The dresses are lovely. My favorite is a long gray dress with black beading, ail in pure silk. It has a beautiful lavender panel set into the front, Madame Doubtfire says the materials were sent specially from Paris.
I halted in confusion. A gray dress with a lavender panel and black beading! Surely that was the very dress I had been wearing two days ago, one of the collection I had been given on my arrival at the hall. Of course: the writer of the diary would have grown out of them and left them behind when she was finally “brought out,” No doubt she had married soon after that and gone away to live with her husband, leaving all her childhood possessions behind. I so hoped so; I hoped she had escaped from the dullness of her life on the moors.
Madame Doubtfire is such a funny little woman. She reminds me of that character in Dickens, Uriah Heep. Always running about after her clients, “her ladies, ” as she calls them, simpering and dropping little curtsies at the slightest opportunity. “Is that to your satisfaction, Miss Caroline?” Or “Such a slim figure, Miss Caroline. You will be such a beauty at your first ball. ”
Mind you, I get the feeling she’s afraid of Mother. It's funny that, thinking of people being afraid of her. I’m often sorry for her, and I know there is some sort of embarrassment because I don t have a father; but I've never thought of her as frightening. Grandmama is frightening, but she no longer lives with us, thank God. Not since Grandfather died. But old Doubtfire really scoots around Mother as though she were about to eat her up. “I’m sorry, Miss Antonia, ” or “Whatever can I have been thinking of, Miss Antonia?”
I almost let the book fall from my hands. “Miss Antonia”? Did that mean . . . ? Surely it could not mean that Antonia had a daughter. She was not married. I had seen her wear a wedding dress, but she . . . A very different sort of chill stabbed at my heart. Antonia had a daughter ten years older than I, a daughter of whom she never spoke. I knew enough to understand a little of what this meant. Caroline had been illegitimate.
I glanced up in alarm, thinking I had heard something, a cough or snarl in the room behind me. There was nothing there. The curtain seemed to move. I decided not to go to the window: if there was a draft, Mrs. Johnson would see to it. I would tell her at dinner. I started reading again.
22 November. Nothing in my diary yesterday. It was rather a peculiar day. Mother was tired after her drive to Morpeth the day before. Anthony said he had to do some work on the estate. He wants to bring friends here to shoot next season. I don 't even ask him about it. Why can ’t they leave the poor birds alone? The weather had picked up a bit. I took Oliver for a long canter out on Todcrag Moss. On our way back, I passed by the old folly. It always gives me the creeps, but it is the shortest way through the woods from the Harwood side, and Oliver was tired. I was walking him, stretching my legs a bit, and we were going rather slowly.
What happened next was rather queer, but I know I didn’t imagine it. Just as I passed near the folly Oliver reared up and broke away. He seemed terrified of something, behavior I’ve never seen in him before. He’s usually such a placid old thing. He knocked me to the ground and ran off in the direction of the hall, keeping to the path, thank God. I was quite winded at first. By the time I got to my feet, he was out of sight. I prayed he wouldn’t go far.
I couldn’t guess what had spooked him. There hadn’t been a sound, and I had not noticed anything running across his path. Well, I thought, it must have been a squirrel. Horses will do that sometimes, though it’s odd. But then I did hear something. The woods were very quiet, and I couldn't have been mistaken. I heard. .. Well, I’m not quite certain, but it sounded like somebody singing. Several people, actually, as though a little band of children were near me. I thought for a moment that it must be some village children, practicing their Christmas carols perhaps. But that was silly, they never come near here, they pretend there’s a “curse" on the hall.
Actually I thought the sound came from inside the folly. It went on for half a minute or so, then stopped. It stopped dead, just like that, and it was quiet again. I've never liked the folly much, and never been inside, but I went up to the door and tried it. It was locked as usual, so nobody can have sneaked in. I couldn't stand round listening, not while Oliver was straying, so I set off after him. He wasn’t far away after all. I caught him munching some grass just off the path. He seemed right as rain, but I scolded him for giving me such a fright. Mind you, I wonder if he hadn't heard those voices before I did. They were a little spooky, and it could have frightened him.
Dear God, I felt as cold as ice. I had no need of drafts to chill me. She had heard them, too. Ten years ago. They had frightened her horse as they had frightened my dog. She had heard them in the same place and for the same length of time. It was no coincidence.
At that moment the weeping started again.
CHAPTER 19
“Please,” I whispered, “please stop crying. Please, I can’t bear it.”
To my astonishment, the crying did stop, as though I had been heard. But in the very instant that it did so, I knew something else was wrong. Even now, I cannot think of the sensation I experienced without feeling acutely nervous. I was certain, mortally certain, that someone was standing behind me, someone who did not wish me well. They were watching me with a look of intense malice, unwavering and unblinking. I felt the skin crawl on the back of my neck. That is the sort of thing you read in books, it has become utterly hackneyed, even risible; but if you have ever felt it, ever really felt it under circumstances like those, you will know how incredibly horrible it is.
I can’t say how long I sat there, feeling that terrible staring presence behind me, frozen to the spot. It cannot have been more than a minute, two at the outside, for I am certain I could not have borne it longer than that. But it felt like an age, with every second stretched out unnaturally. I remember gripping the arms of my chair and forcing myself, against every instinct, to turn and confront whoever or whatever was watching me.
And I did turn. I turned, expecting some tremendous horror, and saw nothing. There was absolutely nothing there.
“Oh, God,” I remember praying, “please, please help me. I don’t understand what’s happening here, but I need Your help.”
The silence that followed left me feeling more uncomfortable than I had before. My gentle God was elsewhere evidently, tending other sheep. Deep inside, I think I understood that He would not accept my invitation to step into the nightmare I could feel closing around me. But I have never forgiven Him for abandoning me so thoughtlessly in my hour of need.
I was still sitting there when I heard footsteps, then a knock on the door.
“It’s time for dinner, miss. Miss Antonia says you’re to get a move on.”
Johnson’s voice brought such a sense of normality with it that for a moment I forgot her involvement with the events in the locked room. I hurried to my feet and unlocked the door. She was standing in the dark corridor holding a single candle. My fear must still have been visible, for the moment she caught sight of me, a look of concern crossed her features.
“Are you all right, miss? Nothing’s happened, has it?”
I shook my head hastily. I could not trust her and feared to take her into my confidence.
“No,” I lied, “nothing at all. I’m perfectly all right. Just a little tired. I’ve been asleep in my chair.”
She continued to scrutinize my face, but said nothing further.
“Wait there,” I said. “I’ll get the lamp."
I closed the door. Crossing to the dressing table, I stopped to take Caroline’s diary from the chair. I thought it best that no one learn of my discovery. Hurriedly I slid it to the back of one of the dressing-table drawers and shut it.
Mrs. Johnson was still waiting for me.
“Why was your door locked so early, miss?” she asked pointedly. “It’s more a bedtime matter, surely.” “I felt tired after my walk, and I was afraid of it being open if I should fall asleep.”
She paused and tur
ned to me.
“You must try not to worry, miss. If you hear things. Or . . . see things.”
“Hear things? What do you mean, Johnson?”
“I think you already know very well, miss.”
She seemed very nervous, again on the verge of saying more than she ought.
“Please, miss, go on doing as I told you and keep your door firmly locked.”
“Whatever good will that do? It won’t stop me hearing things, will it?”
“No matter, miss, just you do it. And take this. Take it and wear it.”
She slipped from around her neck a small silver cross on a fine chain. I was unused to such things, and greatly surprised that Mrs. Johnson wore one, for it was something I associated with Catholics. She sensed my hesitation, but reached out and looped the chain over my neck.
“Tuck it into your dress, miss—where it’s out of sight, but where you'll know it’s there. In case of need.”
“What sort of need?”
But she only looked at me sharply and continued walking.
Antonia was waiting impatiently at the table.
“Charlotte, I expected you down fifteen minutes ago. That’s twice today you’ve kept me waiting.”
“I’m sorry, Antonia. I fell asleep at the fire. It was such a long walk today. I promise it won’t happen again.”
She looked scarcely mollified, but, rising, ushered me to my seat. Moments later Mrs. Johnson appeared with our soup on a tray, and dinner began.
The atmosphere was strained. All through the meal,
I felt a terrible urge to ask about Caroline, Antonia’s daughter.
“What did you do before I came?” I asked. “Whenever Anthony went away.”
“I dined alone,” she said.
“But surely there can’t always have been two of you?”
“Ever since my dear mother left, yes. She hated living in such a big house after my father died. That’s why she bought her villa in Morpeth.”
“Who lives there now?” I asked, wondering if the house might not have come into Caroline’s possession.
“It’s empty for the moment, We’ll look for tenants in the summer. No one takes on property at this time of year.”
“Don’t you have any other relations who might take it over?”
She looked at me very attentively. Could she have sensed that I knew or guessed something? Possibly.
“No,” she said emphatically. “There’s no one now, apart from yourself. And your brother Arthur, of course.” She hesitated. ‘I did not want to tell you this, Charlotte; at least not yet. But Anthony and I have considered . . .” She looked intently at me. "Well, my dear, we have considered whether it might not be possible for us to adopt you. And Arthur later on, naturally, once he has been found. Do you understand what I am saying? We mean to have you legally adopted by ourselves.”
I stared openmouthed at her. I could not think what to say.
“There’s no need to say anything now, my dear. It will take you lime to get used to it. But I hope you will be pleased. You will no longer be an orphan. And it would mean so much to us. Neither of us having children of our own, of course.”
It was as though she had guessed exactly what had been going through my mind and was now supplying a direct denial of Caroline’s existence. I decided I must be more direct.
“But. . .” I began hesitantly, conscious of a need for extreme caution. “If you . . .”
“Yes?”
“What if you were to marry? Surely you are not yet too old to have a child of your own.”
Something between a smile and a sneer crossed her face.
“You are mistaken, child. It is entirely out of the question, I assure you. Even if I were to marry, I am too old to give birth. But marriage is impossible in any case.” She paused. “Well, I suppose you are old enough to know something of my past. I was . . .” She hesitated again. “I was once engaged to be married. I will not trouble you with the details. He was a wealthy man, an important man, that is all I will say. The wedding plans were made, the date had been set, the banns called, the church reserved, the invitations sent. And then Simon . . .” A look of pain settled in her eyes. “And then, without warning, and with only weeks to go, my fiance broke his pledge. He wrote to me saying he could not go through with the marriage after all. A week later he left for the colonies.”
Her voice on the verge of breaking, she fell silent. I sat staring at her, frightened to speak, yet desperate to know the answers to so many questions.
“How . . . long ago was that?” I asked.
She looked up. There was a haunted expression in her eyes.
“How long? Twenty years ago,” she whispered. “A very long time. I was seventeen years old.”
Seventeen. Only two years older than I would be in a few weeks’ time.
Anthony arrived soon after that and began his meal while we finished ours. He seemed tired and preoccupied, and Antonia and I soon went to the drawing room, leaving him to finish eating alone.
“You are very close to Anthony,” I said.
“Yes, of course. Only a few years separate us. We have shared our lives.”
I hesitated, then plunged in again.
“I am surprised that he has never married. He is as handsome as you are beautiful.”
She seemed flattered by my words.
“Thank you for that compliment, my dear. Yes, you are right, Anthony is a good-looking man. More than one young lady has been left crying on her pillow for his sake. But while Mother lived here he considered it his duty to look after her. And then . . . And then he stayed single to look after me. He has made a very great sacrifice. But I try to be a comfort to him.”
“Why,” I said, “it is almost as though you two were married.”
She looked at me rather coldly.
“Yes,” she said, “it seems quite like that, does it not?”
Anthony came in then.
“Isn’t it time you were in bed?” he asked, rather brusquely.
It was still a little early, but I nodded. I wished them both good night and went off to my room. Caroline’s diary was still in the drawer where I had placed it. I settled down before the fire and began to read where I had left off.
CHAPTER 20
23 November. Last night I heard something at my window. As though someone was scratching on the panes. But when I looked, there was no one there. I asked Mother this morning if she had ever heard of ghosts at Barras Hall, but she said I was being silly and told me to say my prayers with a better will.
24 November. Scratching again. It woke me twice. I said nothing to Mother.
27 November. There was singing last night. I tried to make out the words, but they were indistinct. It is not a Christmas carol. I’m frightened now, but I daren't say anything to Mother or Uncle Anthony.
28 November. Voices in my room. I can't make out what they say. Terrible fear all night, and more scratching.
29 November. I lock my door at night now. but the footsteps never cease, and I still hear whispers where there should be no whispers. Dear God, make it stop. I think I may be going mad.
3 December. They have started in the daytime now. I am frightened to be alone, and spend every moment I can with Mother. The old man was on the stairs again yesterday.
Mother says there are to be special celebrations for my birthday. I am trying to concentrate on that, to take my mind off other things. It’s only two weeks, but the eighteenth seems as though it will never come.
The eighteenth. I looked at the page in disbelief. That was the date of my own birthday. And it was less than a week away. Suddenly I remembered how Antonia had talked so often about my destiny. Did it have something to do with her daughter? She had dressed me in her clothes, and I guessed that many of the other things I had been given had once belonged to her. Tonight she had talked of adopting me. She would have two daughters, both born on the same date. She and Anthony would take the place of my parents, and I would take th
e place of Caroline. . . . With mounting horror, I began to understand. I remembered Antonia and her brother coming out of the folly together, the kiss he had given her, their walking away together hand in hand. Had Anthony been Caroline’s father? God knows, I understood little enough of such things. But the possibility was undeniable.
So, too, was another possibility that now forced its way into my consciousness: that Caroline might no longer be alive. That she had died and that. . . I could not bear to follow the train of thought to which this led me. Hastily I returned to the diary.
5 December. The old man again. He was in my room last night. I could not see him, but I know he was there, watching me. When I see him on the stairs, there is such a look of hatred in his eyes. I’m more frightened of him than of anyone. He means me harm, I know he does, and I don’t know how to stop him.
There are children in the house. I heard some of them laughing on the back stairs yesterday. I take the back stairs now when I can, to avoid the old man. I think they are the same ones I heard singing in the folly, and again in the garden. What can they want?
10 December. There was something on the lawn last night. I watched it for a long time, creeping across as slowly as a tortoise. It was too far away to make out the shape properly, but it seems to be black and about four feet long. It has arms and legs, though I am not sure how many. I think it may be there every night, only I cannot see it when it is too dark.
11 December. It was there last night again. Moving toward the house. I think it was closer than on the night before. It may not lake it much longer to reach the hall. God will not answer my prayers.
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