The Shivering Sands (6 page)

“You are sensitive to atmosphere, Mrs. Verlaine. You will be hoping that there are no ghosts in the house. Are you superstitious?”

“That’s something we all deny until we are put to the test. Then most of us prove we are.”

“You mustn’t be here, you know. In a place like this where people have lived for centuries within the same walls stories circulate. A servant sees her own shadow and swears it is a ghost in gray. Easily done, Mrs. Verlaine, in a house like this.”

“I don’t think I am going to be afraid of my own shadow.”

“I know how I felt when I first came here. I remember arriving in this hall and standing here terrified.” She shivered at the recollection.

“And all turned out well, I suppose.”

“I found…a place in this house…in time.” She shook herself slightly as though shaking off past memories. “Now, I think first to the schoolroom. I will have tea sent up there. I am sure you’re ready for it.”

We had reached a gallery in which hung several portraits and I noticed some fine tapestries which I intended to examine later, for their subjects seemed most intriguing.

She opened a door and said: “Mrs. Verlaine is here.”

I followed her into a lofty room and there were the three girls. They made a charming picture, one of them on the window seat, another seated at a table and a third standing with her back to the fireplace on either side of which stood two great firedogs.

The one in the window seat came toward me and I recognized her at once, because I had seen her coming down the aisle on the arm of her bridegroom. She looked so shy—she was uncertain as yet, I guessed, of her new dignity as mistress of the house; and indeed it was incongruous to think of her as such. She looked like a child.

“How do you do, Mrs. Verlaine?” The words were spoken as though she had rehearsed them many times. She held out her hand and I took it. As it lay for those few seconds limply in mine I felt sorry for her and knew I wanted to protect her. “We are glad you have come,” she continued in that stilted way.

Her hair was certainly her crowning glory. It was the color of corn in August, and little tendrils escaped to nestle on her low white forehead and at the nape of her neck. It was the only vital thing about her.

I told her I was glad to be here, and was looking forward to my work.

“I am looking forward to working with you,” she said, and her smile was sweet. “Allegra! Alice!”

Allegra left the fireplace and came toward me. Her thick dark curly hair was tied back with a red ribbon; her eyes were black and bold, her skin inclined to be sallow.

“So you’ve come to teach us music, Mrs. Verlaine,” she said.

“I hope you’re eager to learn,” I replied, not without asperity for my association with pupils, as well as Mrs. Rendall’s warning, told me to expect trouble with this one.

“Should I be?” Oh yes, she was going to be difficult.

“If you want to learn to play the piano, yes.”

“I don’t think I want to learn anything…at least things which teachers teach.”

“Perhaps when you are older and wiser you will change your mind.” Oh dear, I thought, engaging in verbal battles so soon was a very bad sign.

I turned from her to look at the third girl, who had been sitting at the table.

“Come, Alice,” said Mrs. Lincroft.

Alice stood before me and made a demure curtsy. I guessed her to be of the same age as Allegra—about twelve or thirteen—although being smaller she looked younger. She radiated neatness and wore a white frilled apron over her gray gabardine dress; her long light brown hair was held back from her rather severe little face by a blue velvet band.

“Alice will be a good pupil,” said her mother tenderly.

“I’ll try to be,” replied Alice with a shy smile. “But Edith…er Mrs. Stacy…is very good.”

I smiled at Edith, who flushed a little and said: “I hope Mrs. Verlaine will think so.”

Mrs. Lincroft said to Edith: “I asked for tea to be brought up here. I wonder if you will wish to stay and…”

“Why yes,” said Edith. “I shall want to talk to Mrs. Verlaine.”

I gathered that everyone was a little embarrassed by the new status Edith had acquired in the household since her marriage.

When the tea arrived I saw it was of the kind we used to have in the schoolroom at home—big brown earthenware pot and the milk in a china toby jug. A cloth was put on the table and bread and butter and cakes laid out.

“Perhaps you will be able to tell Mrs. Verlaine how far you have progressed with your studies,” suggested Mrs. Lincroft.

“I’m eager to hear.”

“Miss Elgin recommended you, didn’t she?” said Allegra.

“That’s so.”

“So
you
used to be a pupil.”

“I did.”

She nodded laughing, as though the idea of my being a pupil was incongruous. I was beginning to understand that Allegra liked to take the stage. But it was Edith who interested me—not only because I was so curious about her life and because she, a young girl, was mistress of this big house, but because she was clearly something of a musician. I could sense it by the manner in which her personality changed when she talked of music. She glowed, and became almost confident.

While we talked a servant came to say that Sir William was asking for Mrs. Lincroft.

“Thank you, Jane,” she said. “Pray tell him that I will be with him in a few moments. Alice, as soon as tea is over, you can show Mrs. Verlaine her room.”

“Yes, Mamma,” said Alice.

As soon as Mrs. Lincroft had gone the atmosphere changed subtly. I wondered what this meant, for the housekeeper had given me the impression of being an extremely gentle woman; there was a certain firmness about her, but I did not think she was one who would impose her personality on a young girl—particularly one as high spirited as Allegra appeared to be.

Allegra said: “We expected someone older than you. You aren’t all that old to be a widow.”

Three pairs of eyes were studying me intently. I said: “Yes, I was widowed after a very few years of marriage.”

“Why did your husband die?” pursued Allegra.

“Perhaps Mrs. Verlaine would rather not speak of it,” suggested Edith quietly.

“What nonsense!” retorted Allegra. “Everyone likes talking about death.”

I raised my eyebrows. “It’s true,” went on the irrepressible Allegra. “Look at Cook. She’ll go into the gruesome details of her late lamented—her name for him—whenever you ask her…and you don’t even have to ask. She revels in them. So it’s nonsense to say people don’t like talking about death, because they do.”

“Perhaps Mrs. Verlaine is different from Cook,” put in Alice in a quiet little voice which was scarcely audible. Poor little Alice, I thought, as the housekeeper’s daughter she is not exactly accepted as one of them, although she is allowed to share their lessons.

I turned to her and said: “My husband died of a heart attack. It’s something that can happen at any time.”

Allegra looked toward her two companions as though she were expecting to see them collapse.

“Of course,” I went on, “there are sometimes signs that an attack is imminent. People work too hard, worry…”

Edith said timidly: “Perhaps we should change the subject. Do you like teaching, Mrs. Verlaine, and have you taught many people?”

“I like teaching when my pupils respond…not otherwise; and I have taught a number of people.”

“How does one respond?” asked Allegra.

“By loving the piano?” suggested Edith.

“That is exactly so,” I said. “If you love music, if you want to give the pleasure to others which music gives to you, you will play well and enjoy your playing.”

“Even if you have no talent?” asked Alice almost eagerly.

“If you have no talent to begin with, you can work hard and acquire skill at least. But I do believe that the gift of music is something you are born with. I propose that we start our lessons tomorrow. I shall take you all in turn and we will see who has this talent.”

“Why did you come here?” pursued Allegra. “What were you doing before?”

“Teaching.”

“What of your old pupils? Won’t they be missing you?”

“There were not many of them.”

“Well, there are only three of us. This is not a very lucky place for people.”

“What do you mean?”

Allegra looked conspiratorially at the others. “There were some people who came to dig up our park. They were…”

“Archaeologists,” supplied Alice.

“That’s right. People said it was wrong to disturb the dead. They’re gone and they’re in peace and they don’t want other people digging up their graves and their homes. They say they leave a curse that if someone disturbs them they will have their revenge. Do you believe that, Mrs. Verlaine?”

“No, it’s a superstition. If the Romans built beautiful houses I believe they would want us to know how clever they had been, how advanced.”

“Did you know,” said Alice quickly, “that they kept their houses warm by means of pipes full of hot water? The young lady who died told us. She was pleased if we asked questions about the remains.”

“Alice always tries to please everyone,” said Allegra. “It’s because she’s the housekeeper’s daughter and feels she has to.”

I raised my eyebrows at this rudeness and looked at Alice in a manner which I hoped conveyed to her that I meant to make no distinctions.

“So to please this…archaeologist, you pretended to be interested?” I suggested.

“But we
were
interested,” said Alice, “and Miss Brandon told us a great deal about the Romans who used to live here. But when she heard about the curse she was frightened and—then it overtook her.”

“Did she tell you she was frightened?”

“I think that’s what she meant. She said: ‘We are after all meddling with the dead. So it’s not surprising there is this curse.’”

“She meant that it was not surprising there was a
rumor
about the curse.”

“Perhaps she believed it,” suggested Allegra. “It’s like having faith. People in the Bible were cured because they had faith. So perhaps it works the other way and Miss Brandon disappeared because she had faith.”

“So you think that if she hadn’t believed in the curse she would not have disappeared?” I asked.

There was silence in the schoolroom. Then Alice said: “Perhaps I thought afterwards that she was frightened. It’s easy to imagine things like that when something’s happened.”

Alice was evidently a wise young girl in spite of her humility—or perhaps because of it. I could well imagine how Allegra treated her when they were alone. I expected that hers was a life of countless humiliations—the poor relation who is given a roof over her head and outwardly similar privileges in return for doing light but menial tasks and accepting slights from those who believed themselves to be her superiors. I warmed toward Alice and imagined she did toward me.

“Alice is full of imagination,” scoffed Allegra. “Parson Rendall says so every time she writes an essay.”

Alice blushed and I said: “That’s very creditable.” I smiled at the young girl. “I am really looking forward to teaching you the piano.”

The footman came to announce that my bags had arrived and were in the yellow room which had been made ready for me.

I thanked him and Alice said at once: “Would you like me to take you there now, Mrs. Verlaine?”

I admitted that would be pleasant.

She rose and the others watched her and I decided that showing people to their rooms was a task for the higher servants, the class to which Alice belonged.

She said politely: “Allow me to lead the way, Mrs. Verlaine”; and began to mount the staircase.

“This place has been your home for a long time,” I said conversationally.

“I have never really known another home. Mother came back here when I was about two.”

“It’s certainly impressive.”

Alice laid her hand on the banister and looked down at the carved figures there. “It’s a lovely old house, isn’t it, Mrs. Verlaine? I should never want to go away from it.”

“Perhaps you will change your mind when you get older. Perhaps you will marry someone and that will be more important to you than staying here.”

She turned to look down at me in a startled way. “I expect I shall stay here and be a sort of companion to Edith.”

She sighed and turning proceeded up the stairs. There was an air of resignation about her and I pictured her first as a young woman, then as a middle-aged one and an old one—not of the family and not belonging to the servants’ hall, called upon in moments of crisis in the family. Little Alice at everyone’s beck and call, of no account except when some unpleasant task had to be performed.

She turned suddenly and smiled at me. “It is after all what I want.” She lifted her shoulders. “I love this house. There are so many interesting things in it.”

“I’m sure there are.”

“Yes,” she said almost breathlessly. “There is a room where a King is supposed to have lodged. I think it was Charles I during the Civil War. I suppose he was afraid to go to Dover Castle, so he came here. It’s the bridal suite now. It’s supposed to be haunted, but Mr. Napier doesn’t care about that. Most people would. Edith does. Edith’s
terrified
…but then she’s often terrified. But Napier believes that it’s all for her own good to face up to what she’s frightened of. She has to learn to be brave.”

“Tell me about it,” I said, hoping to hear more of Napier and his bride, but she merely went on to describe the room.

“It’s one of the largest in the house. They would give the largest to the King, wouldn’t they? There’s a brick fireplace which the vicar says has a chambered arch and jambs. The vicar is very keen on anything that’s old…old houses, old furniture…old anything.”

We had walked along a gallery similar to the one below and here Alice paused to open a door.

“This is the room my mother selected for you. It’s called the yellow room because of the yellow curtains and the rugs. The counterpane is yellow too. Look.”

She threw open the door. I saw my bags standing on the parquet floor and was immediately aware of the yellow curtains at the big window and the rugs and the counterpane on the four-poster bed. The ceiling was high and a chandelier hung from it, but there were dark shadows in the room for like most windows in the house, this one had leaded panes which shut out a good deal of the light. It was very grand, I thought, for someone who had merely come to teach music; and I wondered what the room was like which was occupied by Napier—the one which had once sheltered a King.