – far too young for such parts – would walk before us as our flower girl, scattering our path with handfuls of petals. Madeleine had chosen not to have a flower girl for her wedding. Lydia had been irreplaceable in the role.

  ‘Stella?’

  I rested my back against the tree. ‘I think Annie Burrows …’ I stopped. ‘This is madness …’ I whispered the conclusion more to myself than to Madeleine, but it induced her to draw near and after years of silence, I finally shared with her what I had witnessed the night Haverton went up in flames.