Abigale Hall (19 page)

‘Maybe it's against the rules.' Stephen put the letter in his pocket.

‘I just want to know she's all right.' Peter rested his head in his hands.

‘Well, if this has to do with Bess's gambling, I know someone who might know a thing or two.'

Peter's head snapped up. ‘How did you know about the gambling?'

Stephen smiled. ‘You told me, remember? That day I saw you in Whitechapel?'

‘Oh. Yes. Of course. My memory . . . it's been very odd lately.'

Stephen sipped his drink. ‘Why keep doing this on your own, ginger? Why not let your mate Stephen help you, eh?'

Peter took one last glance out the window then grabbed the glass. The whisky burned as it made its way down his throat and settled nicely in his stomach.

The dress wrapped itself around her, inhibiting movement, strangling breath. Her body slept peacefully below while Victoria beckoned from the doorway, but Eliza could not move. Victoria grew impatient. The dress grew tighter and Eliza thrashed against it. It started to tear at the seams and she was free of it, she was almost . . .

Eliza woke up gasping. When she recovered her breath, she checked it was her nightdress she wore. For two days the dreams had tormented her. Every time she closed her eyes Victoria was waiting, drawing closer, holding her down. The time would come when she would not wake.

Dawn was just breaking over the horizon. Two days and she had not yet spoken to Mr Drewry. She curled her knees to her chest. She could put off apologising no longer. He was their way to Plentynunig. She had thought about what to do, and it was Aunt Bess's advice she kept returning to, the advice Aunt Bess gave just before her first date with Peter.

‘You want a man's attention, that's easy enough, but if you want his heart, you go through here,' she pointed.

Several hours later, Eliza stood in the garden wall doorway watching grey ash float towards the sky with Aunt Bess's advice cradled in her arms – a basket of freshly baked rolls. The carriage house was dark, but smoke from the chimney told her Mr Drewry was inside. The rolls were wrapped in a kitchen cloth to keep in the warmth, but the cold air quickly absorbed their heat. This had to be done. They wouldn't be able to reach Plentynunig alone, not in time for the market cart. With each tentative step down the gravel path, she willed her nerves to remain steady.

She was two feet away when Mr Drewry flung open the door, his rifle aimed shoulder high.

‘I told you . . .'

‘I brought you rolls.' She held up the basket like a shield as his eyes searched for any other intruders.

‘Bring 'em here then.' He put the rifle down.

The little confidence Eliza had managed to scrape together vanished as she approached. He grabbed the basket and tucked it under the stump of his right arm, flipping back the cloth with his left hand.

‘Pollard tell you to bring these?'

‘No. I—'

‘Then why did you?'

‘I wanted to apologise. For my sister. How is Kasey?'

‘Your sister can apologise for herself.' He covered the bread. ‘But she won't, will she?'

‘It's never been her strength.' Unable to meet Mr Drewry's eyes, she glanced past him into the carriage house. An army officer's trench coat hung from a hook by the stairs. Father's friends wore ones like it when they came for tea. Mr Drewry caught her staring.

‘Tell the girl she's lucky me dog ain't dead.' He slammed the door shut. Eliza started back towards the house when the door reopened behind her. Mr Drewry held up a bitten roll. Eliza flinched, afraid he would throw it at her.

‘These taste okay.' He disappeared without awaiting her reply.

Pulling her jumper tight around her, she returned to the manor.

Eliza often struggled to understand the ways of men. She had never spent much time alone with Father, not before the war. He would be there at breakfast and dinner, accompany them on family holidays, ask about school, but there was never time for the two of them together. Even on their day trips to museums and libraries, Mother would be there to act as a barrier. When the war ended and she returned home, Eliza came to know his anger. His hurtful words would gather on her skin like paper cuts, wounding her all over till she couldn't move near him for fear of pain. She thought it was because he had not been allowed to go to war, but maybe that wasn't it at all. Maybe that was just who he was.

At least Mr Drewry seemed appeased, she thought, as she began cleaning the dishes. Through his stomach, Aunt Bess said, that was how to win a man. As she never cooked, it was her excuse for not marrying, though Eliza knew it had something to do with her ex-fiancé, that American. The one whose picture Aunt Bess kept in the bottom of her stocking drawer. The one Father laughed about returning to his wife. Yet for once, Aunt Bess's advice appeared to have worked. Mr Drewry would surely agree to take them to the village on Friday, so long as Rebecca did nothing else to anger him.

*

Eliza set the mixing bowl in the sink and ran her hands over her neck. All day, she had kept feeling a tightness there, as if a pair of small hands were strangling her. She rolled her shoulders to loosen the tension and returned to the washing-up. As she did so, laughter sounded from outside – Rebecca's laughter. Worried about what catastrophe Rebecca chose to laugh at now, Eliza went to the window. Rebecca played hopscotch in the grass. Only hopscotch. A simple, childhood game. But Eliza's smile faded when Rebecca started arguing with the air.

She had yet to notice any change in her behaviour since starting her on the tablets. Was there something wrong with them? Had they expired, lost their potency? Or was Rebecca too old for them now? Was that dosage meant for a smaller child? Maybe more time was needed for them to take effect. Rebecca threw a pebble at the window. Eliza jumped back as it bounced off the glass right in front of her face.

‘Stop spying on me!' Rebecca shouted, her voice muffled by the walls of the house. She came stomping inside the kitchen, a light film of sweat on her forehead. ‘Why are you always spying on me?'

‘I'm not spying, I'm looking after you. It's what older sisters do.'

Rebecca seemed pale. ‘Older sisters shouldn't be so nosy.'

‘Are you all right, dearie? Your colour looks off.' Eliza placed the back of her hand on Rebecca's forehead, but Rebecca turned away.

‘I'm perfectly fine, so I'd appreciate it if you left me alone, please.' Rebecca clomped out of the kitchen, knocking over the bin but not stopping to put it right.

Eliza gathered the spilled rubbish. There was no more time. Friday was only two days away. If Rebecca kept behaving this way, Mr Drewry would not want to help them. Maybe an extra tablet would do, just for a little while. Just to make sure Rebecca would be all right.

She called down the hall. ‘Rebecca! Time for tea.'

*

Eliza wore a muslin dress, though it couldn't be the same one because this one was yellowed, not shimmering white. The lace was torn and curling and a stain spoiled the skirt. Several buttons were missing and it kept slipping off her shoulders. On the floor below, her body slept on the dead girl's mattress. She reached down to touch it when from the door came a sigh.

There stood Victoria. Eliza opened her mouth to speak, but Victoria raised a single finger to her lips. She reached out a hand and beckoned Eliza to follow. Eliza moved easily.

The train of Victoria's dress led her through the manor like a path of breadcrumbs. She had to gather up her skirt to avoid tripping as she followed. Though the halls were dark, Eliza saw clearly.

They passed through an Abigale Hall filled with floating corpse candles. Eliza let them dance on her fingertips. Victoria called for her.

Come, Eliza. Come with
us . . .

Together they snuck into the Ancestral Parlour. Here Victoria stopped at the far end of the dining table. Though the portraits were covered, Victoria pointed to each in turn and again put her finger to her lips. Then she hurried to the veranda. Eliza followed. The doors were wide open.

Outside, all was dark. If there was a moon, the clouds obscured it. Victoria stood on the west lawn, waiting. They continued across the high grass, two ghosts in the night. It wasn't until they reached the iron gate that Eliza realised they had come to the little cemetery at the edge of the woods.

She wanted to turn back, but Victoria would not allow it. She appeared beside Eliza and grabbed her arm. Her grip was cold and froze Eliza's skin. She pulled her forward to the grave marker closest to the trunk of a large yew tree. Eliza could not get close enough to read the name. An open grave lay in front. She tried to run, but Victoria held firm. Her face now resembled the doll's. Bloody holes remained where her eyes had once been and deep gashes ran down her cheeks. The blood dripped onto Eliza's skin.

Come, Eliza.

Father waited in the grave, his face red and purple, swollen, eyes bulging. Victoria pushed her into his arms.

Eliza's knees smacked against the hard ground. She started backwards.

Her first realisation was that she was awake. Her next was that she was not in the muslin dress but her old cotton nightgown. Her last was that she was outside, kneeling in the little cemetery.

She scrambled to her feet, the dream already fading, unsure as to how she got there. It was the middle of the night, but the moon was bright and clear, illuminating the name on the grave marker before which Eliza stood.

Victoria Kyffin.

Eliza ran back to the house, feeling the damp grass on her bare feet, small rocks and twigs stabbing her soles as foxes screamed to each other in the night. The door to the veranda was open. She had difficulty navigating through the black house, having to turn around twice before finding her room. She crawled into bed and curled up under the thin top sheet.

‘Please, give me another day. That's all. Victoria, please. Please.'

Tears dried on her face as she fell asleep.

Eliza . . .

A whisper woke her. A pale ghost stood at her side. Eliza nearly screamed, until she saw who it was.

‘Rebecca?'

Rebecca opened her mouth as if to speak then vomited all over the mattress.

*

‘Easy, easy, dearie. Let it out. It's all right.' Eliza held back Rebecca's hair as she vomited into the toilet, and rubbed slow circles on her back, trying to soothe the convulsions. Rebecca said nothing, merely cried as her body was wracked with another wave of nausea. The sweet stench of bile made Eliza's own stomach lurch. How much sleep had she had since arriving at Thornecroft? She could probably count the decent hours on one hand. Without Rebecca, she could have a few more. Rebecca collapsed into her arms, too weak to continue, as a shadow was cast over them.

‘What's going on?' Mrs Pollard kept still in the doorway. Her nightgown hung loosely from her thin frame, the tendons in her neck straining as she stared down at them both.

‘Rebecca woke me an hour ago. She's been ill.'

‘I can see that.'

‘Do you have any stomach medicine?'

Mrs Pollard said nothing at first. Eliza believed she would refuse Rebecca help, but she didn't care. They didn't need Mrs Pollard.

‘There may be something. Put her to bed.' She disappeared down the hall.

‘Rebecca? Do you think you can walk?'

Rebecca nodded weakly, and Eliza helped her to rise. With one arm around her sister, Eliza pulled the toilet chain.

The first time she had cared for someone with a stomach upset was the night of their return to London. Though she never remembered Father drinking heavily before the war, that night he remained in the pub until closing time then continued imbibing from his private stock of homemade marrow liqueur once he stumbled home. He mistook Eliza for her mother then ran to the toilet to be sick. The next day, he would not even look at her.

As Eliza tucked Rebecca into bed, Mrs Pollard returned with a small brown bottle and a spoon. It was the bottle she had seen Mrs Pollard sipping from on their way to Plentynunig.

‘Stomach tonic. Old family recipe,' Mrs Pollard said, catching Eliza's eyes as they scanned the unlabelled bottle. ‘One couldn't live in the Indian colony without suffering all sorts of unpleasant stomach ailments. Mother swore by this. Give it to her. Two tablespoons.'

Eliza untwisted the cap and was struck by the pungent odour of herbs and aspic. She poured the viscous black liquid onto the spoon and held it to Rebecca's lips. Rebecca turned away.

‘Please, dearie. It will make you feel better.' Eliza tried to force the spoon into Rebecca's mouth but only succeeded in dripping the sticky substance onto the sheets.

‘Rebecca. You know what's best for you. Be a good girl,' Mrs Pollard ordered.

Rebecca complied, grimacing as she swallowed.

‘One more,' Mrs Pollard said. Rebecca's mouth was open before Eliza could pour another dose.

‘That will do for now.' She took the bottle and spoon from Eliza. ‘Let her rest.'

Rebecca was already falling asleep. Eliza looked for the bisque doll, wanting to tuck it under her sister's arm, but she did not see it in the small room. She took Rebecca's old plastic cat instead and placed it with her underneath the sheet. Rebecca rolled over and pushed the cat onto the floor. It landed with a smack on the scuffed floorboards. Eliza left it.

*

Between Rebecca's illness and the nightmare, the day was filled with worry. The nightmares had never gone that far before. Was Victoria working harder to keep her here? She tried to keep the matter at the back of her mind, but the vivid dream came flooding back when Mrs Pollard ordered her to sweep the veranda. Eliza looked at the dried muddy footprints on the stone tiling and felt the dirt on her own feet, hidden by stockings and shoes. She had never known herself to sleepwalk. Not even Rebecca suffered from that condition. It was something about this house, about Victoria's lingering presence. Was this how it started? Victoria entering the dreams of those she wished to harm? Was that how she led them away? How was Eliza to control her body while she slept? Perhaps she could lock the door, tie herself to the bed frame. Maybe she could go without sleep tonight. It was only tonight she had to survive. By tomorrow, they'd be in Abergwili.

Father was always threatening to send them away. He was upset with Rebecca's shyness and Eliza's constant references to the Littletons. More than once he snapped at them to be quiet, even when they weren't speaking. It didn't take long for Eliza to recognise that this wasn't the father she'd had before the war. Yet who wasn't changed by those years? Eliza did her best to please him. It was never enough. He never appreciated anything, not his daughters, not his position, not even his own war work. Eliza was sure he had done his bit – Father couldn't help his poor eyesight – but ‘too young for the first war, too crippled for the second, too old for the third' was what he muttered to himself when drunk.