We shook hands, her whole left hand clasping my right one, and exchanged pleasantries. It was clear, however, that Martha was not finished with her discussion with Clara.
“That’s ’er, in the blue calico,” she said, nodding at a slight young woman with flaxen hair who was watching the antics of the children with a wistful smile. “Virginia Flood. Meek and biddable as you please, and she’ll be a fair hand with a needle some day if she keeps at it, but I’m that worried about ’er.”
“Why?” I asked.
Martha shook her head. Though probably only around Clara’s age, she bore in her face the ravages of poverty, and I guessed that whatever accident had claimed her thumb had put her out of work for a time until Clara had rescued her and given her her current position. “She takes on something terrible at times. Can’t even work for weeping some days.”
Clara looked distressed. “Has Mrs. Flood told you or the matron any of her history?”
“Just the usual—husband died, she had no people to help her, so she had to leave her baby in care while she looked for work. She fell ill for a time, and when she came to herself she was told the babe had died. Took up with a series of men to keep body and soul together.” When I made a sympathetic noise, Martha shrugged. “May or may not be true, any of it.”
“The poor girl,” Clara said, but then a new arrival burst upon us and obliterated the conversation.
“Aunt Clara!” It was a broad-chested young man with tousled brown hair and a particularly guileless face. “Merry Christmas. I bring sad tidings.”
“Oughtn’t that to be glad tidings?”
He wrapped her in a bear hug before answering, but I noticed that he took care not to squeeze her about the middle. “I’m dashed sorry, but Vivi won’t be coming,” he said.
“Oh, no!” She looked crestfallen. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes, yes, nothing to worry about, but the doctor doesn’t want her traveling right now, what with the baby due in just a few weeks. It’s just a precaution, and she did her best to talk him round, believe me.” Then he caught sight of me and extended his hand with a smile. “I do beg your pardon, Miss Ingram. You are Miss Ingram, I take it? The pictures in the newspapers don’t do you justice.”
After that, naturally I was disposed to like him. “Delighted to meet you,” I said. “And who is Vivi?”
Clara answered for him. “Genevieve is Atticus’s niece and George’s wife, and I was so looking forward to your meeting her. I think the two of you would take to each other enormously. Won’t you stay for a cup of cider, George?”
“Thanks all the same, but I’d best be getting back. As it is, Vivi is pea green with envy that I get to see you today. She’ll be madly jealous if I linger, and I can’t bear to leave her alone and bored.”
Clara smiled. “Well, tell her we’ll miss her dreadfully and that we’ll call round tomorrow. And give her this.” Raising herself on tiptoe, she kissed the young man’s cheek. Once again I marveled that the restrained Clara Graves I used to know had grown so openly affectionate.
For his part, Mr. Bertram seemed delighted, but not so much that he forgot his manners. After returning Clara’s kiss he bowed very nicely to me as he took his leave.
The children were encouraged to disport themselves outdoors so as to work off their excess energy before dinner. Dinner itself also served to slow them down, so replete it was with delicacies. Goose and roast beef, syllabub, puddings, minced pie, sweetmeats, jellies...I had to summon a maid afterward to loosen my laces, for I did not want them to snap during the dancing.
Such a merry gathering! I had wondered if the simple country folk who worked the farms on the estate would shun the fallen women from the Blackwood Homes—or, worse, leer at them and treat them with disrespect. But as it turned out, everyone seemed to take each other at face value, exchanging greetings of the season and conversing in a companionable way about the hospitality. Clara, resplendent at the head of the table in a glorious gown of purple taffeta and black velvet, and her husband, at the foot, handsome in his evening dress, could congratulate themselves on the gathering.
But there was no time to rest on any laurels, for after dinner came charades and then dancing. Despite her condition, Clara led the first dance with her husband, which was a traditional dance around a bunch of greenery hung from the ceiling—a Cornish Christmas bush, an amiable young rustic named Fred Waring told me. Made up of holly, mistletoe, and ivy, and topped with a shiny red apple, it was a tradition that was new to me. It was wonderful to see Clara and her husband reveling in the party atmosphere they had created, and even Roderick seemed to forget his earlier preoccupation while we danced. He was rapt when the carolers arrived and performed traditional Cornish songs for us that were unfamiliar. These were not gentle hymns for church but vigorous tunes that roused the spirits with their energetic harmonies.
“Oh, go ahead,” I said to Roderick in a break between songs.
He raised his eyebrows at me. “Whatever do you mean?”
“Go fetch your violin. I can see your fingers fairly itching for it so that you can learn some of these tunes.”
Laughing, he kissed me and strode off to our room. When he returned carrying his instrument, there was a roar of appreciation from the musicians who now recognized him as one of their own.
The servants, who had had a celebration of their own belowstairs, as Clara told me, joined us to watch the mummers’ play. The vast ballroom was almost full as the local children and a few adults gathered on the dais at the end of the room. Outside I saw the snow continuing to come down heavily and felt a twinge of concern that the mummers would have to make their way to their next stop during this storm.
As the old story of Saint George and the Turkish Knight unfolded, I tucked my arm through Roderick’s and observed the audience. Clara, after so exhausting a day, had finally consented to sit down, and her husband stood by protectively. There was laughter at the costumes and makeshift masks of the mummers, but it was a comfortable sound, and cries of encouragement heartened the occasional hesitant or forgetful actor.
Only one person did not seem to be enjoying the revelry. From where I stood, I could see pretty young Mrs. Virginia Flood’s face, and her posture was taut with a strange urgency. Her hands clenched in her lap, she was watching with great concentration—and without showing one jot of pleasure. Rather, she looked as if something desperately important was unfolding before her.
Perhaps the antics of these children were reminding her of the child she had lost. Maybe that was why she was so despondent at times—she had not recovered from losing her child. It was a sobering reminder during this festive night that as much as I had seen Clara and her husband do to improve the lives of their dependents, they were only human and could not find an answer to every sorrow.
And, as mere humans, they could not control the weather either. When the mummers and carolers had had their fill of food and drink and at last made to go, the shout came back at once to those of us still in the ballroom: Gravesend was snowed in.
What a flurry there was then! Finding rooms to put everyone in; making certain all the beds had fresh linens; determining where the Blackwood Homes denizens would be placed so as to provide enough space between them and the bachelors to ensure everyone’s privacy; and finally looking for a place to put all the boys, who showed no signs of sleepiness and were liable to keep the adults awake. There, at least, my host was lucky.
“We’ve already cleared out the gallery of the most precious things and already have some cots there for the school,” Clara noted. “It’s a bit dark and cavernous, but we can get a good fire going to warm it and make it more inviting. I’ll tell Mrs. Threll.” She made to rise, but her husband gently repressed her.
“I wish you’d rest instead, my love.”
“So I shall—soon.” She tucked her hand in the crook of his arm, and he relented.
I tagged along, curious to see more of the house, and my first impression was that if
I were a young boy, I would have been intimidated by the long gallery with its pools of shadow and its high vaulted ceiling that sent ominous echoes back at those who broke the solemn silence. The rugs had already been rolled up and propped against the walls, perhaps in preparation for some new flooring, and that made the echoes all the more insidious. It was not a cozy place—nor was it meant to be, I reminded myself.
Clara, yielding to her husband’s concern for her health, lingered just long enough to say goodnight to the boys and tuck in the smallest ones. It was plain to see that already they worshipped her. I helped Mrs. Threll distribute blankets, and after some discussion we left the drapes open so that moonlight would provide some reassuring illumination. Reflected as it was from banks of snow, the light was eerily bright, but the two youngest boys earnestly desired that we not leave them in darkness. There were only half a dozen boys, varied in age up to perhaps ten or possibly twelve. I confess that I am far from an expert in little boys and had no desire to become one. I could hardly believe that Clara would soon turn her home over to a crowd of them.
For one thing, they had such gruesome tastes. “That’s where the old baron died,” one lad whispered when I went to straighten his blanket. He was a slight curly-headed fellow, and he pointed at a door leading off the gallery. “His room had the faces of dead people on the walls.”
“Dear God, child, I don’t think that can be true.”
“He told me.” He indicated one of the older boys. “Warren. He heard it from the stable boy, he said.”
“Now, that is quite enough,” I said, hoping that briskness would lend me authority. “It’s time to put nasty stories out of your head and go to sleep.”
But when I at last climbed into bed next to Roderick, I found that my own mind was now filled with troubling thoughts. I wished that I had thought to ask George Bertram or one of the other guests about the Gravesend curse. To be sure, though, the day had scarcely offered a chance for much private conversation.
I looked over at Roderick, whose deep-set eyes were fixed pensively on the ceiling. “Are you better?” I asked.
“Hmm?”
“You seemed preoccupied earlier today, and not best pleased. Did Father Christmas disappoint you?”
He smiled and drew me close. “It’s not important.” He paused. “I will say one thing, though.”
“What’s that?”
“I never realized before just what is involved in being the lord of a great estate. Telford seems to have learned the name, personal history, ailments, and individual crotchets of every single one of his tenants. It was astonishing to watch him today. They’d all lay down their lives for him, and one can see why.”
“Well, he is a remarkable man,” I said, wondering where this was going.
“I’d be dreadful at what he does,” Roderick said, “and dreadfully bored. I’m so glad we are free to travel wherever we wish without any great responsibilities weighing us down.”
“So am I, dear heart.” Thank goodness, he had not been contemplating settling down and becoming lord of the manor!
Tired but happy, we soon fell asleep. It was not until hours later that we were awakened by something most unexpected in a comfortable home at Christmas. By screaming.
IV. Clara
I was jerked out of sleep by a horrible noise—the sound of a child screaming. So suddenly had I been awakened that I did not at first remember why we had children in the house.
Next to me, Atticus too had awakened. He struck a light and reached for his dressing gown.
“Where is it coming from?” I wondered.
“The gallery, I suspect.”
Now I remembered—the house was full of unexpected guests because of the snowstorm. Why would any of them be making such a noise?
While I was mulling, Atticus leaned over and kissed me. “You go back to sleep, my love. I’ll find out what’s amiss.”
“No, I’ll go with you.” Another scream made me wince, and I hastened to put on my own dressing gown. “Do you think he’s in pain, or only frightened?”
“We’ll soon find out.”
We were not the only ones awakened by the cries, for guests were beginning to appear at the doors to their rooms. Atticus assured them that all was well and that we would take care of the cause of the disturbance. One person we did not turn away was our butler, Birch, who appeared with a lamp and accompanied us to the gallery.
The boys were all awake. The older boys were jeering at the younger ones, who were huddled together. The screaming had stopped, but judging from the tear-stained cheeks of some of the small boys, it might break out again at any moment. I could see no signs of an injury, but my heart went out to them. I hadn’t realized how frightening it must have been in this great cavernous space filled with shadows. No wonder they were terrified—especially if the older boys had been teasing them, as I rather suspected from their guilty demeanor now. Upon our entrance they had quieted down and now stood trying to look well-behaved, but their expressions of cherubic innocence were unconvincing.
“Clara, Birch and I can manage here,” Atticus said, too quietly for the boys to hear. “I would feel much better if you went back to bed. I don’t want you to overexert yourself, and you had such a busy day.”
In truth, although I would have liked to stay and comfort the little ones, my back was aching, and bed sounded inviting. Atticus and I had sat up late the night before talking over how enjoyably our first Christmas had gone, so neither one of us had had much sleep. This was one time when I would not mind availing myself of the special privileges given expectant mothers.
“If you’re certain,” I said.
“Entirely. I’ll join you soon.” He handed me the candle he had brought, since Birch’s lantern made it redundant here, but I would need it to find my way.
On my return journey, the halls were silent. The light cast by the candle was puny in the vastness of the house, but I had grown accustomed to the place after living here many months and made my way with certainty.
Until I heard the crying.
I paused at the foot of the main stairs, listening. It was a woman, that much I could tell. There were certainly many women in the house, but all of them should be peacefully sleeping in the east wing, not here in the heart of the public rooms.
The sobbing continued. Eerie little echoes crept back toward me, and after only the briefest hesitation I set out in the direction I thought the sound was coming from.
I paused outside the closed door of the parlor, putting my ear close to the door and listening hard. Then I moved on—and found that the drawing room door was open.
There was no light coming from within, but the gulps and spasmodic breathing were louder. Despite my alarm, my heart constricted at the sound; it was so heartbroken.
Gently, so as to make as little noise as possible, I pushed the door further open and stepped into the room. At once the sound of crying stopped.
“Hello?” I said softly. “Who’s there?”
No answer came. I took another step forward, holding my candle out to better illuminate the room. I moved it around so that its light fell on all the ordinary furnishings, the wing chairs, the potted plants, the paintings. Then the light touched the painting of the late Lady Telford, and I gave a choking cry. It had come to life.
It was impossible, but the woman in the painting had gained dimension and solid form. She had frozen in the act of stepping out of the frame. The candlelight gleamed on her fair hair and white dress, but it did not extend far enough to illuminate her eyes—if eyes she had, for they were like wells of darkness.
Without conscious intention I shrank back into the corridor, so suddenly that the flame of my candle went out. With shaking hands I tried to strike a light, as all the while that one moment’s hideous sight hovered before my eyes.
Please don’t be a ghost. I didn’t think I could bear it if that cruel woman was haunting my home. And not just for my own sake—for the sake of everything Atticus and I we
re trying to build.
At last the spark took life and I could light the candle. I felt the thump of my heart in my chest and my throat, the too-rapid beat betraying my fear as I stepped back over the threshold, holding the candle out with a hand that trembled a little.
The painting was lifeless once again. Though I approached it gingerly, nothing altered or made me fear that it would again surge forward in the guise of a flesh-and-blood woman. The varnish on the canvas gleamed in the light.
Did that mean that the ghost, if there was one, had withdrawn back into the painting—or that she had escaped it altogether?
IN THE LIGHT OF MORNING, the whole idea of a ghost was ludicrous. Sybil must have put the thought into my head with her talk of communicating with spirits. But I had not simply imagined that figure stepping out of the canvas, so something unexplained had happened to the painting. Clearly the first thing I needed to do was to examine it in daylight.
Unfortunately, that meant leaving bed—and the shelter of my husband’s body. I never felt as safe as when we lay embracing together, his body shielding mine like a bulwark against all peril. In every part of our life together, Atticus always made me feel protected, so much so that I had been able to shed the armor of wariness that I had worn for so many years.
Now he was waking, though, and I knew that soon he would be rising—and I would have no choice but to do likewise.
“What happened with the boys?” I asked, after we had kissed each other good morning.
His crystalline blue eyes were grave. “It’s as we feared—the story of the curse has got out.”
“Oh, no!” I envisioned all our hopes and plans for the school crashing down around us. No one would send a child to a cursed school, nor would any child consent to stay at one. “I had hoped so much the talk had died out. I even tried to discourage Sybil from speaking of it.”
“People have long memories, especially when it comes to grisly gossip and spook stories.”
Christmas at Gravesend Page 3