A few more minutes passed. The only sounds were the occasional clinking of a cup on a saucer or the crackling of Anthony’s paper. Then I heard Antonia’s voice, startlingly loud in the silence.
“Anthony, please put that paper down. We have to talk.”
There was some loud rustling.
“Talk? What about?”
“You know as well as I do. Charlotte is growing suspicious.”
“She saw Johnson coming out of the room, that’s all.”
“She heard the crying, Anthony. I’ve already told you that.”
There was a sound of throat clearing.
"Yes, you have. But what of it? You reassured her. She thinks it was the wind.”
“I doubt it very much, Anthony. Didn’t you see her tonight?”
“You said yourself it’s her time of the month.”
“Possibly. But she was acting strangely earlier today as well. I think she has already started seeing them.”
“Already?”
“Yes, I think so. A few of them at least. I fear she may have seen Caroline. She wears a crucifix around her neck. God knows where she got it from.”
“Does she know Caroline is dead?”
There was another hesitation. I listened with my heart in my mouth, for now Caroline’s existence and her death had been confirmed to me in almost the same instant. Would one of them let slip what had happened to her?
“Anthony, I think you should look at this. Johnson found it in Charlotte’s room this morning.”
“What is it?”
“Look for yourself.”
A longer pause, then Anthony’s voice, strained.
“A diary? Charlotte’s?”
“No, you idiot. It belonged to Caroline.”
“Good God. Where . . . ?”
“I don’t know. It must have been hidden in the room. Charlotte obviously found it and will by now have read it.”
“Does it. . . ?”
“It says enough. The child is clever. She will put the pieces together.”
“Not all of them, surely?”
“No, Anthony, but enough to make her realize she may be in danger. She’s been asking questions. Johnson says she was asking yesterday about the vicar.”
“The vicar? What on earth for?”
"She said she wanted to have her mother’s remains exhumed and moved to Kirkwhelpington. But I don’t believe that for a moment. The . . . Caroline’s diary mentions Watkins a couple of times.”
“Does it? What’s it say?”
"Here, let me see.”
A longish pause and, just audible, the sound of pages being turned.
“Here we are: He says my life may be in danger if I stay at the hall.’ And she mentions that time he tried to get in here and I had to send him packing.”
“Nevertheless what did Watkins really know? A few tales the old villagers told him.”
“That isn’t the point. He believed Caroline. You can’t have forgotten the fuss he made after her death. All that poking about.”
‘‘He found out nothing.”
“He found out enough. Anthony. All he lacked was evidence that would stand up in a court of law. I think Charlotte may try to get in touch with him. He could cause trouble. Remember that he’s not a parish priest any longer. I’ve heard he has the bishop’s ear; and the bishop’s a meddler.”
“Durham’s a long way from here. And there’s nothing even he can do if we go through with the adoption.” “Anthony, I really believe you should think twice about that. It will only draw attention to her presence here. Once it’s all over with, we don’t want any legalities hanging over our heads. It was bad enough with Caroline.”
“Nevertheless it would serve a purpose. I don’t mean just the advantage of having Charlotte as our child in law. It would materially increase the meaning of the act if she were ours.”
“Like Caroline?”
“Yes, in a sense.”
“Nevertheless it’s best we keep her presence here a secret. That way there will be no questions afterward.” “Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps we can have her adopted privately, dispense with the legalities. Melrose will know the best way to proceed.”
There was a long silence, then Antonia’s voice changed subtly in tone.
“I see them every day now, Anthony. You go riding, you visit Morpeth. Today is the first time I have been away from this place in over a month. Do you have any comprehension what it is like for me while you’re away? They’re growing hungry, Anthony.”
“They promised to stay quiet. . .
“They stay quiet for a while, then they grow hungry. He above all. I don’t think I can stand it much longer. It gets worse every time.”
“We have no choice. If we don’t give them what they want. .
“We could leave.”
“And how far do you think we would get? Do you think distance means anything to them?”
“He was there this morning, Anthony. He has put on the veil.”
"I know. I saw him, too.”
“Sleep with me tonight. Please. I don’t want to be alone if he comes.”
“Very well.” A pause. “How long is it now to the child’s birthday?”
“Three days.”
“Can you bear it for that long?”
“Not if it gets too strong.”
“What about Johnson?”
“She’s showing signs of weakness. I don’t trust her, Anthony. We may have to . . . control her.”
“Can’t we just let her go?”
“You know we can’t. She knows too much. And she can’t hold that blessed tongue of hers.”
“Do you think she’ll try to interfere?”
“Possibly. She was upset by what happened to Caroline. And she still thinks of revenge for her son. You’ll have to make the consequences of interference very clear to her.”
“And the girl? What about her?”
“Yes. She will certainly have to be controlled. If she continues to be frightened.”
“You say she has already heard Caroline? Perhaps even seen her. Well, it will not be long before the others show themselves. We shall have to ensure that all the preparations have been made for her birthday. If anything should go wrong at this stage . . .”
“I’m frightened, Anthony. I don’t know if I can go through with it again.”
“You have to. We both have to. It’s the only way we can get any peace.”
“Peace? We can never have real peace here. They’ll be quiet for a while, and then the hunger will start again.”
“Let’s go to bed, Antonia. There’s no use talking about this anymore. There’s nothing we can do. I’ll keep a closer eye on the girl, I promise.”
“Will it ever end, my love?”
“Not in our lifetimes, no.”
“And after that?”
There was a long pause.
“Perhaps not even then.”
“I saw it last night, Anthony. In the garden. It’s very close.”
“Antonia . . .”
“It’s getting closer all the time now. Caroline saw it. She wrote about it in her diary.”
“Did she . . . Did she know what it was?”
“No. No, how could she?”
“What about Charlotte? Her window looks out in that direction.”
“I don’t know. She’s read the diary. She may be curious.”
“She would soon lose her curiosity if she saw it close at hand.”
“Yes. Oh, God, let’s speak no more of it, Anthony. Take me to bed.”
The far door opened and closed. I was left in darkness and in silence. One thought repeated itself over and over in my mind: I had to leave Barras Hall that night. Otherwise I might never leave it at all.
CHAPTER 26
By now I had learned enough to make me dread the thought of even one more night under that roof. That my cousins meant me harm I no longer doubted. The problem was how to effect my escape. We were a good distance from any
other habitation, and I knew I would not get very far on foot. There were no bicycles at Barras Hall, and even if there had been, I could not have ridden one. My only hope was to saddle Petrarch and make my way to Morpeth clinging to his reins.
Once there, it was my intention to seek out Anthony’s solicitor, Mr. Melrose, and ask him to direct me to Endicott. This latter gentleman would, I had no doubt, be willing—in exchange for an adequate fee—to help reunite me with Arthur and see that we were both returned to a place of safety in Newcastle. If my suspicions were right, neither Anthony nor Antonia would dare follow us very far for fear of drawing attention to themselves.
I knew, of course, that Melrose would be puzzled by my appearance in his office. But he could not communicate with my cousins by telephone, and I was sure he would prove sympathetic to the urgency of my need to find Arthur. After all, I wanted nothing more than to see and speak with Endicott, and I was sure the lawyer would not begrudge me his address. Once I was on my way, he could tell Anthony what he pleased: I would be out of his clutches and, I prayed, reunited with my brother.
My two chief difficulties were how to find my way to Morpeth (for I had no firsthand knowledge of the district) and how to come by enough money to live on and to pay Endicott’s fee. The first of these I had taken care of as well as I was able by tearing a map of the locality from a book in the library. It showed Barras Hall and the chief roads that led from it to the town.
The question of money was more difficult, chiefly because I felt an instinctive repugnance to the thought of stealing, which was the only means by which I might lay my hands on any. In the end, having revolved the dilemma in my mind for an hour or more, I decided to take with me several items of jewelry that had been loaned to me by Antonia. I would sell or pawn them once I got to Morpeth. Thinking of my cousins’ treatment of my mother when she had approached them in desperation, I felt little compunction at this betrayal of trust.
It was, I thought, best to delay my departure until as near dawn as possible. Otherwise I might become hopelessly lost in the woods and waste precious time going in circles about the very place I wanted to escape from, or worse, I might end up riding in the opposite direction and end up miles from where I wanted to be.
Those hours of waiting proved a very great strain on my resources, for I feared to sleep, partly because I might not wake until it was too late to make my getaway, and in part because I was terrified of letting go, terrified of waking in the middle of the night to find that I was no longer alone.
I left about an hour before First light. I had briefly considered leaving through the window, but the drop from the wall was sheer at that point, and since I have no head for heights, I was afraid to attempt the climb in my bulky outdoor clothes, even with the help of knotted sheets. In order to leave the house, I had to find my way downstairs in the dark, with only a candle for company. Against my wishes, I was forced to leave Jasper behind, for fear that his barking might draw someone’s attention.
That was the hardest enterprise of my life until then, for I had every expectation of coming face-to-face with the man in black, the man I believed to be James Ayrton. And if not him, one of “the others” my cousins had mentioned. I started at the slightest sound or the smallest quivering of a shadow.
Petrarch was startled to see me at his stable so early, but a little fussing calmed him. I was still a novice at the art of harnessing and saddling, and in near darkness I got tangled up more than once in a web of straps and buckles. It must have taken half an hour to get the girth fastened tightly enough. The snaffle and reins proved easier, and by the time the sky was beginning to lighten, I was on my way down the main drive.
It was bitterly cold. I had scarcely joined the road when light flakes of snow began to fall, and I grew worried at the prospect of getting caught up in a blizzard. Judging by the map, I had to keep on that road for about three miles, then join another heading east through
Hartburn, Throphill, and Mitford. It was a journey of some eleven or twelve miles, but the numerous turns and windings of the road increased that figure to something closer to fourteen. Petrarch was fresh and evidently thrilled to be out on the road, in spite of the cold. As I grew in confidence I was able to give him his head a little and move at a respectable trot. At least the cold meant that the surface of the road was firm. A twisted fetlock would have spelled disaster.
Once on the main road, I allowed myself to doze a little, leaning my head against Petrarch’s neck. The snow grew heavier. I began to think that it might work in my favor if it allowed me to reach Morpeth in safety and then came down even more heavily, cutting off Barras Hall and the possibility of pursuit. Perhaps someone was looking after me after all.
In spite of the weather, I rode with a lightening heart. Just to be away from Barras Hall was compensation enough for any hardships that might lie ahead. The open countryside seemed a perfect paradise. What had I to complain about? Not long ago I had been on these roads dressed in rags, penniless, and with nowhere to go. Now I wore fine clothes and rode a pony. I was already dreaming of the future: I would find Arthur and earn enough money to train as a teacher. I even began to think of marriage, when the right man came along.
I got some bread and milk at a farmhouse just past Throphill, paying with an extra pair of finely embroidered gloves I had slipped into my pocket. The farmer’s wife would never wear them, but she knew they would fetch far more than the price of my simple breakfast at the next market. She asked where I had come from and I answered that I had ridden from Wallington Hall, a large house belonging to the Trevelyan family, a few miles south of my cousins’ estate. To have told her the truth might well have been to forfeit her sympathy.
“Why ever are you out so early, miss? And in such bad weather?”
“I have urgent business in Morpeth,” I said.
She looked suspiciously at me. Young women of good family did not go riding alone through the countryside in those days.
“More likely a man, I’ll be bound,” she remarked.
I blushed and said nothing to disabuse her of her illusion. She gave me a broad smile and turned back to her chores. I thought I might as well profit by her seeming complicity in what she no doubt took for an elopement.
“Please, don’t tell anyone I’ve passed this way,” I said.
She glanced at me with a look that suggested she knew all about these things and nodded.
“Your secret’s safe with me.” And to show herself in earnest, she made a point of returning my gloves. “You’ll perhaps be in need of these,” she said. “They’re worth a sight more than a slice of bread and a mouthful of milk.”
I arrived in Morpeth shortly after one o’clock. The snow had eased off slightly, but the sky showed signs of more to come. An old man on Dogger Bank gave me directions into the town center. I rode in along Newgate Street, past the old workhouse on the right. Though I had never seen the Morpeth Union before, I knew it for what it was. They were all alike, those places, built to a common plan, for a common purpose. I rode past with my head averted, knowing that if the worst happened, I would be taken there, and from there returned at the first opportunity to Chester-le-Street.
A boy gave me directions to the Queen’s Head in Bridge Street, where they fed and groomed Petrarch while I warmed myself by the fire. I was starving, but without ready cash dared not order anything to eat. The staff gave me plenty of curious looks, but I just smiled back at them and tried to look as natural as possible. As much as anything, I think my old-fashioned clothes must have raised a few eyebrows. But expensive garments, however out of fashion, create a very different impression than rags. As a pauper, I would have been sent packing. As a rich eccentric, I was as welcome as anyone.
I said I had business with Mr. Melrose, and this seemed to reassure them. Deflecting their inquiries as to my identity and where I had come from, I asked for directions to his office. A large, kind-faced woman, who seemed to be the manageress, told me exactly how to get there. As I tur
ned to go she called after me.
“Will you be staying this evening, miss? It’s likely to be a foul night once it gets dark.”
“Yes,” I said. “I’d like a room for the night, if you have one.” Melrose would be sure to direct me to someone who would advance me some cash. And in the exhilaration of being so far from that dreadful place, I felt myself Oiled with a confidence I had never suspected I possessed.
“I’m sure we can manage that. Shall we expect you back for tea?”
“I’m sure you can,” I said.
The offices of Melrose and Parker were situated in Newgate Street, in a low Georgian building. Their outward appearance was one of genteel prosperity: a highly polished brass knocker on a highly polished door, neatly glazed windows a little smudged with snow, a lamp glowing brightly behind the transom window on which their name was painted in fresh gold letters. Had it not been for my newfound confidence and the knowledge that I was dressed for my part, I should have slunk away from that shiny, intimidating doorway. The poor thing I had been only weeks before would have received a harsh welcome.
Coming here meant taking a risk, of course. But I counted on being away first thing in the morning, even that evening, if there was a coach to Newcastle. I calculated, too, on my ability to win Mr. Melrose’s sympathies with my story. Anthony might be his client, but I reasoned that my fears of ill treatment might weigh more heavily with a man of the law, if only because he might see more clearly than most the possible consequences if I were to speak out in the wrong quarters.
I banged heavily on the knocker. Moments later the door was opened by a young boy in modest livery.
“I wish to see Mr. Melrose,” I said.
“He’s out.”
“I’ve come a very long way.”
“Doesn't make no difference. He’s out.”
“Well, when will he be back? Surely he can’t have gone far on a day like this?”
The boy appeared to consider this.
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