Reckoning (7 page)

I wondered if I should leave before Helen had the chance to ask Stella to sit with Father. I glanced apprehensively at my watch. It was getting late anyway; evening would be drawing in before long.

Yes, I decided, my anxiety flaring. I’ll make my excuses and leave now.

But Helen must have sensed my growing agitation and assumed I was keen to broach the purpose of my visit. “Mary has a favour to ask,” she began. “She’s been asked to a party on the nineteenth, and she needs someone to sit with her father for—”

“He’s very frail and needs constant care,” I interrupted, secretly hoping that this might put Stella off.

“I’d sit with him myself,” Helen went on. “But my Johnny’s coming home that night. So I told Mary that if you and Becky were off duty that evening, maybe one of you would do it.”

“Well, yes, we are off duty on the nineteenth,” Stella answered at once. “And as far as
I’m
concerned, any chance to escape this place on an evening off is welcome. I’ll do it, darling!”

I fought against the alarm that yawned within my chest.

Calm down, I told myself. If Helen trusts Stella, then why shouldn’t I? After all, they shared the same digs.

“But I thought you’d agreed to see that Sam fellow on the nineteenth, Stella. . . .” Becky’s soft lilt sounded hesitantly from the doorway. Her hair was now scraped back into an unbecoming bun and her glasses, slightly steamed up, made her look more owl-like than ever.

Stella frowned. “Oh yes . . .” She sighed irritably. “Goodness,
Becky, you know my calendar better than I do. You ought to get out more yourself.”

Becky’s cheeks grew pink at Stella’s rather pointed comment.

“I just remembered you saying . . .” Becky said quietly.

“Sorry, Mary,” Stella apologised. “I simply can’t stand Sam up. He’s such a darling.
And
rather rich,” she added with a wink.

I felt the prickle of guilty relief. A small sigh escaped my lips.

“I could do it, though,” Becky offered. She took off her spectacles to polish away the steam with one of the drooping cuffs on her dressing gown.

“Really?” Hope fluttered in my chest. Becky seemed far more suitable. She was clearly a good Catholic girl—and I felt a wave of sympathy for her, being away from home and family for the first time. A few hours of Father’s company might be good for her too; despite his frailty, he still had his quick wit and warm manner. “Thank you, Becky,” I said.

Becky perched her spectacles back on her nose, blinked, and then gave me a shy smile. “What time should I arrive?” she asked.

“Seven o’clock would be fine, if that’s all right with you?” I replied.

“I’ll be there,” Becky promised.

I gave her directions—feeling well disposed toward the idea of leaving Father in someone else’s care.

“That’s settled, then,” Helen said happily. “Would you like some tea before you go, Mary?”

I glanced again at my watch. It would be dark very soon. “That’s kind, but I really must get home to Father,” I excused myself.

“Very well, I’ll show you out.” Helen led me to the door, and I thanked her quickly, anxious to be gone. The sun was already low in the sky. As soon as she closed the front door, I turned and ran home.

Thank goodness it is not Stella who will be sitting with Father. Though it is no doubt my vexing paranoia that warns me against her, I could never have endured the party while feeling I might have left Father in unsafe hands.

But perhaps it is time to confront this paranoia, as Father insists, and to quash this nonsensical fear of the dark after all.

Journal of
Mary Seward

19TH
O
CTOBER 1918

Waiting for Becky to arrive this evening was an ordeal in itself. My heart thudded and sweat pricked my palms as I heard the clock strike seven. Just a quarter of an hour to go until Becky arrived. And then it would be time for me to leave the house and venture out into the night.

My stomach heaved with terror at the thought; I was
somehow certain that an awful fate must await me out there. I found myself utterly unable to sit still and paced up and down the parlour, every muscle in my body taut, like those of a soldier waiting to be sent into battle.

Who would believe I was only going out to dinner? I felt at once ridiculous and wretched.

“Settle down, my dear,” Father advised from his chair beside the hearth. “You will be fine.”

“It is so long since I have socialised,” I replied weakly.

“Well, you are a charming young woman,” Father assured me. “And tonight you look beautiful. There is even a little colour back in your cheeks.”

How could I tell him that the colour was carefully applied rouge? I had spent an hour dressing, arranging my hair, and powdering my face to disguise the dark rings beneath my eyes. I just hoped the gown I had chosen—my best blue one, with the high lace collar and sparkling beads—would distract from my pallid face.

At exactly quarter past seven, the doorbell rang.

“Punctual too,” Father commented approvingly.

My breath became shallow and gasping as my chest tightened with panic—but I would not let Father see. I hurried into the hall, my heart hammering fit to burst through my rib cage. I made myself suck in a lungful of air and then pulled open the door.

Becky was waiting on the step, this time dressed in a
plain brown coat and hat, with heavy-looking brogues on her feet. “Hello,” she said cheerily. “Am I on time?”

“On the dot,” I replied. “Please come in, Becky.”

As she stepped past me, I couldn’t help feeling a little uncomfortable in all my finery. I hoped she didn’t think me vain. But I needn’t have worried.

“You look as pretty as a picture,” she told me as she unbuttoned her coat to reveal a plain blouse and skirt beneath.

I smiled my thanks and took her coat, conscious of my shaking hands, but Becky was already busy glancing around the hallway.

“I see I had no need to bring my holy water here,” she commented with a smile as she noticed the crucifix hung on the far wall.

I nodded. “No boggarts or banshees in this house,” I promised. “Only Father, and he’s as gentle as a lamb.”

“I’m so looking forward to meeting him.” Becky beamed at me. “I hear he used to work at the sanatorium.”

I nodded. “That’s right,” I confirmed. “And he’s looking forward to meeting you too. He’s housebound and doesn’t see many new faces.” I led her toward the parlour, pausing outside the door. “He’s had his supper, but if you could make him some cocoa before he retires—”

“Mary . . . I’m sure your father will tell me if there’s anything he needs,” Becky told me gently.

I heard Father chuckle on the other side of the door. “My daughter does fuss over me rather too much,” he agreed as we entered. “But it’s only because she worries.” He gave me an affectionate smile and then held out his hand to greet Becky.

Becky stepped forward and shook it. “It’s an honour to meet you, Dr. Seward,” she said.

“It’s very kind of you to come and sit with an old man,” Father replied. “I’m very keen that Mary has a chance to get out and about a bit more. This is the first time she’s been out in months.”

“Well, I’m sure it won’t be the last,” Becky said. “You do look so pretty, Mary.” There seemed a thread of wistfulness in her voice as she repeated her compliment, and I silently resolved to see if I could help her make more of herself.

“Well, then, shouldn’t you be going, Mary?” Father prompted me.

For a few brief minutes, I had been distracted from the ordeal that awaited me. At his words, my heart began to pound once more. “Yes . . .” I muttered. I bent and kissed his forehead. “See you in the morning.”

Father smiled and nodded. “Enjoy yourself, my dear. I look forward to hearing all about it,” he said. As I left the room, he turned to Becky, gesturing to the winged chair opposite his. “Come and make yourself comfortable, Becky,” he invited.

In the hallway I pulled on my coat, fumbling with the buttons, my fingers were so stiff with anxiety, and listened to the conversation beginning in the parlour.

“I was just telling Mary, I’ve heard you used to run the sanatorium before the war, Dr. Seward—when it was a private asylum,” Becky was saying. “I’d love you to tell me about those days.”

“Really?” Father said. I could hear the pleasure he took from Becky’s interest. “Well, now,” he said. “Let me see. Where to start . . .”

Once more feeling a wave of gratitude toward Becky, I quietly opened the front door. Father was in very capable hands.

I let myself out, glancing warily around the shadowed garden. If only it had been a summer evening, the sun still keeping the darkness at bay. Summoning up all my courage, I stepped out into the night.

Closing the garden gate behind me, I set off down the tree-lined lane, my gaze fixed firmly ahead. The Edwardses’ home, Blanchard House, was scarcely half a mile away. It was impossible to justify ordering a cab for such a short distance. My hosts would have thought me mad.

I kept on reminding myself that I was in Purfleet, far from the horrors I had witnessed, and though every nerve in my body tingled with fear, I forced myself to keep walking, taking some comfort from the lighted windows beyond the
gardens I passed. The rustling of the windblown trees did nothing to relieve the eerie emptiness of the lane, however. Was everyone safely inside but me?

At last, I turned a corner and saw the lights of Blanchard House ahead. My pace quickened. Then suddenly, something gleamed in the darkness up ahead of me. Two golden orbs. There was no mistaking them this time. A pair of eyes! Peering at me in the darkness!

I wanted to shriek, but my throat tightened in terror. My heart pounded until I thought it would crack open.

And then the creature sprang forward, landing deftly on the path in front of me.

I gasped—and then the creature mewed.

It was a cat, I realised. Just a cat. It had been staring down at me from a nearby garden wall. It twitched its tail at me before it scampered off.

Infuriated at my own ridiculous timidity, I marched on, more determined than ever not to be conquered by my over-active imagination. Still, I put my hand to my throat and fingered the comforting shape of my crucifix and its companion vial of holy water beneath my lace collar.

The garden path at Blanchard House was lit with paper lanterns that swung in the breeze, and bright light streamed from the windows. I saw people gathered beyond them and heard voices drifting from the house, talking and laughing. I hurried up the path and rang the doorbell with more than
a little urgency, longing to be inside too, away from the darkness.

I’d written only a tentative reply to Jane’s invitation, fearful of committing myself, saying I would attend the party only if Father were well enough. When Jane opened the door to me, she smiled with delight.

“Mary, you came after all!” she exclaimed.

“Yes,” I breathed, feeling weak with relief as I crossed the threshold.

The interior behind her was awash with light and noise. Gentlemen in tuxedos and ladies in their best silks and taffetas milled around the room. Candles, placed seemingly everywhere, gave the place a cheerful yet sophisticated glow. At last, I felt a little rush of anticipation at meeting Jane’s chatting, smiling guests. For a moment I felt part of the normal world, safe from my anxieties.

“Would you like to see Grace before I introduce you to some of our guests?” Jane offered as she took my coat.

I nodded eagerly.

Jane led me upstairs to Grace’s nursery. “She’s sleeping, but it won’t disturb her if we peek,” she whispered.

The cosy room was gently lit by a night-light. I approached the cot and gazed down at Grace, sleeping soundly, her sweet round face illuminated by the soft light. She looked an angel, with her halo of dark, silky curls, sweeping black lashes, and rosy cheeks. I reached down and
tucked her blanket around her warm little body, resting my hand lightly on her chest so that I could feel her breathing.

“She’ll sleep right through,” Jane promised. “And I’ll tell her tomorrow you looked in on her. But for now, I want you to concentrate on enjoying yourself, Mary. It doesn’t matter if you don’t know anybody—I shall introduce you.”

She led me out, leaving the nursery door ajar behind us, and I followed her downstairs.

I felt a quiver of anxiety at the thought of meeting new people, but I had come this far and was determined not to falter now. Lifting my chin, I put on a friendly smile as Jane led me into the crush of people gathered around the foot of the staircase.

A handsome, fresh-faced young man intercepted me as I tried to follow Jane through the crush. “And who might this charming young lady be? Do introduce her, Janie,” he demanded as he seized my hand and kissed it.

His forwardness caught me off guard and I snatched my fingers away, staring wordlessly at him.

“Bertie!” Jane reprimanded. “This is Miss Mary Seward. Now do try and be more polite to our guests!” She smiled at me apologetically. “This is my youngest brother, Robert Gough,” she said. “Don’t let him alarm you. He’s perfectly harmless.”

Robert feigned a hurt expression and then grinned. “Call me Bertie,” he invited. “Everyone does.”

His cheery, open demeanour made me smile back, but I felt myself blushing and realised how unaccustomed I had become to socialising. “Pleased to meet you,” I murmured.

Someone had caught Jane’s eye. She was craning her neck and peering into the parlour. “That’s Lord Xavier Bathory, standing by the window there,” she told me, giving a little wave. “Andrew’s new client. He’s all by himself. I do hope he’s not feeling out of place.”

Through the open doorway, I spotted a slightly built, fair-haired man standing by the window, looking rather lost. There was something scholarly and old-fashioned about him, I thought; whether it was the tiny, wire-rimmed spectacles he wore or the rather drab suit he had chosen for the occasion, I wasn’t quite sure.

“Lord Bathory approached Andrew on a friend’s recommendation; he offered Andrew all of his family legal work, which has turned out to be quite substantial,” Jane went on, her face shining with wifely pride. “Andrew can hardly believe his good fortune, being just a provincial lawyer. And Bathory’s turned out to be a perfect darling. He’s become quite a friend to us. It feels as though we’ve known him forever. . . .”

“Jane!” Andrew called across the room. He was pointing urgently toward the kitchen.

“Looks like an emergency for the hostess,” Jane said with a sigh. She squeezed my hand reassuringly. “There’s music
and dancing in the drawing room. Bertie will look after you,” she told me. “You will enjoy yourself, won’t you, Mary?”

I forced a smile. “Of course I will,” I promised.

Bertie looked pleased as Jane rushed off. “Miss Seward, do please dance with me,” he urged. “You are quite the prettiest woman here, and it would do my reputation a world of good.”

I smiled at his youthful flattery. “I might tread on your toes,” I warned, not having danced in public for nearly two years.

“I don’t think I’d notice if you did,” Bertie answered, leading me into the large space in the middle of the drawing room, where the rug had been rolled back and the furniture pushed aside for the dancers.

As he energetically whisked me around the floor, Bertie told me he’d just gone up to Cambridge, and I realised he must be at least at least two years younger than my own nineteen. His being so young and Jane’s brother helped me to relax a little, and I actually found myself quite enjoying the dance.

But then suddenly Bertie gasped and brought us to a sudden halt. I searched his ruddy face. His attention was drawn by someone or something among the spectators gathered around the dance floor.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Just act naturally,” he said through an exaggerated smile.
“My Antonia’s just arrived, and she’s the jealous type. If she finds out I gave you the first dance—” He drew a finger across his throat, and I laughed at the exaggerated gesture. “Do you mind if I leave you for a moment?” he pleaded.

I followed his gaze and saw a pretty dark-haired girl standing at the edge of the dance floor. She was looking nervously around the room and could have been no more than sixteen. “I think you should go to her right away,” I told him. “She looks positively lost. And besides, your sister would never forgive me if I were the cause of—” I mimicked his throat-cutting gesture.