Abigale Hall (17 page)

Guided by the light of the half moon, she hurried them away from Thornecroft. It wasn't until the dark outline of the manor disappeared that Eliza paused to light the lamp. Rebecca was asleep on her feet, but Eliza kept a quick pace, pushing her on. This was easy, like running through Hungerford during a blackout. The fresh, chill air eased her anxiety. Bits of it fell away as they stole through the night. They were gone. She was safe. They would both be safe. When they reached the edge of the village, Eliza extinguished the lamp and waited for her eyes to readjust to the moonlight.

‘Liza . . .'

‘Shush. We must stay very quiet. Understand?'

Rebecca nodded. Together, they walked through Plentynunig's sleeping streets, stopping outside Ruth's house. The front door was unlocked. Eliza thought everyone would lock their doors here, so suspicious they all seemed, unless they felt they had nothing worth losing. Eliza had barely closed the door when she was blinded by a torch.

‘Please. It's—'

‘Eliza?' The torch lowered. The spots in front of her eyes cleared as Ruth approached. ‘What's happened?'

‘Pip was telling the truth. Victoria is real.'

*

Eliza warmed her hands on a cup of tea as she watched Rebecca sleep on the wooden bench below Ruth's kitchen window. Medical texts and sewing fabric were spread over the table.

‘This should help warm you up.' Ruth handed Eliza a coarse wool blanket then tucked another round Rebecca's shoulders. ‘I like to read while I work,' she said, spotting Eliza's eyes and sweeping the mess aside.

‘I'm sorry for disturbing you like this, but, you see, there's no one else. No one we can . . .You must help us, Ruth. I'd walk straight out of here if I could, but I haven't the strength or money to––'

‘Hush!' Ruth collapsed at the table, resting her head in her hands.

Rebecca's light breaths interspersed with the ticking of an unseen clock before the two fell into synchronicity.

‘Nonsense,' Ruth whispered. ‘I said it was nonsense.'

‘I know it's difficult to believe, but she came to me. It's as if . . . as if she's marked me. From the moment I sat down with Mr Brownawell, she––'

‘There are no such things as ghosts.'

‘How many girls have gone missing? How many since Victoria died? Since you've lived here?'

Ruth sighed. The circles beneath her eyes were darker than Eliza's own. ‘Pip was the last. Before that . . . there was another girl. Jane, I believe. It was her leaving that allowed Pip to take the job.'

‘Did she leave? Or did she disappear?'

‘She returned to her family in York.'

‘And can anyone prove that?'

‘Can we prove that she didn't?'

‘Before Jane, who was there?'

‘There was Berwin's daughter, but that was the thirties, I think, before the war?'

‘Can I speak to him?'

Ruth shook her head. ‘You won't get anything useful. The drink's ruined his mind.'

‘Then who knows how many she's taken?'

‘None. Because there is no Victoria. Even in his sober moments, rare as they are, Berwin says his daughter ran off with some gypsy traveller. Saying the manor took her is easier than believing the truth.'

‘But you said yourself that Pip . . .'

‘Pip died, yes. By another person's hand. A living person. That's what I know to be true.'

‘And what I know is that I saw a woman at that window. A woman who vanished. A woman who looked exactly like Victoria.'

‘Our brains play tricks on us, Eliza, when we're under stress. They make us see things that aren't there. Pull out memories we've forgotten and . . . and paste them into the present. Illuminate what's not real. What I told you were only stories. Fictions. Please.' Ruth took Eliza's hands in her own. ‘Forget what you saw tonight. Whatever it was, it weren't real. It was all in your––'

‘My mind?' Eliza pulled away. ‘Are you saying I'm mad?'

‘No, that's not it at all.'

‘Then don't tell me what I did or didn't see. You weren't there. Maybe if you had, you would understand. I am in danger, Ruth. She wants to take me. And what about Rebecca? What will happen to her if I'm gone? We have to leave.'

There were tears in Ruth's eyes. She wiped them away before any fell. Eliza waited while she reorganised her papers, returned her sewing things to the basket. She was reaching some sort of decision. Finally, she spoke.

‘I'm sorry. I should never have . . . Yes. Yes, you must. This is no place for a child. This isn't your fight.' Her worry lines deepened. In the low candlelight, she looked so old for her years. ‘Friday. Friday would be best. It's only seven days. What is seven days when Pip lasted a whole year? Every Friday is market day. A delivery lorry comes from Abergwili. I have a friend there who will help if asked. The cart is big enough to hide you both. It's the only way we can get you out without someone seeing.'

‘And we can hide here until then.'

‘Pollard will find you in an instant.' Ruth fiddled with the page of a journal.

‘The people here . . .'

‘You cannot trust the people of Plentynunig!' The page tore. Ruth smoothed it out. ‘It's . . . They believe that bringing outsiders to Thornecroft is all that keeps their daughters safe. They'll hand you over in an instant. Even Berwin would say you were here. Then Pollard will never let you leave. No, the best thing to do is wait. Do whatever she says. Don't draw attention to yourself. Then on Friday ask to go to town with Mr Drewry. He runs his errands on Friday.'

‘But what if he refuses? What if . . . ?'

‘He's not from here,' Ruth said, as if that settled the matter. Eliza sipped her lukewarm tea, the cup shaking against her lips as she weighed her options. How could she refuse? What were she and Rebecca to do? Walk to London? They would surely die of exhaustion first, or starvation. Maybe get kidnapped by gypsies. She forgot to bring the little money she had left. She couldn't even afford a telegram to Peter, let alone buy a train ticket. They had nothing. All was at Thornecroft.

‘Eliza?'

She never could make these kinds of decisions. It was like the fable of the lady and the tiger, and she always chose the wrong door. What would Mother have done?

‘Eliza it will be dawn soon. If you're to get back, you must go now.'

She set down her teacup.

‘All right,' she said. ‘Friday. But no later.'

‘No later.'

Eliza's eyes fell on the torn page. Candlelight flickered over the word ‘distressed'.

‘No later,' she repeated.

When she went to rouse her sister, Rebecca's eyes were already open.

‘How long have you been awake, dearie?'

‘Long enough.'

‘Come on. We have to go.'

With the moon bright above them, they trudged back to Thornecroft, Eliza collecting every bit of anxiety she'd dropped along the way.

Coty face powder concealed the circles under her eyes and two tablets of fersolate helped fight her fatigue, but nothing could hide the fact that Eliza had slept less than two hours last night. As she spooned cold porridge into her mouth, she could only hope Mrs Pollard took her exhaustion to be from stress. Rebecca gobbled up her breakfast, no evidence of last night's excursion upon her. Was she really so much younger that she recovered her strength that quickly? When did Eliza get so old?

‘Finish your meal.' Mrs Pollard banged a pot into the sink. ‘I need you to close up the Ancestral Parlour.'

‘Mr Brownawell doesn't want to see me again?'

‘I should think not, especially after your behaviour last night.'

He told Mrs Pollard about the slap. Eliza's assault would not go unpunished, no matter if it was provoked.

‘Were you mean to Mr Brownawell?' Rebecca's eyes widened.

‘No. Of course not.' She felt his cold skin against her palm, tried to rub it away under the table.

‘You made him extremely agitated. It took ages to put him to bed. Proper sleep is absolutely necessary for his condition, and I lost a few hours of my own thanks to you.'

Eliza waited for more, for Mrs Pollard to mention his injury, her disobedience, but there was nothing. She suddenly felt very light, as if she could float away from the table, and bit her lip to stifle a giggle. She never got away with anything.

‘If he's sick, why doesn't he see a doctor?' asked Rebecca.

‘He has, child, but there's nothing to be done. It was the coal mines. That filth seeped into his lungs every time he visited his workers. Now there's no ridding the dust disease, which is why it is imperative he is not agitated.'

‘He did seem very upset,' Eliza added, the relief making her bold. ‘He kept . . . he kept calling me . . . Victoria.'

Eliza saw Mrs Pollard pale as the implications of her lie took hold. Never had she seen the housekeeper so affected and was pleased it was she who caused it.

‘To the parlour. Go. Go! Rebecca, you stay here.'

Eliza left the kitchen with more energy than when she arrived. Perhaps the fersolate was finally working. Aunt Bess swore by it for a reason.

‘A week, Victoria,' Eliza whispered to the paintings as she passed. ‘Please give me a week.'

As Eliza cleaned the parlour, she wondered what she would do if she were a ghost. Would she pass peacefully from room to room, watching over her descendants as a loving spirit? Or would she scheme against them, harm those that attempted to disturb her? Maybe the choice was not hers. Maybe it depended on how she was taken from this world. If her life ended as violently as Victoria's, perhaps the anger of the act would instil in her a hate that was not hers in life, and she would be compelled to lash out and harm the innocent.

As she recovered the paintings, she hoped Victoria could sense her feelings, understand that Eliza meant her no harm. That all she wanted was to leave this place. That she had no sympathy for these dead men. Her eyes fell on the books sketched in Richard Brownawell's portrait, and she thought of Pip. Had she, too, been forced to dine with the master of the house? Had she worn that dress, eaten that food? Had Victoria come to her as well? Is that when she had sought out the black book, to search for clues in ghost stories to explain that which afflicted her? And Mrs Pollard, in a rage, had torn the book from her hands, perhaps bludgeoned her with it, stealing the last health Pip had left and allowing the house to claim her?

The image of Pip's blood-covered face was fresh in her mind when the screaming started. It came from the back of the house, near the garden. Eliza dropped the sheet and ran down the west wing, out the veranda doors. Mrs Pollard was hurting Rebecca. She knew all along about the slap and was now punishing Rebecca for Eliza's misdeed. It was the only thought within her head. Yet, as she came closer, she realised what she heard was not the screaming of a child, not even that of a person. It was the high-pitched yelping of an animal in pain. She stuttered to a stop on the edge of the west lawn.

Lying on the slim gravel path to the carriage house was Mr Drewry's wolfhound, crying out as Rebecca beat him.

‘Rebecca!' Eliza grabbed the wooden club from her sister. ‘What are you doing?'

‘He's a bad dog.'

‘What happened? Did he attack you?' Eliza searched her for any sign of injury, but Rebecca appeared unharmed. The grey dog whimpered and bled.

‘Mrs Pollard sent me to collect the eggs, but he was by the henhouse gate. He wanted to get in and eat the hens, I could tell. I had to teach him a lesson.'

Dumbfounded, Eliza knelt by the dog. Her hands hovered over his injuries, unsure how to help. The dog looked at her, his brown eyes pleading. Somehow, he found the strength to wag his tail.

‘But what did he do? Did he lunge at you? Anything? Rebecca, why did you beat him?' Slowly, she laid a hand on the dog's wiry head. Stroking gently, she was encouraged when he stopped whimpering.

‘Filthy creatures must learn their place.'

‘Kasey. Kasey!'

At his master's call, the dog tried to rise but was unable.

‘Shh. It's all right,' Eliza soothed him.

‘Kasey!' Mr Drewry came running from the north lawn. ‘Kasey! Oh God.' He ran into the carriage house and returned moments later with a tin medical kit. He pushed Eliza back. ‘Easy, boy. Easy.'

‘It . . . it was an accident,' Eliza said. Mr Drewry ignored her as he pulled out a syringe and filled it from a small, glass vial. Gently, he injected it into the dog's leg.

As he tried to bandage the dog's side, difficult with only one hand, Eliza looked towards Rebecca, who stood to the side. No expression crossed her face – no guilt, no pleasure – nothing but a blank stare that hid whatever thoughts were floating in her head as she twirled a strand of her hair in her fingers.

‘Help me move him,' ordered Mr Drewry, drawing Eliza's attention back to the injured dog. ‘Carry the kit.'

He placed the dog over his shoulder in a fireman's hold while Eliza grabbed the first-aid box. She followed him into the carriage house and up the stairs to his private room, where he laid the dog on the bed. As she helped him tend to Kasey's wounds, her eyes drifted over the spartan loft. It was furnished with only the essentials – bed, wardrobe, table, two chairs. Kitchen utensils hung on the wall over the range. A dog's clay food and water bowls sat by the door. The exposed beams and stone fireplace reminded her of the fairy-tale homes of lonely grandmothers and kindly woodsmen. A window over the bed looked out onto the woods behind the estate. Two windows in the kitchen revealed Thornecroft lurking ahead. She would rather live here than the vast, empty manor.

Mr Drewry calmed as he stroked his dog's head. In the quiet, she could hear him crying.

‘I'm sorry,' she said. ‘It was . . . He got into the henhouse. Rebecca thought he . . .'

‘He hangs about the henhouse 'cause there's been trouble with foxes. It's why Pollard lets me keep him.' There was something different about Mr Drewry's voice. It was softer, younger. His face was a mask of worry, his scars running like tear tracks across his tanned skin. Eliza placed a hand on his shoulder.

He shrugged it off.

‘Look what you've done. You stupid, stupid girls.' The dark vacancy returned to his eyes. ‘Get out of here! Go before I get me gun. You keep away from me and me dog. You understand? Go!'

Eliza ran from the carriage house. Outside, Rebecca drew patterns in the path with the blood-spattered stick. Eliza took it and threw it into the nearby bushes then hurried Rebecca away through the garden. She had lied for her before, whenever her nervous troubles caused her to act strangely in front of others, but this time Rebecca's actions felt different. This time they felt deliberate.

More than ever, Rebecca needed to remain calm, at least until Friday. Already Mr Drewry could refuse to take them to the village. She couldn't let the problem escalate. Rebecca had to be under control, docile even, in a way Eliza had only seen her once before. No amount of caring or devotion could make Rebecca that calm, which Eliza knew all too well.

The doctor told Aunt Bess to keep the tablets, just in case. Eliza had brought them to Wales for the same reason.

*

Eliza loved the moment before the kettle whistled. She anticipated the change in the water, how the sound of it quieted just before the boil. That brief moment of peace before the whistle blew. She remembered a game she had with Mother – a race to ready the teapot and serving tray before the kettle sounded. If she was quick enough, she would get an extra biscuit. Or had that been Mrs Littleton? Eliza stared at Mrs Pollard's kettle, waiting for that moment.

Though the day had passed without interruption from Victoria, Eliza's lack of sleep made every hour stretch longer than it ought. Her conversation with Ruth could have happened last week or five minutes ago. Had it even happened at all or was it only a dream? Rebecca attacking the dog, that too happened recently, had it not? That was why she stood here now, making tea after dinner, instead of letting exhaustion lead her straight to bed. She had to take care of Rebecca. Even though she was close to falling asleep right here at the counter, her eyelids slipping as her body was lulled by the sound of the water boiling, the birds' evensong outside, the breeze brushing against her cheek like a lullaby.

Eliza
 . . .

The kettle whistled.

Rebecca skipped in from outside. ‘Eliza, can I help?' she asked.

‘No, no,' she said, rubbing her eyes. ‘I'll be mother. Why don't you have a seat? You've been working ever so hard lately, haven't you? What else did Mrs Pollard have you doing today?'

Rebecca circled the table, chattering away about her work in the vegetable garden while the tea brewed. When Rebecca's back was turned, Eliza slipped her hand into her pocket and withdrew two small tablets of lithium bromide. She dropped them into her sister's cup then poured tea for them both. She added a little extra milk and sugar to Rebecca's, hoping to cover up any bitter, medicinal taste, and waited until the tablets dissolved completely before taking their cups to the table.

‘Here you are, dearie.'

Rebecca took a sip and shuddered.

‘What's the matter?' Had she been caught out already?

‘Too hot.'

‘Oh, of course.'

‘Are there any biscuits?'

‘I'm afraid not. Mrs Pollard said we can't waste our sugar ration on mere frivolities. That woman. Well, we'll be free of her soon enough, won't––'

‘You should be nicer to Mrs Pollard.' Rebecca stared at Eliza. Her eyes were focused, the muscles tense in her forehead and jaw. Eliza knew that look. The last time she saw it was just before Rebecca attacked Aunt Bess. It had never been directed towards her.

‘Rebecca, I . . .'

‘She works very hard here. No one appreciates what she does to keep this estate running. You should treat her with more respect.'

Eliza smiled. It hurt, like having her arm twisted behind her back.

‘Of course,' she said. ‘You're absolutely right. It must be very stressful for her.' Eliza raised her cup to conceal her face and dropped the painful smile. ‘Drink your tea.' She watched Rebecca consume every single drop.

*

The muslin dress wrapped itself around her. She could not breathe, but there was no need. Her body slept below her on the mattress, arms hugging the dead girl. She hovered above, wanting to walk but not knowing how.

I'll show
you.

Victoria stood by the door, smiling in the dress that matched her own. Eliza opened her mouth to speak, but Victoria raised a finger to her lips and the collar of the dress tightened round Eliza's neck like a noose made from washing line and her eyes began to bulge . . .

She was back in her body. She was breathing. The mattress held no other body and there was nothing choking her neck. She was breathing, breathing the damp air, the dust from the furniture, the scent of her own perfume. She was breathing, and Victoria was not in the doorway. She was breathing, and Victoria did not want her to leave.