Betrayal (10 page)

FROM THE PRIVATE PAPERS OF
S
EBASTIAN
J
AMES
F
AIRFAX

Do you grow weary of your poor friend? I saw you, Evie. You were laughing—smiling—looking so beautiful. It was so good to see you like that, but you were not smiling at me.

Your smiles were for a tall boy with hair like corn, and you looked so happy. As though you had never known me.

Have you forgotten me already? Or was this one more cruelty sent to me by my tormentors, as they wait hour by hour for me to fall into their grasp?

The end is getting closer, closer—

Perhaps I was crazy to think that you could stay
true to me, when all I bring to those I love is danger and despair.

My parents, my friends—I spurned them all.

The women who served me I corrupted and then abandoned.

Dear Agnes, whom I valued above all others, my dearest Agnes whom I loved as a sister—I killed her as surely as though I had strangled her with my bare hands.

How, then, can I expect you to remain faithful to me?

Everything is leaving me.

Everything fades into mist.

Listen. This is important. You must listen to me, my darling, while I can still form these labored words—listen—

Our story may end well. Even now, there is still a flicker of hope, like a candle in a storm. One day, I may be saved. One day, I may see you face-to-face. Then I will tell you—I will tell you the whole of my heart. But there is another possible ending. Perhaps I have already glimpsed it.

In this story, you become discouraged. The road is too hard. You turn aside. There is someone else at your side. He walks in the living air, a young man with brown eyes and sunshine in his smile. Do you recognize
this story? Is this the path you have chosen?

If so, don’t blame yourself.

Dark—so dark—so tired—

I ache for you. I scratch out words for you: “My darling, my dearest, love, longing…” But these words are worn and tattered, used in a thousand trite Valentine’s cards. How can I tell our story? What can I say? “For a little while, we walked the earth together, and it was enough.” What words can truly speak of that bliss?

I am so very weary; my strength fades—

I have no words to tell you how I crave your touch and the scent of your hair, and the trusting look in your eyes. But I must tell you this:

If you choose to bestow those graces upon another, I would understand. I will never blame you, Evie. All I want now is for you to walk in the sun. And if in your new life, you ever remember Sebastian James Fairfax, remember him with a smile, not with tears. Too many people have wept over me.

Everything fades.

My story must end soon. But yours must continue, and your path must be paved with every joy.

I
t was the start of another joyless week without Sebastian. There was no sign of the sun that morning. Another heavy load of snow had fallen in the night, and the world outside was as cold as a frozen, miserly heart.

I dragged myself out of bed and lingered in the chilly bathroom, trying to find some energy to face the day. My reflection stared back at me, tired and strained. I had lain awake most of the night going over and over in my head how I could learn how to control the fire element, but I hadn’t stumbled across any great revelation. I sighed and wrapped my robe around me and went back to the dorm. When I got there, the others had already left for breakfast.

The warning bell rang. I had to hurry. I quickly found my skirt and blouse and started to dress. As I fastened my
school tie, I realized that I was no longer wearing the little gold locket that contained the scrap of Effie’s hair.

“Oh no!” I quickly searched through the rumpled sheets on my bed. How could I have lost it? Had I dropped it in the bathroom, or lost it out riding?
Think, Evie, think….
I didn’t dare to ask if anyone had found it, in case Miss Raglan heard about it. She would no doubt make me hand it over to her, and I hated the idea of her pawing anything that was connected to Agnes. I made my way downstairs, angry with myself for so carelessly losing this link with my past.

I slipped into my place next to Helen and Sarah in the dining hall. “Did you hear about what happened in the village last night?” asked Sarah.

“No—what do you mean?”

“It’s kind of weird, horrible really. I went down to the stables early this morning and saw Josh, and he told me that someone in the village had found a dead fox nailed to their front door, and blood daubed everywhere.”

“But that’s totally—”

“Sick. I know; it’s disgusting. And I heard the women who work in the kitchens talking about it as well.” Sarah lowered her voice. “Do you think it could have anything to do with…the coven?”

It did sound like some kind of horrible voodoo. “But why would they do that? What would it mean? What do you think, Helen?”

Helen shrugged. “I don’t know. But they’re capable of anything. They wouldn’t cry over a dead fox.”

“It could be something completely different,” said Sarah. “A local quarrel, mindless vandalism, anything. Josh thought that maybe it had something to do with the travelers’ camp.”

Josh hadn’t struck me as the kind of person who would listen to prejudiced gossip about the traveling Gypsies.

“Why would he assume that they would be behind this?” I said indignantly.

“No! He didn’t mean that. The person who lives in that cottage apparently supported letting the Gypsies camp on that bit of land in the village. Josh thinks maybe some of the people who don’t want them in Wyldcliffe did this to him as a protest.”

“Or to try to pin the blame on the Gypsies,” added Helen.

“Exactly. There are plenty of people who don’t recognize the Romany people or their way of life, who think they are thieves and scroungers going from place to place and causing trouble. It makes me so angry.” Sarah sighed.
“I wish the travelers could know that we don’t all think like that.”

It seemed that there might be another battle going on in Wyldcliffe, not just our own, but our conversation was cut short as Miss Raglan marched into the room. She stood on the raised platform and two hundred girls rose to their feet in silence. Miss Raglan didn’t look up and said grace in a subdued voice.

“Amen…Amen…” The dutiful response echoed around the room. We sat down, and I helped myself to eggs and toast from the serving dish, but Sarah pushed her food around listlessly.

“Listen, Sarah,” I said. “Why don’t we try to visit the camp and see what’s going on, if you’d like to?”

Her face lit up. “Would you really?”

“Sure,” I said. “As soon as we get a chance. I promise.”

After breakfast, we walked back through the entrance hall on our way to our first class. Harriet was hanging about by the table, looking at the students’ mail that was left there every morning. I hadn’t seen her since she had been lying in bed in the infirmary, and she looked up and smiled self-consciously, as though she were half pleased and half anxious to see me. A feeling of exasperation welled up in me, and for the hundredth time I wished she hadn’t sat
next to me on the train that first day. Then I pulled myself together and made myself speak to her kindly.

“Are you feeling better, Harriet? How’s the wrist?”

“Much better, not too sore,” she said, waving her bandaged wrist to show me. In her other hand she held a large square envelope. “This is for you.”

I took the envelope from her, and as my fingers brushed hers I had a feeling of revulsion, as though I had touched something dead.

“Is it something important?” she asked.

“What? Oh…um…no, it’s nothing.” I shoved the letter in my pocket. “I’m glad you’re feeling better, Harriet. See you later.”

My heart was jumping. I had already seen the printed names on the front of the envelope:
Carter, Coleman, and Tallen.
I knew those names. And I was pretty sure that I knew what this was all about.

Miss Raglan strode up behind us. “You should be in my classroom by now, going over your math assignment, not fussing over the mail,” she said sharply. “We have a lot to get through this morning and exams coming up soon. Please hurry.”

“Yes, Miss Raglan, sorry, Miss Raglan.”

The letter would have to wait.

As soon as the bell rang for break I grabbed Sarah and headed for the stables. Helen was in trouble over a piece of unsatisfactory work and had to stay behind with Miss Raglan.

“What’s going on, Evie?” asked Sarah as we hurried across the cobbled yard to Bonny’s stall. “Who is the letter from?”

“Frankie’s lawyers. It can only be something to do with her will. I don’t want any of her money, or anything like that. Why they have written to me and not Dad?” As soon as were we safely hidden in the stable, I tore open the envelope, but I couldn’t get past the first few lines of the letter:

Dear Evelyn, We are writing in relation to your late grandmother….

I didn’t want to have anything to do with all this. I didn’t want to be reminded that Frankie wasn’t there anymore. I passed the letter to Sarah with a lump in my throat. “You read it,” I said. “Please.”

“‘Dear Evelyn,’” she began. “Umm…then there’s a whole lot of introductory stuff. Who they are and everything…you know all that…. Oh, wait…it says, ‘You may be aware that your grandmother left certain personal
items in a safe-deposit box at her bank. One of them was addressed to you. Your father, as official executor of the will, has given us permission to send this item to you directly. It is a document, which we now have pleasure in enclosing.’ Then it says would you please acknowledge safe receipt, best regards and condolences, blah, blah….”

“So what’s this document?” I felt sick with nerves. The term before I had received a letter showing my family’s connection with Agnes’s daughter, Effie: a letter that had changed my life. What would this new document bring?

Sarah pulled a sealed, folded paper from the envelope. “This looks really old,” she said, handing it to me. My fingers trembled as I touched the yellowish paper and recognized the small sloping script, written in faded black ink. It said:

I ask my daughter to hand this on unread to her daughter, and so on, until the girl with red hair and gray eyes—the girl from the sea—may receive it. I pray that that this will be done as I request. A. T. H.

“Look at the initials,” Sarah exclaimed. “
A
for Agnes!”

The first two letters had to be for Agnes Templeton. I searched my memory for the details of the story Agnes
had told in her journal. What was her husband’s name? Francis…Francis Howard, that was it. A. T. H. Everything fit.

At the bottom of the paper someone had added a few lines in pencil.

To be given to Evie on her eighteenth birthday, or on my death, whichever is earlier. Dearest Evie, I have kept this curious family relic for you. Take care of it, my lamb, and yourself. With endless love, Frankie.

I kissed the place where she had written her name, then turned to Sarah.

“Shall I open it?”

She nodded. “Yes. Open it now.”

I carefully removed the red discs of sealing wax, and unfolded the paper. Inside was another scrap of Agnes’s handwriting.
A memory of the gift I once received and which now lies hidden at Fairfax Hall.
This message was pinned to an even older sheet of parchment. It was thin and worn, with a ragged edge as though it had been torn from a book. The words on it were printed in cramped black letters, and around the edge of the paper there were drawings in colored inks—stars and flowers and exotic symbols.

“What does it say? What is it?”

“‘For the healing of Blindnesse and to give good Sight for those who are in need of it…’” I stopped, bewildered for a moment, then began to laugh. “Blind! Of course, I have been so blind! But now I know what to do!”

“What is it?” said Sarah. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t you see, Sarah?” I replied excitedly. “This is a page torn from the book that Sebastian found and gave to Agnes. The Book of the Mystic Way! She described it in her journal and said she learned most of what she knew from it. She’s telling me that if I want to learn to control the fire, I must find the Book and study what she studied. Oh, why didn’t I think of that before?”

“Of course! The Book was a gift to her, and then it was taken back by Sebastian. Presumably he took it to his home at the Hall. It all makes sense. But if Agnes really wanted to help you, why couldn’t she have somehow left you the whole Book, not just this scrap of paper?”

“I don’t know. Maybe she didn’t have it with her anymore when she realized I was going to be involved one day. Anyway, I don’t think it’s as simple as that. I mean, why doesn’t Agnes appear to me in a vision and give me all the answers?”

“Well, it would help,” Sarah replied with a wry smile.

“Yes, but I don’t think it’s meant to be that easy. We have to do this ourselves. The Mystic Way is only another tool we can use to help us through life; it’s not a magic wand to take all our problems away. That’s what Sebastian didn’t understand.”

As I mentioned his name my excitement died down. There were still so many obstacles to overcome. Even if we could get to Fairfax Hall, how could we be sure that the Book would still be there so many years after Agnes had left me this clue? What if it had been taken—or destroyed?

M
iss Scratton, you remember that we couldn’t go inside Fairfax Hall last term because of the break-in over there?” said Sarah. We were standing next to Miss Scratton’s desk after her history class, trying to appear innocently enthusiastic. “Well, we were wondering whether we could go again and see the house properly this time.”

“Why?” Miss Scratton’s brow creased in a faint frown.

“We’re…um…really interested in history,” said Helen.

“Local history,” I added.

“Indeed. I hadn’t noticed that you were particularly interested in any of your school subjects, Helen.”

Helen looked embarrassed. She was constantly getting into trouble for daydreaming in class and forgetting to hand in assignments. Miss Scratton gave us a piercing stare, then seemed to relent.

“I admire your curiosity. However, I’m afraid we won’t be able to go on any visits at the moment. The weather is too bad for that.” Miss Scratton glanced out of the window, where the snow had started to fall again. “It’s almost as though we are shut off from the outside world,” she added quietly, “cloistered here within the walls of the Abbey, like in the old days.”

She turned her gaze back to us, and as she did so, my heart jumped with a strange sense of recognition.
I’ve seen her before somewhere
, I thought.
Where? Where could it have been?
My mind flashed back to that night down in the crypt. Was it there that I had seen her, among the baying women of the coven? I couldn’t believe that. I didn’t want to believe that. Yet there was something familiar about her, so strict, so disciplined, so self-contained….

“Now I really must get ready for my next class,” she said. “Good afternoon, girls.”

Miss Scratton swept out, her black academic gown billowing around her.

“Well, it was worth trying,” said Sarah. “She wasn’t
going along with the idea, though.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “We don’t want to traipse around with a whole lot of sightseers anyway. We need to sneak in when the hall is shut and nobody’s there.”

“I could go,” Helen suggested. “I thought myself over there once before. I’ll go and see if I can find the Book.”

“You can’t go on your own,” said Sarah. “What if you got into some kind of trouble and couldn’t get back? We’ve got to stick together.”

“Tonight then,” I whispered. “We’ll go tonight.”

The Abbey might be shut off by the snow, but that wouldn’t stop us. We had other ways of getting there.

It was freezing cold. The sky over our heads was brilliant black, studded with stars. Sarah and Helen stood in the hushed stable yard, wearing their thickest sweaters and looking at me apprehensively.

“Ready?” asked Helen.

“Yes, let’s go for it,” I said, trying not to show that I was nervous.

“Well, if you’re sure,” she replied. “I’ve never done this before, but I think it will work. Okay, let’s try.”

She stood between us, winding an arm around each of our waists, then closed her eyes and muttered to herself.
I braced myself for what was to come. For a split second I seemed to see Helen standing on the top of a bleak hill, raising her arms up to the sky, her gossamer hair blowing in the wind. Then the wind seemed to be inside me, a shrieking, turbulent force that would tear me to pieces. I heard Helen’s thought echoing in my mind:
Hold on, hold on….

I seemed to be blown off my feet, and the stable yard slipped away from underneath me. The gables and turrets of the Abbey began to spin, and the stars flashed crimson and purple and gold. I was in a tunnel of light and sound, traveling faster than thought itself as we hurtled down the wind. The breath was being squeezed out of my lungs. I heard Helen calling,
Don’t let go….
I clung to her until I felt I could hold on no longer; then the three of us suddenly landed with a crash on a polished wooden floor.

“That was…amazing,” Sarah said, gasping for breath.

“That was insane,” I groaned.

“But we made it,” said Helen. “We’re in Fairfax Hall.”

She stood up and pulled a flashlight out of her pocket, then helped us to our feet. I was still breathless and stunned as I looked around in wonder. We were in an elegant pillared room furnished with silk-covered sofas and
little tables with spindly gold legs. Fairfax Hall. I could hardly take it in. One minute I had been in the stable yard, and now I was actually inside the hall, inside Sebastian’s home.

Helen beckoned us to follow her, and we left the elegant sitting room and found ourselves in a shadowy corridor.

“If anyone finds us we’ll be in spectacular trouble,” Sarah said. “I’ve never actually broken into a museum before.”

“There’s no point in turning back now,” Helen replied. “Follow me.”

“Where are we going, Helen?” I asked, trying to sound calm.

“Miss Scratton told me that the house is arranged exactly as it was in the old days, when Sebastian’s family lived here. And there’s a library full of old books. It seems kind of obvious, but we might as well start there. Do you know what this Book looks like, Evie?”

“All I know is that it was given to Agnes by Sebastian after he had found it in a bazaar in Morocco. In her journal she described it as old and shabby, with a green leather cover.”

“Come on then,” Helen said. “Let’s find the library.”

We followed Helen farther into the shrouded house.
The flashlight picked out glimpses of ghostly white statues and gilt-framed paintings. I felt as though the darkness were alive, as though the walls could see us passing by. Sebastian lived here, I kept saying to myself;
he
knew these pictures;
he
walked in these corridors;
he
ran in and out of these rooms when he was a child. This expensive, antique furniture was as familiar to him as my simple cottage home was to me. As I crept along like a thief, I actually felt happy. I was in Sebastian’s home. For that one moment it was enough. Then I seemed to hear a voice echoing in the silent house.
You grow weary, Evie…the road is too hard…there is someone else….

I turned around, startled, but Sarah hurried me forward as Helen pushed open some carved double doors.

“Wow,” breathed Sarah. “Look at this.”

We peered into a vast, cavernous room, heavy with darkness. I glimpsed tall bookcases and leather sofas and two huge writing desks. It was incredibly still, as though the whole room drowsed in an enchanted slumber, waiting for someone to open the books and breathe life back into their dusty pages. We stepped into the room and Helen swept her flashlight over the bookshelves. There were novels and books of poetry and French plays; there were books about law and history; books about fishing
and gardening; books about everything that had ever interested the Fairfax family. My heart sank. How would we have enough time to search through all of them? It was an impossible task.

“We’ll never find it here,” I said, then stood transfixed as Helen shone the light onto a pair of portraits hanging above the fireplace.
Sir Edward Fairfax
,
Lady Rosalind Fairfax
, the printed labels said. They stared out at us, caught in time, comfortable and serene, not yet knowing that they would lose their darling son in scandalous circumstances—a rumored suicide, the body never found. Sir Edward was florid and dull-looking, the typical country squire with his dogs and horses, but Lady Rosalind was beautiful. Her eyes, blue as cornflowers, brimming with restless life, were Sebastian’s eyes looking down and calling to me—calling me to help him before it was too late.

He walks in the living air…a young man with brown eyes…he is there by your side….

“Stop!”

I would understand…I will never blame you….

“What is it, Evie?” said Helen.

“Voices—in my head…no, Sebastian, no, it’s not like that! There’s no one else. You’ve got to believe me!”

I snatched the flashlight from Helen’s hand and
stumbled out of the library and ran toward the softly carpeted staircase. The others ran after me. Forcing my legs to work I climbed higher and higher, not knowing where I was going, driven on by the voice in my head.
I ache for you…long for your touch…you choose another….

“No, I only want you, Sebastian,” I sobbed under my breath. “I only ever wanted you.”

Sebastian was near; I was sure of it. This had been his home, and now perhaps it was his hiding place. I kicked myself for not coming here earlier to look for him and ran crazily from room to room, throwing open doors that revealed glimpses of empty, elegant bedrooms. “Where are you? Where are you?” I cried in anguish. But the house refused to reveal its secrets. It was all old-fashioned and lifeless and dead, a museum, not a home. There was no sign of any inhabitants, past or present.

“It’s no good,” I said, dropping wearily onto a low chair. “He’s not here.”

Then we heard it: a faint stirring sound, coming from over our heads.

“What’s that?” asked Helen, looking up in alarm.

We froze. Silence. Then another low, muffled noise.

“It’s coming from up there,” Sarah murmured.

“I’m going to look.”

“No, Evie, wait—”

But I didn’t listen. I wasn’t afraid anymore. At the end of the broad landing there was another set of stairs that turned and twisted higher. I ran up them, and a strange pulse of inexplicable joy seemed to tug under my ribs. When I got to the top of the steps, I saw that I had reached the servants’ floor. A plain corridor ran the length of the house, with low doors stretching out in a uniform row.

The first door I opened led into a bare room with sloping ceilings, furnished with an iron bedstead and a plain white jug on a stand. The beam of the flashlight lit up a printed museum notice on the wall:
An Example of a Maid’s Bedroom, circa 1875.
Another dead end.

I marched to the next door and flung it open. There was a display of old photographs of the hall and its many servants.
Annie May, Laundry Maid, 1895–1914, John Hall, Butler, 1906–1925…
The next few doors were locked. I ran impatiently to the last door in the row. As I turned the handle a tingling sensation shot up my arm, like a hit of electricity. I could hear the sound of my own heart beating, and then it came again, that other sound, the echo of a muffled groan. I pushed the door open and shone the flashlight into the room.

It was completely empty, except for one thing.