Uncle sat with me for a while, trying to calm me. I was too imaginative, I was too sensitive, I was alone too much, he said. Because I wanted to please him, I did my best to dismiss my fears as silly and childish.
After he left, I listened to his footsteps until I heard them no more. Let Uncle believe what he liked, but I knew Sophia was here in this house. I hadn't imagined the laughter and the voice in the garden, or that cold hand on my cheek. Sophia was watching me, and I didn't know if I should fear her or try to befriend her.
Six
THE NEXT DAY I WOKE ONCE more to the sound of rain driven hard against my window. I dressed and went down to breakfast, deliberately arriving too late to join Aunt or Uncle. I was not in a happy mood. I'd slept poorly, waking from one bad dream after another. Sophia traipsed through each one, taunting me, chasing me, frightening me. Sometimes she looked like a living girl, but in the worst dreams, her face was a skull and her bony hands stretched toward me like claws.
When I'd eaten all I could, which wasn't very much, I wandered through the house aimlessly, drifting from room to room, lonely, sad, and scared. Uncle had gone to Lewes on business, and Aunt had gone with him. James was shut up in his room, too sick to be a companion. Nellie was hard at work somewhere in the house, and Mrs. Dawson was busy in the kitchen. Neither had time for me.
But I wasn't alone. No matter where I was, no matter whether it was day or night, Sophia hovered in the shadows, watching and listening, daring me to find her.
I climbed the stairs to the second floor, but instead of going to my room, I went to James's room and stood at his door. All was quiet within. What did he do all day? How long could books interest him if he did nothing but read? I was tempted to turn the knob and confront him.
But I didn't do it. Aunt would find out. She'd already threatened to send me away to boarding school. If I flagrantly disobeyed her, she'd make sure I went as soon as possible.
I backed away from James's room. What else was there to do? I was tired of reading, tired of drawing, tired of being trapped inside by the rain and the wind.
At the bottom of the stairs to the third floor, I paused. Aunt had told me there was nothing up there but empty rooms where the servants used to live. Maybe she was right, but exploring those rooms would give me something new to do.
At the top, I was confronted by a narrow hall lined with closed doors. I opened one after another. Except for dust, spider webs, and more dust, the small rooms were all empty. Curtainless windows looked out on bare fields under dark clouds and pouring rain.
I found a dead bird in one room, most likely trapped inside last summer. I touched its brittle feathers lightly, then drew back. Its dark, dull eyes frightened me.
At the end of the hall, I stopped in front of the last closed door. I struggled to turn the knob, but it wouldn't move. To get a better grip, I wrapped my skirt around the knob and used all my strength. At last it yielded, and I shoved the door open. In front of me, a narrow flight of stairs led up to the dark attic.
Over my head, the wind rumbled. Rain beat against the roof. I heard creaking sounds and rustlings. I thought of Jane Eyre's climb to the tower where Mr. Rochester kept his insane wife. Things worse than a dead bird could be up there.
As I hesitated, I heard the cleaning woman's voice on the floor below. I'd forgotten it was her day to come. My fear of being discovered was greater than my fear of the attic's secrets. As quietly as possible, I closed the door behind me, plunging myself into a cold darkness given voice by the wind and the rain.
Cautiously, I climbed the creaking steps, listening for odd sounds and watching for signs of danger.
Dim light leaked in through a row of small windows under the eaves. Gradually furniture emerged from the shadows—bureaus, chairs, mirrors, boxes and chests, heaps of old, mildewed books. I opened drawers and cabinets crammed with faded silks, ancient linens, and yellowing documents written in Latin. I peered into boxes and found tarnished silverware, chipped bowls, cracked plates, and dainty cups without handles.
In hope of finding something more interesting, I looked around and spied a large trunk. Lifting its curved lid, I was amazed to find myself staring into the faces of half a dozen dolls. They had long curly hair and rosy cheeks. Their hands and feet were delicate. Their dresses were silk. They looked brand new, untouched, sleeping as if nothing would ever wake them.
Gently, I lifted one out. Her hair was dark and curly, and her eyes were the same blue as her dress. Her lips were parted in a smile revealing tiny white teeth and the tip of a pink tongue. She wore white stockings and button-top shoes.
In the orphanage, we used to daydream about dolls like these. We saw them in shops when we went out for walks with Miss Beatty. While she waited patiently, we pressed our noses against the window and chose our favorites, the ones we'd buy if we were rich. I always called mine Clara Annette, a beautiful name, I thought.
This doll, I thought, would be my Clara Annette. I had no idea who she belonged to or why she was in the attic. I did not care. I'd found her and I planned to keep her. In the daytime, I'd hide her in my wardrobe under the spare blankets and quilts. In the nighttime, she'd sleep with me.
Laying Clara Annette gently on a nearby chair, I moved the other dolls aside to see what else was in the trunk. Wrapped in tissue paper were dresses and slips, nightgowns and robes, coats and hats, shoes and stockings and underwear. I held up a blue silk dress and stared at myself in an age specked mirror. It had been made for a girl about my size. Like the doll's dress, the dress matched my eyes.
As I turned this way and that, admiring my reflection, I felt a familiar shiver run up my spine. Clasping the dress to my chest, I stared about me. "Is that you, Sophia?" I whispered to the shadows.
Rain pounded on the roof and gales of winter wind moaned in the eaves. But no one answered.
"Why do you hide from me?" I called.
I heard a rustling sound, followed by a giggle. "It's a game," Sophia whispered. "I found you—now you must find me."
Dropping the dress, I ran toward Sophia's voice. "Where are you?"
"Here, there, everywhere," she whispered, repeating the fountain's riddle. "Here, there, everywhere."
I whirled in circles, trying to locate her, but I couldn't. She truly was here, there, and everywhere. Suddenly frightened, I said, "Go away. Leave me alone."
"Don't you want me to be your friend?" She came closer, so close I could feel her cold breath on my cheek. "Aren't you lonely, Florence?"
"How can you be my friend? I can't see you, I don't know where you are."
"You're afraid of me," Sophia said scornfully.
"Yes," I cried, "yes, I am. I'm afraid of you! You, you—"
"Why don't you say it?" Sophia mocked me. "I'm dead. That's why you're afraid."
The cold air came closer, circled me once or twice, and then backed away. "How can I harm you? I have no substance. No strength."
With a whisper of silk, the dress I'd dropped slid across the floor toward me as if blown by the wind. I jumped back when it touched my shoes.
"Take it," Sophia whispered. "You need a new dress. That drab rag is dreadful. It's the sort of thing a pauper orphan would wear to scrub the floor."
I looked at the silk dress, fearful of it yet wanting it.
"If Aunt loved you as she loved me, she'd lavish expensive gowns on you as she did me." Sophia sighed. "Judging by what I've seen, I'm certain she doesn't even like you. Indeed, I believe she despises you."
Head down, I gazed at the dress. I couldn't argue with the truth.
"She hates you because you're not me," Sophia added.
I remained silent.
"Aunt gave me everything in that trunk," Sophia said. "After I died, I watched her pack my dresses and dolls as if she thought I'd come back for them someday." She laughed. "Poor old Aunt. She wept as if her heart were broken."
As Sophia spoke, Clara Annette floated across the attic and dropped softly into my arms. Without intending t
o, I hugged the doll. She was too beautiful to leave in the attic.
"I can't take your things," I whispered, holding the doll even tighter.
"Of course you can," Sophia said. "I want you to have them as a token of our friendship. Besides, I have no need for dresses or dolls now."
"Aunt will not want me to have them."
"Tut," Sophia said with a laugh. "Aunt needn't know."
I stared into the shadows and tried to see her. But no matter how hard I looked, I saw nothing. "Please, Sophia," I begged. "Please let me see you."
"Someday." With that promise, a cold breeze whirled away, taking Sophia with it.
Scooping up the dress and the doll, I ran down the attic steps, mindless now of how much noise I made. Behind me, the door to the attic slammed shut.
In my room, safe behind my own door, I dropped the dress on my bed. With Clara Annette in my arms, I warmed myself in front of the fire. Why had I accepted Sophia's gifts? I didn't want the belongings of a dead girl. Yet I'd been unable to refuse them. Because they were beautiful, I supposed. Because I'd never owned anything like them. Because I was afraid of angering Sophia.
A soft rap on my door startled me. Clutching the doll even tighter, I cried, "Who's there?"
"It's Nellie, miss, come to tidy your room." The door opened a crack and Nellie peered in. Never was I so happy to see her ordinary freckled face.
Nellie stared at the dress on the bed and the doll in my arms. "Oh, miss," she whispered, entering the room, "they be ever so pretty. Did your uncle give you them?" As she spoke, she touched the silk gently.
I shook my head. It was then that Nellie noticed my state. "Why, miss, what be wrong?"
"No one gave them to me. I found them in the attic."
"Ye went to the attic?" The sympathy on Nellie's face changed to shock. "Nobody goes there. The floor be rotten. Even a body small as me could fall through."
From the corner behind me I heard a soft sound. The rustling of a dress maybe. A sigh, a laugh so low, I wasn't sure I really heard it. Sophia was there, watching me, assessing me, scorning me, scorning Nellie.
Despite myself, I was beginning to feel cross. "Do you always do what people tell you to do, Nellie? Don't you have any curiosity?"
"I knows my place, miss," Nellie said in an annoyingly humble voice.
I was horrified to find myself wanting to slap her face or pull her hair. It was what Sophia would have done.
"I know it ain't right for me to tell ye what to do, but don't go up there again," Nellie begged. "And don't keep them pretty things. They ain't yers."
While Nellie talked, Sophia whispered, "Don't listen to her. She's an ignorant servant. Keep the doll, keep the dress. She's jealous because I gave them to you instead of to her."
"No," I heard myself say to Nellie, "it's not right for a stupid girl like you to tell me what to do. Go back to the kitchen where you belong. I'm tired of your foolish chatter."
"Oh, miss." Nellie gave me a horrified look and ran from my room.
As soon as she was gone, I wanted to call her back. What was wrong with me ? I'd never spoken to anyone like that, and I was ashamed of myself. I'd been cruel, thoughtlessly and needlessly cruel.
At the same time, I was aware of Sophia watching me from the shadows. Had she put those words into my mouth? Was it she who made me speak so cruelly to poor little Nellie?
I knew that Sophia would scorn me if I ran after Nellie. No one apologized to a servant. It simply wasn't done.
So I stayed where I was and stroked Clara Annette's dark ringlets. "Such a pretty doll," I whispered. "Do you miss your old owner?"
"Of course she misses me," Sophia said. "Everybody misses me. I was the favorite—until James came along and ruined everything."
On noiseless feet, a shadowy shape crept toward me. The closer it came, the colder I was. It was as if winter had taken a form and entered my warm room.
At first, Sophia was no more distinct than a figure glimpsed through fog or mist, but as she came nearer, her wavering outline slowly solidified. She wore a stained white silk dress, and her dainty slippers were muddy. What was left of her dark hair was dull and sparse. Her face was narrow and pale, her skin stretched tightly over her skull. Dark shadows ringed her eyes. Her teeth were brown. She smelled of earth and mold.
In abhorrence, I closed my eyes and tried to tell her to leave, but my mouth shook so badly, I couldn't speak. Never had I seen such a dreadful sight.
"Look at me," Sophia said.
Unwillingly, I opened my eyes. "What do you want with me?" I whispered.
"I'm so cold and so lonely." Sophia nestled into the rocking chair beside me, as weightless as a puff of cold air. "I need a friend, and so do you. We could be like sisters, sharing secrets."
I studied her white face, her stained teeth, her unruly hair, her dull eyes. "I don't want to be your friend. Or your sister. I won't, I can't." To my shame, I began to cry.
Sophia gave me a narrow-lipped smile, just the sort I'd expect to see on my aunt's face. "I tell you, you will be my friend, whether you wish to be or not. I always get my way. It's useless to fight me."
With that, she slipped out of the chair and disappeared as quickly as she'd come. For a moment the coal fire ared up; then it died down to embers.
In shock, I gazed at the place where Sophia had first materialized. She'd stood right there beside the bed. She'd squeezed into the chair beside me, close enough for me to smell her. She'd spoken to me.
Uncle said the dead did not return. He was wrong.
Unable to stop shaking, I stared at Clara Annette's china face. Sophia's doll, I reminded myself. Not mine.
Filled with revulsion, I threw the doll across the room. Her head hit the edge of the mantel and she landed on the oor. Like a child fatally injured in a bad fall, she sprawled on her back, arms flung out, head broken.
Stricken to see such a pretty thing ruined, I picked her up and hid her in the back of a drawer full of extra linens. It wouldn't do for Aunt to see her gift to Sophia so badly treated.
Stricken to see such a pretty thing ruined, I picked her up and hid her in the back of a drawer full of extra linens. It wouldn't do for Aunt to see her gift to Sophia so badly treated.
Not daring to leave the dress on the bed, I scooped it up and stuffed it into the wardrobe, behind my best dress and my coat.
Once dress and doll were hidden, I ran downstairs. I did not want to remain alone in my room for fear Sophia might return.
Seven
UNCLE AND AUNT HAD NOT come back from their trip to town, so I joined Mrs. Dawson in the kitchen. To my relief, Nellie wasn't there. After speaking to her so rudely, I couldn't face her.
"You look poorly," Mrs. Dawson said. "Are you coming down with something?"
I shook my head. "I'm just tired."
"Drink your tea. It should perk you up."
I poured milk into my cup, added sugar, and filled it with tea. Steam rose around my face, comforting me. I breathed in the sweet smell of Earl Grey, my favorite blend, rich with bergamot.
Mrs. Dawson sliced bread and passed it over to me, along with a serving of shepherd's pie. Its mashed-potato crust was baked golden, and the vegetables and beef inside filled the kitchen with an aroma that made me hungry in spite of myself.
Mrs. Dawson watched me eat. "You may not be ailing," she said, "but something's eating at you."
Looking Mrs. Dawson in the eye, I said, "Do you believe in ghosts?"
Mrs. Dawson must have heard the fear in my voice. Studying me closely, she said, "Has something frightened you, Florence?"
Surrendering to my need for comfort, I flung my arms around her and pressed my face against her soft body. "Sophia," I sobbed. "I saw her today. She was hideous, horrible, monstrous."
Mrs. Dawson rocked me gently. "No, no, Florence. Sophia is dead and gone."
"But I tell you, I saw her," I insisted. "She spoke to me."
Mrs. Dawson took me by my shoulders and held me at arm
's length. "And I tell you, you dreamed it." Her eyes implored me to agree with her. "You're lonely here, you want a friend, and you've made yourself believe in Sophia."
I shook my head. "Surely Aunt has seen her—"
"No more, no more. I'll hear no more." Mrs. Dawson's voice quivered as if I was scaring her. "The poor child's soul rests in peace now. Father Browne saw to it. He blessed her proper."
Making a shooing motion, she said, "Go on now. Find a book to read. Forget the dream. Forget Sophia. Say nothing about her to Nellie or anyone else. You'll only bring grief on yourself."
Defeated, I gave up and left Mrs. Dawson to her work. As I walked away, I heard laughter in the shadows. A cold finger brushed my cheek. Footsteps pattered behind me. I did not look back. I knew who it was.
At the top of the steps, Sophia appeared beside me, her face tinged blue, her eyes circled with dark smudges like bruises. "Why don't you visit James?" she whispered. "I know you want to."
I drew back, repulsed by the smell of damp earth that clung to her. "Aunt and Uncle forbid it."
"I never let others stop me from doing what I want." Keeping her hand on my arm, she floated into my room as if no more than air, but I could not break away from her.
My wardrobe opened, and Sophia pulled out the blue silk dress. "Wear this. You must be presentable if you are to visit James."
Even though I knew it was futile to argue, I said, "I am not going to visit James." But as I spoke, I found myself taking off my own drab brown dress and slipping into the blue silk. The fabric touched my skin, as delicate as butterfly wings.
Sophia picked up my brush and comb and began brushing my hair. When it shone as brown and glossy as hers once did, she tied it back with a blue velvet ribbon. "There," she said. "You're not nearly as pretty as I am, but I suppose you'll do."
I wanted to tell her she was not pretty now, but instead I stood silently before the mirror and admired my reflection. Instead of a wretched orphan, I saw a well-dressed girl, the sort I'd admired on the streets of London.
The Ghost of Crutchfield Hall Page 4