Bridesmaids Revisited (19 page)

It was a relief to realize I didn’t have to march down to the bridesmaids’ bedrooms and demand to know which one of them had pulled a Houdini stunt and insist on knowing the reason why. I banished the thought that I was willfully pulling the wool over my eyes. I told myself that the bridesmaids’ invitation had stirred up a lot of issues for me, so that it wasn’t stretching the bounds of probability to conclude that last night’s phone call had also been a dream. As for the wedding-song business, that had to have been a joke on Jane and her emanations.

It was when I pictured Mrs. Malloy’s disbelieving face and could almost hear her exclamation of disgust that I remembered thinking I had seen Leonard Skinner lurking behind the garden shed. But that would have been a non-issue, regardless of whether I’d dreamed up my nocturnal visitor. Even had he managed to get into the house to search for Mrs. Malloy and had wanted to punish me for keeping her from him, he wouldn’t have known my mother was dead. Unless Mrs. M’s neighbor had mentioned the fact, which seemed highly unlikely, blabbermouth though she might be.

I got off the cobwebby trunk. I was now feeling wide awake, if still somewhat haunted, added to which I have always loved rooting around in attics, so I raised the trunk’s lid and reclined it against the wall. The scent of lavender was suddenly all around me. Inside were a number of hats, in the style of the black one I’d found in the wardrobe. Underneath the hats, which I set on the floor, was a rather pretty, very long ivory lace mantilla. Without thinking, I draped it over my head. But before taking time to preen in the huge mirror of the sort that might have hung in the drawing room of a home like Cragstone Castle, I looked back into the trunk. It was still half-full. With what I couldn’t tell. Dropping the mantilla I reached in and pulled out a heavy tissue-paper-wrapped bundle, and upon peeling off these flimsy layers I found myself holding a heavy linen bag.

Curiosity made my hands clumsy as I undid the string tie at the neck. I didn’t think that I was expecting to find anything wonderful. Maybe I was still trying to take my mind off my mother. Certainly I wasn’t prepared for what I found myself holding: a wedding dress. An ivory silk one, simply cut, with a scalloped neck and of tea length. No frills, no flounces, but the skirt looked as though it would float out into graceful folds with every step. The material had rusted in places, but it was still beautiful and in candlelight would have looked perfect. All it needed, I decided as I held it up against me and stepped in front of the mirror, was a beautiful lace veil. Whoops! I looked down at the mantilla and grabbed it up off the floor, laying it and the dress over the back of a chair that must have found its way up here from the dining room. I again reached into the trunk and pulled out what remained. It was another tissue-paper-wrapped bag, somewhat larger than the first. I think I knew what was inside before I undid it.

And moments later I was holding three lavender silk frocks. Bridesmaid frocks. Identical in design to the wedding dress apart from color, having three-quarter-length sleeves instead of full-length ones, and rounded necklines. Again, there were rust marks, but no tearing away of the material. The realization squeezed my throat shut and set my heart hammering. These were Rosemary’s, Thora’s, and Jane’s bridesmaid dresses and the wedding dress intended for Sophia’s walk down the aisle on the day she was to recite her marriage vows to William Fitzsimons. But they had never been worn—her father had died and there had been a simple service in the vestry.

Not until this moment did I have a real sense that this man and this woman were my grandfather and grandmother. Had he been every bit as unpleasant as he sounded? What had she ended up wearing on her actual wedding day? A dress—perhaps navy, because she was in mourning? A gray suit? Something bought quickly for the occasion? Or something she already had in her wardrobe? Surely Mrs. McNair wouldn’t have had her wear black? I folded up the wedding dress first and placed it back in the bag, rewrapped the bag in tissue paper and returned it to the trunk. Then did the same with the bridesmaid dresses. The veil I rolled up and put in a box that contained a circlet of silk orange blossom. Had it been the veil’s original storage place? And if so, why had it been taken out? I returned the hats, lowered the trunk lid and slowly crossed the attic to the platform of the spiral staircase, turned off the light and went down to the bedroom.

My eyes immediately went to the trunk at the foot of the bed. It was unlikely I would discover anything close in significance to my other finds, but even so I looked inside. A moment later I was sitting on the floor holding a little girl’s pair of pink ballet slippers, the soft-toed kind—for someone not old enough to get up on pointe. My mother’s. I held them against my heart and my tears fell over them. Then I got up and turned the key in the door, still holding the slippers. It was almost morning and I didn’t want one of the bridesmaids to bring me a cup of tea, only to wonder why I had locked myself in. I could have given the real reason—that the latch didn’t hold and I had wanted to
keep the cats out—but I didn’t want to risk giving offense. There had already been too much unhappiness in this house. After that I climbed into bed with the shoes, pulled the quilt up to my chin, and fell instantly asleep, as if some hand had been waiting there to drag me down into formless, but ever-shifting, shadows.

It seemed like days later when I came groggily awake to see the hands of the clock pointing to nine-thirty. Someone was tapping on the door, and when I called out, “Come in!” Jane appeared with a tray filled with a mug of tea, a plate piled with buttered toast, a dish of marmalade, a brown egg in a Bunnykins cup, and a small glass of orange juice.

“We thought you might enjoy breakfast in bed,” she said, lowering the tray onto the bedside chest. This morning she was wearing a mustard-colored dress that brought out the yellow in her white hair. Her hair was pinned back with the same black bow, but instead of being coiled up at the nape of her neck it hung down in a tired-looking ponytail. Her eyes looked equally tired, and I felt guilty sitting propped up against my comfortable pillows while she waited on me.

“It’s not a bit of trouble,” she said as if reading my mind, “I’m always up before cockcrow. Rosemary and Thora like to have more of a lie-in, although no one could call them late risers. They’re usually up by seven-thirty. Today’s an exception. They only came down as I was making the tea. Did you sleep well, dear?”

“Like a top,” I lied.

“I was out like a light before I’d got one foot in bed”—she handed me the mug—“but I can’t say I got a good night’s sleep. I had the most awful dreams, worse than any I’ve had lately. I kept wanting to wake up, but it was as though someone were pushing me down in a bog. But I don’t suppose that’s surprising, given the sort of day we had yesterday. I’m so sorry that you’ve been put through so much. And now there’s the séance looming ahead. But we won’t think about that, will we? Tonight is yet hours away.”

“Are you sure it’s a good idea?” I asked her.

“I am. In fact I was the one who pushed for it—more than Thora and Rosemary, who took a long while before being brought round to agreeing to it. So I’ll never forgive myself if something goes wrong.”

“What do you think could?”

“Supposing it’s not Sophia who comes in response to Hope’s summons?” Jane’s pale eyes widened behind the black-winged glasses. “What if it’s Reverend McNair on one of his rampages? Or William Fitzsimons damning us all to hell? After all, Hope isn’t a professional medium, although I don’t suppose anyone gets a degree in that sort of thing. But we mustn’t think along those lines, must we?” She made an obvious attempt to brace up. “Now you go ahead and enjoy your breakfast, and come downstairs whenever you’re ready. No rush. Don’t feel you can’t go back to sleep if you want to.”

“Thank you, Jane, but I think I will get up.” I swung my legs out from under the covers.

“Whatever you like, dear.” On these words she was gone from the room and I settled in to finish the mug of tea and devour my breakfast. I was amazingly hungry. Nervous energy again, I told myself, although I didn’t feel particularly haunted by my nighttime experiences. Sunshine streamed in when I opened the curtains, making the very idea of ghoulish intruders seem even more ridiculous than I had come to realize while up in the attic.

Finding Sophia’s wedding dress and those of the bridesmaids had been poignant, as had, in a deeper sense, the discovery of my mother’s ballet slippers. But perhaps they had been necessary in helping me lay the past to rest. I would take the slippers home with me, but for the remainder of my stay at the Old Rectory—which I hoped would be short—I would keep them under my pillow. I put them there now and suddenly had the uncomfortable feeling that something was missing. Thora’s book! If it wasn’t under the pillows it should be somewhere on the bed, among the covers. But it wasn’t. I pulled off the quilt and shook it out into a large square. And then I saw
Secrets of the Crypt
poking out from under the bed. What a fuss about nothing, I thought, putting it on the trunk, because there wasn’t room with the breakfast tray on the bedside chest.

With that, I went into the bathroom, where I brushed my teeth with gusto, washed my face, and coiled my hair into a loose knot low on my neck, the way Ben liked it, dabbed on some eye shadow, brushed on mascara, and replaced my sponge bag on the pink blanket chest. While I was dressing in a skirt and top in my favorite sage green, I thought lovingly about him and the children. I was eager to know what he thought of Memory Lanes. To tell him of the bridesmaids’ connection to it.

Meanwhile, I hoped my family was fully occupied and having a good time. I didn’t allow the possibility that Ben might develop a taste for harp music disturb me. In fact, I positively glowed with goodwill, not only towards those I loved, but to complete strangers everywhere. It was as though I had emerged triumphant after spending a night in the dungeon at Cragstone Castle.

Carrying the tray downstairs, I did allow myself to make one exception to my bonhomie. And it wasn’t Sir Clifford Heath. In my newfound spirit of optimism, I was sure that, whatever the result of the séance, Sir Clifford could be brought round to behave like a worthy knight of the realm in regard to Knells. It was Leonard Skinner that I could not bring myself to take unconditionally to my heart like a brother. Not when he presented such a threat to the happiness of my dear Mrs. Malloy. It would have been nice to imprison him in a dungeon until he developed a recurrence of his amnesia. But as such places no longer abound in England and I had no wish to find myself afoul of the law, I would have to settle for talking some sense into Mrs. Malloy. I would tell her she would be out of a job at Merlin’s Court if she took him back.

By the time I entered the conservatory I’d decided this might not be the best approach. For one thing I couldn’t do without her and our daily chats; for another, given her perverse nature, I would only succeed in driving her into the wretched man’s arms. I’d have to come up with another approach, perhaps threaten to report her to the Chitterton Fells Charwomen’s Association, of which she was currently president.

“Nasty, rotten blackmailer,” piped a voice in my ear. It was of course Polly, the horrid parrot; but I didn’t respond in kind because I had just noticed something that I’d missed yesterday due to the amount of foliage. It was a spiral staircase, exactly like the one in my room, and it connected with the balcony on the first landing. While I was parting the leaves of a rubber plant on an old washstand to get a better look at it, Rosemary called out to me from the kitchen.

“Is that you, Ellie?”

“Coming,” I replied and went through the archway to place my tray on the table, where Thora was sitting having a cup of tea. Jane was bending over a row of plastic bowls on the floor, spooning cat food into them, while furry forms climbed all over her feet, and Rosemary was at the sink washing up. Her ensuing conversation was mainly about whether I had slept well, whether I had got started reading the book Thora had lent me, whether I had enjoyed my breakfast, and culminated in a question as to what I wished to do with my day.

“Perhaps you would like to stay in and read,” suggested Thora, who had expressed pleasure that I had been entranced by life at Cragstone Castle.

“Whatever you choose, Ellie.” Jane gathered a couple of cats into her arms, leaving Dog free to lumber over to their bowls and polish off the remains. “But do remember, dear, that Richard Barttle would like to see you.”

“Can’t that wait for an evening?” Rosemary stood drying off her hands on a tea towel. Today she was wearing a pale blue twin set over a gray plaid skirt and the colors suited her. “Richard is a nice man and I understand why he wants to meet you, Ellie, but it’s such a fine day, I would think you’d do better going out for a leisurely walk.”

“But she could walk to his studio,” Jane pointed out. “She wouldn’t need to drive her car. She could go up Church Road and along Hawthorn Lane and have a look at the horses in the field by the old mill.”

“And then I could go on and see Mrs. Malloy, who’s staying with Edna’s cousin, Gwen Fiddler,” I said.

“If you’re sure that’s what you want to do.” Rosemary hung the tea towel on one of the three wooden spokes beside the sink. “It’s a long walk even if you go the back way and take the footpaths. And you don’t want to come back exhausted with the séance set for seven this evening.” Before she could say more we all heard someone tap on the conservatory door and Thora opened it. I expected her to return with Edna, but it was Susan of the mammoth proportions and pink hair rollers from cottage number four whom she brought into the kitchen.

“Here’s Susan,” she said unnecessarily, “come to ask how Edna’s doing.”

“I was never so shocked as when I heard the news about Ted.” The woman planted herself on a chair at the kitchen table and placed her massive hands on the knees spread under her skirt, which was partially covered, as it had been yesterday, by a floral pinny. “Here in the morning, gone by afternoon! But still I suppose that’s not all bad. Take me fast, is what I always pray to the Lord, none of this messing about with tubes up the nose and down below. Takes away all your dignity.”