Mrs. Johnson returned about half an hour afterward. I tried again to engage her in conversation, but she ignored me pointedly and hurried out. This time she did not lock the door. A few moments after she had left, it was opened again.
Anthony entered, smiling gently, and shut the door hard behind him. He was dressed in his riding clothes and seemed to have come straight in from outdoors. His face was flushed with cold and he was a little out of breath. He stood before me for a while, saying nothing.
When he did finally speak, it was in a quiet, gently teasing voice.
“Well, miss, how do you like your new quarters? I venture you wish now you’d stayed put where you were. Well, you’re not the first, you may take some comfort in that. You may very well meet some of the others before long. Mind you speak politely to them: some don’t like to be angered.”
He stepped around the bed and crossed to the window.
“The nights are still drawing in,” he said. “Midwinter’s day is not so very far away. A pity you will not see it. They won’t wait, you see. I entreat them, but they won’t wait. They are hungry. Hungrier each time. But I shall keep them till your birthday, that things may be done properly. Propriety is important. There are traditions to be preserved.”
“What have I done,” I asked, “to be treated like this?”
“Done?” He turned. “You have done nothing. It was never your destiny to do anything.”
“My destiny? What destiny?”
“You shall see very soon.”
He strode toward the door, and then, just as he reached it, as though by some afterthought, he reached inside his pocket and drew something from it. A piece of paper. He tossed it carelessly onto the floor.
“This is yours, I think.”
With that, he passed through the door, locking it behind him. I bent down and picked up the paper he had thrown at me. It was my letter to the vicar of Kirkwhelpington, crumpled and soiled, and still containing my appeal to his predecessor, torn into tiny shreds.
* * *
There was no drug in my food. And that night sleep did not come, for all that I would have given anything to find it. Sleep or unconsciousness or even death. As the light faded, so the room began to fill with uneasy shadows. Darkness gave only momentary respite. I lay in my bed, huddled in my blankets, and heard the shadows coming to life all around me. In desperation, I tried clasping my hands over my ears, but that was almost worse, for what I could not hear I imagined.
She started weeping soon after it grew dark. I knew she was there, near me, crouching on the floor unseen. Sometimes her crying would stop, and when it did, the rustling started. More than ever I found it ugly and unsettling. Several times footsteps passed by outside my door. On each occasion the weeping would subside into a terrified whimpering.
Somewhere about the middle of that long night, all the noises stopped. The room became very quiet. And I could hear, very faintly in the distance, a soft, slithering sound, very slow and muffled and unpleasant, as though something shapeless and very old was fumbling its way through the house. The noise continued for a long time, but finally it faded away into the distance until I could hear it no more.
When it ended, there was a blissful silence for a while, then voices in the corridor not far from my room, as though several people were arguing. I did not recognize any of them. Certainly neither Anthony nor Antonia appeared to be among them.
Light reached my window very slowly and very late. I remained on my bed, watching the darkness melt and become a patchwork of shadows. At first, I could discern nothing out of the ordinary. But at a certain point, as the light gained in strength and individual features could be discerned, I noticed a gray shape crouching by the door. I could not take my eyes off it. As the light grew I saw that it was a girl my age, wearing a gray dress. Her skin was unnaturally pale, and her eyes were bright red as though she had been crying. She was sitting, just sitting, staring at me.
“Caroline?” I whispered. “Are you Caroline?”
She did not respond. The light continued to strengthen, but she did not move, as though she were an image from a magic lantern cast against the wall.
"Caroline,” I pleaded with her. “You know what’s happening. Won’t you help me? Won’t you tell me what they’re going to do?”
At first, I thought she would not answer. Then, slowly, as though painfully, she unbuttoned the left sleeve of her dress and began to roll it up her arm. When it was a little above her elbow, she turned her arm and showed it to me. The front of her forearm was lined with deep, bloodless gashes from wrist to elbow.
I think I must have fainted. When I came to again, Mrs. Johnson was in the room, and there was no sign of Caroline anywhere.
CHAPTER 32
Mrs. Johnson brought with her a new dress, a bright red dress that had been made specially for me, she said.
“It’s for tonight, Miss Charlotte. For your birthday evening. I'll come back later to help you put it on. Miss Antonia wants you to look your best.”
“But I haven’t got a mirror,” I said. “There isn’t even a basin for me to wash in.”
“I’ll bring those later," she said. “And you’ll need to have your hair done up. Miss Antonia wants you pretty as a picture.”
“Was Caroline pretty?”
She looked startled.
“I asked if Caroline was pretty.”
“I don’t know who you mean, miss.” She had recovered a little of her composure.
“Antonia’s daughter,” I said bluntly. “She died here ten years ago. You know exactly who I mean.”
She backed away, fumbling with the cloth covering the chamber pot.
"I don’t know what you’re talking about, miss. I’m sure there’s never been anyone here by that name.”
“I saw her this morning, Johnson. You’ve seen her here yourself, haven’t you. Why is she so pale? What did they do to her? What did Anthony and Antonia do?”
She made no further attempt to answer me. I watched her go, knowing she had the key to the truth, that she could tell me everything if she wanted to. What was she afraid of? Precisely how were my cousins controlling her?
I was left alone until early evening, when it began to grow dark. Mrs. Johnson returned with the things she had promised: a basin and a jug of hot water, together with a towel, some soap, a comb and brush, and a small ivory mirror. She seemed particularly awkward.
“Miss Antonia will visit you later,” she said. “Just to see you’re all right. Take your dress off, and I’ll give you a hand with your hair.”
I slipped my dress over my head and laid it on the bed beside the new one. Mrs. Johnson half Riled the basin and, while I bent over it, wet my hair thoroughly before rubbing in plenty of soap.
“Miss Charlotte,” she said. “I shouldn’t be saying this, but you’ve been good to me, and I can’t leave you without a kind word. You . . . you’ve got to be brave tonight. Whatever you do, don’t let them see you’re frightened: it will only serve to make things worse. Sir Anthony will come for you very late. You’re to be taken down to the old temple in the woods. That’s where it always happens. Do you understand?”
She started rinsing my hair, pouring water slowly from the jug.
“I’ll leave a candle with you. It’s as well for you not to be in the dark tonight.”
“Can’t you do anything? If I could get out of here, I’d be able to escape.”
“No, miss, there’s nothing I can do. I tried to help Miss Caroline, and I lost my own boy as a result. Don’t think of trying to get away: they’ll be sure to find you, and they’ll make it worse for you if you put them to any trouble. Just try to be brave.” She hesitated. “Have you still got that cross I gave you?”
I nodded.
“Keep it by you, miss. It may be some comfort.” She dried and combed my hair, then helped me into the red dress.
“I have to go,” she said. “They’ll get suspicious if I stay too long. Finish yourself off. I’ll take the
se things with me later.”
She turned and took me in her arms. There were tears in her eyes.
“God bless you, miss. I wish there was something I could do. I really do.”
I thanked her. She took my old dress and left without another word, locking the door behind her.
It was dark by now, and with the candle lit the room seemed full of other darknesses. The house was still, expectant, as silent as James Ayrton’s tomb on the other side of the woods. The only thing moving was time: I imagined it somewhere, personified, solid, a huge clock ticking my life away. A condemned woman knows what is waiting for her on the other side of the prison door. She pictures a rope and a long drop. I knew nothing at all.
I set the candle on the narrow mantelpiece and washed my face and neck and hands in its light. My shoes were the same old pair I had been wearing since I arrived at the hall: skirts were so long in those days, women never bothered much about their footwear. With the help of the mirror, I combed my hair into shape again, wishing I had a brush to give it more body.
I settled down to wait for Anthony. Mrs. Johnson’s words, far from comforting me, had set me on edge. The silence seemed more than ever full of menace. Then, faintly echoing somewhere behind the silence, I could hear the sound of voices again. Not arguing this time, but murmuring ceaselessly. And among them I could just distinguish isolated voices singing. There was music somewhere, too, quiet music played on a harp or a harpsichord. I strained my ears, wondering where the sounds could be coming from, but it was useless, they were too faint and too far away.
It must have been about an hour after that that the door opened and Antonia came into the room. She looked flushed and unhappy, as though under a great strain. Her face had been powdered and rouged, but the makeup did not conceal her own high color or the unhealthy brightness in her eyes. She closed the door and told me to stand.
“Turn around, turn around. I want to see how you look.”
I twisted awkwardly. She tutted with dissatisfaction and began to fuss about my dress and hair. Pulling and nipping me, she straightened a seam here and a lock there.
“What is to happen, Antonia? I’m frightened. I want to know.”
“Better you don’t, child. You needn’t worry, it won’t take long.”
“I’m to be killed, aren’t I? Like Caroline and Arthur, that’s what happens, isn’t it?”
“Killed? If it were only that simple, my dear. If it were only that easy.”
“What are all the voices? And I can hear music.”
“Music?”
She paused, listening. The tinny echoes of the harpsichord could still be heard from somewhere almost out of earshot.
“It’s your birthday in a couple of hours, Charlotte. They’re gathering for your party. You'll meet them soon.”
“Meet them? Who are they?”
"Don’t ask questions, Charlotte. You’ll know soon enough.”
She stood back and examined me.
“You’ll do,” she said. I noticed that she had been biting her nails. Her movements were jittery. She was like someone who barely manages to remain sane while all the time teetering on the edge of madness.
I ran toward her, thinking she must relent, thinking I must be able to reach her. My hands clutched at her dress, I tried to throw my arms about her neck.
“For God’s sake, Antonia, don’t leave me here like this. You’re my cousin, you’re my friend. Why don’t you help me get out of here?”
She looked at me as though her heart were breaking. I think she saw not me, but her own daughter, Caroline.
“Oh, if only I could, if only I could. But it’s out of my hands, can’t you see that?”
She pulled herself away, pressing my hands aside. Stumbling to the door, she opened it and ran out, locking it hard behind her. I heard her footsteps clatter down the stairs then fade along the passage.
After a while I began to brush my hair again. Moving the looking glass to one side, I started. Behind me, bathed in the light of the candle, was a second face.
Caroline’s face, white, with black eyes that stared hard at me. I turned, but there were only shadows.
“Caroline? I saw you watching me. I’m not afraid of you. I want to speak to you. Please. Please don’t be frightened. I came back as you asked. I’ve read your diary, I know all that happened.”
This time she answered. Her voice seemed very close, yet coming from nowhere in particular. I was certain of one thing, that it was not inside my head.
“Listen to me, Charlotte,” she said. "Listen carefully. I want to help you, but I don’t know how. The others are near me, very near.”
"Others? What others?”
“You’ll meet them soon. Some of them are very old. They’ve been here for centuries. Even before this house was built. They want you, just as they wanted me. It’s how they keep their strength, how they stop the loneliness and the pain of age. They need company, our company. Don’t you see? Don’t you understand, Charlotte? That’s what this is all about. They always need more, they’re never satisfied. And the older they become, the more they need. They won’t leave the living in peace until they are given what they want. And then again and again. It never ends. Never.”
I could see her now. She was quite plain, a dull gray figure seated on the bed, watching me with sad, sad eyes. I remembered Annie’s eyes, that haunted look in them, the recurrent pain and humiliation of her father’s abuse. Caroline’s eyes held something worse again. Something more sordid, more deeply violated.
"What did you see on the lawn?” I asked, for I was desperate to know everything, to be prepared for whatever it was I had to face. “What was it?”
She drew violently away from me, shaking her head backward and forward, her eyes glittering with refusal.
“You must tell me,” I insisted. “I have to know.”
She stopped and slowly sank to the floor. It was the posture I had seen her in before, defeated, withdrawn. I crossed the room, no longer afraid of the poor creature, and kneeled down in front of her. Tentatively I stretched out my hand to touch her, but my fingers passed through air. No, not quite air, but a coldness that was more than air.
“Please,” I said.
She looked at me softly.
“I want you to be my friend,” she said.
I nodded.
“Yes,” I said.
“James Ayrton dabbled in forbidden things.” Her voice was a whisper from very far away. “He wanted power. Eternal life. He was willing to risk damnation for it. But he . . . called up something he should not have. Not a spirit. There are other things. He was already very old, and it destroyed him. And then it took possession of his tomb. He feeds it when he can.”
“Feeds?”
She shook her head.
“Not flesh. I don’t mean that—or not quite that. I’m not exactly sure. It—” She stopped. “No more, please. I’ve seen it. I don’t want to talk about it.”
It was as far as she got. At that moment the temperature in the room dropped at an alarming rate, as though dry ice had been poured into it. Caroline looked up. I saw her draw back, shaking her head. Snatching up the candle, I stepped toward her as though I could protect her bodily from whatever it was that threatened her. The next moment she was gone. I heard a rustling sound, then the room was full of silence. A hateful, angry silence.
CHAPTER 33
Anthony came for me as promised about half an hour before midnight. Unlike his sister, he was perfectly calm and self-possessed. He looked me up and down with an appraising air, like a show judge examining a heifer. It was the first time in my life I had ever experienced that close scrutiny of a man’s eyes, that attentiveness to my body. Even now I am not sure whether there was anything sexual in his gaze. If there was, it was well enough masked, muffled by a different sort of hunger. Anthony Ayrton wanted peace at any cost, and I was just the latest coin in the ongoing payment he made to his tormentors.
"Exquisite,” he murmured. He r
an a hand through my long hair. “He will be so pleased. They will all be pleased.”
“ ‘He’?” I asked. “Who is ‘he’?”
“You haven’t guessed? I thought you cleverer than that. My ancestor James, of course, James Ayrton.”
“I’ve seen him,” I said.
“Yes,” he said. "I know you have. We have all seen him.”
“Why does he wear a veil? Why does he want to hide his face?”
He looked troubled, then shook his head.
“Too many questions. You’ll find out everything in the end. I promise. Now, Charlotte, it’s time to go. We mustn’t keep them waiting.”
He took me by the left arm, with a very firm grip, and opened the door. The passage at the foot of the stairs was lit up brilliantly. Candle holders of one kind or another had been placed every few yards: flambeaux, stubby candelabras on torcheres, girandoles attached to the wall, sconces on either side of each window, all blazing with tall white candles.
“This is all for you,” said Anthony. “In celebration of your coming of age.”
“I shall only be fifteen,” I said.
“Tonight you come of age. It is your destiny.”
He led me down the passage and through the house, shining everywhere with light. The voices and the music had fallen silent. The only sounds were our footsteps passing from carpet to stone and from stone back to carpet.
Anthony had a fur-lined cape ready for me at the door. He himself put on a thick black coat and a fur hat.
“Where is Antonia?” I asked.
“She will stay here until I return,” he said. “She sends her apologies.”
He took his watch from his pocket and tutted.
“Come. It’s almost midnight.”
Outside, it was bitterly cold. We hurried into the woods, taking the familiar path that I knew led to the folly. Anthony carried a storm lantern in his left hand while keeping his grip on me with the other. The light revealed his profile every time I turned, heavy and angular, his lips set hard, like a man going into battle. I was his trophy, I supposed, or his oriflamme.
I had expected—no, I am not sure now what possibilities had passed through my mind. But lights, certainly, a brightness comparable to that now filling the house; and noises, singing perhaps, the dead gathering in shrouds to meet me. Instead the woods were silent and dreadful, without light anywhere. I caught sight of the folly once by chance, etched against the skyline as we came up to it from a hollow. It was just a dark mass of stone. The next moment it disappeared again behind a screen of trees.
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