Greygallows (18 page)

There was no chance this time of mistaking it for
a shaft of moonlight or wisp of fog. The features were veiled, but they were there—the mouth, open in a wordless cry, the shadowed eyesockets and the jutting nose. It shone with its own light, a rotten, gray-green glow, which outlined the folds of the flowing skirt and long, full sleeves. A heavier veil shrouded the head and hung in ragged trails behind.

I caught blindly at the other woman. Afterward I saw the bruises my fingers had left on her white arm; I have no recollection of moving, of touching her. I remember only what she said, as she turned in response to my hoarse direction, and looked squarely at the rotting, swaying white horror in the dark.

'What is it you see? There is nothing there; only the shadows, and one white star.'

Mrs. Andrews and Anna put me to bed. I was raving like a Bedlamite, and the worst of it was, they believed me. Naturally they would. Mrs. Andrews made me take some of Clare's brandy; and after a long time, when I had recovered my calm, he came to see me.

'I am sorry...' I began.

'You have had a frightening experience. When I heard you screaming, I thought—'

'I don't remember screaming.'

'You did. We heard you as far as the stableyard.'

'Has Miss—have they gone?'

'Yes.'

'I must have frightened her badly.'

'You did.'

'She said she saw nothing.'

'She would not see it. There are conditions—' He broke off suddenly. From his coat pocket he
drew out a small bottle filled with a dark liquid.

'I am glad I had the foresight to purchase this in Edinburgh. You must sleep; you are still overwrought.'

Mrs. Andrews must have been lurking in the hall; no sooner had he touched the bell than she came in, carrying a tray. Drop by drop the dose was measured into a glass, and I drank it down. Clare put the stopper carefully in the bottle and returned it to his pocket.

'I will keep this in my wardrobe, and measure it out when you need it. After all, it is a dangerous drug; it would not do to leave it about where the servants might find it. Now sleep. Mrs. Andrews, you will sit with your mistress until she falls asleep?'

The dose must have been strong; already it was all I could do to keep my eyes open. Through my half-closed lids I could see Mrs. Andrews perched on the very edge of her chair, staring at me as if she were afraid to blink.

I would have been more willing to accept the existence of a ghost were it not for the implications. Like the fabled specters Clare had described, whose advent meant a warning or a threat, this apparition seemed to have a purpose. According to Mrs. Andrews, only a woman could see the White Lady. Yet Miss Fleetwood had not seen it. The spectral chariots and harpers were sometimes audible only to those whose doom they heralded...

I did not believe in the supernatural; but all the rational explanations had failed me. The thing I had seen was no truant housemaid, no fault of vision. Only one thing was certain: Whoever, or
whatever, the White Lady was, she was not the vicar's sister.

At first I thought it was my morbid imagination, but matters had grown steadily worse. Indifferent to begin with, he was now actively unkind. He could hardly bear the sight of me, and my touch made him shrink with repugnance. Twice he had spoken sharply to me before Mrs. Andrews. She was too well trained to comment, but I had seen in her face the extent of her surprise. His reprimands
concerned my carelessness; he accused me of forgetting errands and things he had told me to do. It was true that I felt drowsy and muddleheaded all the time. I had tried to explain that I did not need, or want, the nightly dose of laudanum.

At that, he flew into a rage. It was not a violent outburst, with shouts and furious gestures; violence would have been less intimidating to me than his icy, white-faced anger. It reduced me to stammering apologies. Since then I had taken my nightly dose without complaint.

Absently I plucked a full-grown rose and turned it slowly, admiring the velvety texture and glowing red color. When I looked up, I saw him coming down the path toward me.

Instinctively I shrank back. He stopped several feet away and regarded me steadily; he had seen my fear, as he saw everything.

'I want you in the library after luncheon,' he said abruptly.

'In the library?'

'Yes, the library. Must you repeat everything I say? Do I not speak intelligibly?'

Someone else had said that to me, once upon a time. My head ached dully. I rubbed it, and saw Clare frown.

'Yes, of course,' I said quickly, hardly knowing what I said, but fearing by silence to annoy him further. 'In the ... I will be there. Why do you—'

'If I wished to discuss it now, I would not ask you to come to the library.'

He waited, watching me. I was too clever for him this time; I said nothing. After a moment he turned away. He flung a question over his shoulder. It was true; he could hardly bear to look
at me.

'You do not ride today?'

The tone was not propitious, but it was the first comment he had made for days that showed the slightest interest in my activities. I grasped at it eagerly.

'Yes, oh, yes, I will ride. Shortly; I meant to do so after I had cut these flowers—'

'If you planned to cut roses you should have brought shears and a basket,' he interrupted. 'If you mean only to spoil them, at least do not scatter the petals about so; they are unsightly, there on the path.'

Unthinkingly, I had torn the poor flower apart; the crimson petals lay scattered all around my feet. When I looked up, Clare was walking away.

I bent to gather the fallen petals. He was right, they looked ugly on the path, as if some small thing had bled to death. But when I stooped my head spun so that I had to straighten up. Slowly I made my way toward the house, giving him time to avoid me. It was odd that he had come himself to give me the message. The appointment must be important; ordinarily he would have sent one of the servants.

So now I must ride; there was no way out of that. Too often I had been accused of making plans and then forgetting them.

He had raised the question of riding some time before; the alteration of his manner was apparent by then, and I grasped frantically at a means, as I thought, of pleasing him. When we went to the stables I limped as badly as I had that other, unsuccessful day, only this time I got no expression of sympathy from Clare. Indeed, he had
all he could do to conceal his aversion for my awkward movements.

Clare left as soon as he had seen me mounted, giving brusque instructions to the groom., who was the same tousle-headed youngster I had seen before. His name was Tom; I got that much from him, but his shyness and uncouth speech made conversation difficult. However, as time went on I managed to overcome his shyness, and we communicated by means of signs and laughter. He was a cheerful lad, and he found my lack of skill highly amusing. I think it was his casual attitude that made riding less of an ordeal than I had anticipated. I could not have done as well with Clare watching.

Whenever I rode out, Tom went with me. He had been ordered to accompany me when I went out of sight of the house, for it would have been easy to lose my way on the moor; there were few landmarks. In bad weather it was the dreariest place imaginable, yet over the weeks I had begun to appreciate its peculiar beauties. The colors of bracken and heath changed with the seasons; distance, shadows, and weather produced subtle variations in color, so that the seemingly monotonous browns and greens and purples resembled a vast and delicately shaded carpet. There were no walls there. It was good to be in the open, away from the increasingly oppressive air of the house and its owner.

The moor had another advantage. The cushion of heath was thick enough so that I could fall without being badly hurt. I had taken my share of tumbles, and I preferred to take them away from Clare's coldly critical eye. Tom was no critic; when

I fell, he ran up grinning and chuckling, and hoisted me back onto the horse so that I could try again.

Usually I felt more cheerful after my outing. That morning it was harder than ever to come home. The chimneys of the house rose up out of the horizon; one towering mass of clouds hovered over it, so that it was an island of shadow in the midst of a sunny sea.

The thought of the interview in the library did not raise my spirits. As I dismounted in the stableyard I saw a strange horse and carriage standing there. It was a hired chaise. So we had a visitor, not one of the families from the neighborhood, whose equipages I would have recognized, but a stranger.

I had hoped to see the visitor at luncheon, but my curiosity was not to be satisfied so easily. I found I was to dine in my room. Clare had ordered this arrangement often of late. The ostensible reason was my poor health. It was such an absurd excuse, in view of my improved looks, that poor Mrs. Andrews actually blushed when she mentioned it the first time. Now I was accustomed to the habit. I found it easier than sitting in silence with a man whose eyes fled from mine.

I knew better than to go downstairs until I was summoned. The summons came; and I felt my heart beating unevenly as I descended the stairs. I had no idea what the interview would be about, but Clare's manner suggested that it would not be a source of enjoyment to me.

Clare was waiting for me in the library. The stranger was with him. He was a cadaverously thin man, dressed in rusty black. Slick black hair, so
smooth and shiny it looked painted on, framed his sallow face. I had never seen a countenance that pleased me less, though he bowed obsequiously when I entered. Clare did not introduce him.

'I have sent for you,' he told me, 'because your signature is required on this document. Be good enough to write your name here, if you please.'

He handed me a pen and pointed to the bottom of the sheet.

The paper was a single long sheet, filled with crabbed script. It would have been hard to read even if Clare's hand had not covered the greater portion of it.

The stranger made a small coughing sound.

'My lord, you have not forgotten—'

'What?' Clare's tone was savage. 'Ah, I recollect; you said two witnesses. The housekeeper will suit, I trust?'

'Anyone, my lord, so long as he or she can write his name.'

Mrs. Andrews was called. At Clare's order, she moved up to the table so she could see me write; and again Clare's long white finger stabbed at the page.

I had not wasted the interval, though I was uneasily aware that the stranger was watching me, if Clare was not. My efforts were in vain; I understood a phrase here and there, enough to understand that the paper had to do with money, with the disposal of funds; but the unfamiliar legal terms and the sly, slow smile of the stranger put my head all in a whirl. I had seen nothing to rouse any definite suspicion. I hardly know why I spoke as I did.

'What does the paper say?' I asked.

I had not dared to look at my husband. He was silent for a long moment; when he spoke, his voice was deadly.

'You question me, Lady Clare?'

'I only wish to know—'

'Sign the paper.'

'But it is a question of my property—'

Clare's hand, which had been resting lightly on the table, flattened out, pressing down till the nails whitened. I felt his rage in the air like a storm building up. Then the stranger broke in.

'Your pardon, Lady Clare, if I remind you ... A married woman has no property.'

The sleek, oily voice repelled me, but it did avert the incipient outburst. Clare's hand relaxed. He gave a muffled laugh.

'Always the peacemaker, eh, Newcomb? You do well to remind her Ladyship. Now sign...'

He snatched the pen from my hand, dipped it into the inkwell, and proffered it once again.

My signature was barely legible. The witnesses signed after me. Clare said,

'That is all.'

I knew the words were meant for me, as well as for his servant. I had not quite reached the door when he spoke again.

'Lady Clare.'

'Yes?'

'I understand you have been visiting some of my tenants in the village.'

I turned. He stood by the table, one white hand resting on the paper I had just signed.

'Only one,' I said stumblingly, as if the paucity of the number lessened the offense. 'Only Anna's family.'

'I told you you were not to go there. Have you forgotten my order, as you so often do, or did you deliberately disobey me?'

'You never told me—' I saw his eyes narrow with rage, and tried to stop myself. 'I know you spoke of the danger of infection, but the child is recovered, and the house is as tidy as—'

'I am not interested in the domestic virtues of my tenants. I am only interested in your behavior. You will not go there again, or to any other house in the village. Is that clear?'

'Yes.'

'You may go. Not you, Andrews, I want to speak to you.'

I stumbled up the stairs, holding the banister for support; I was so dizzy with rage and humiliation I could scarcely see.

He had not forbidden me to visit the village; I could remember that conversation as if it had happened only yesterday. Was I losing my memory, or my wits? But that was not the most important thing. He had deliberately chosen to humiliate me before a servant and a stranger who was little better than a servant—a clerk or small solicitor, I would guess. I hated him for that. And I hated myself for my crawling humility, for the fear of him that left me speechless in his presence.