Whispers in the Dark (13 page)

About three o’clock a sharp wind began to rise. The flames in the Fireplace were blown hither and thither, soot fell down the chimney and spilled out onto the hearth, the windows began to bang annoyingly. Antonia looked up from her painting.

“Charlotte, dear, would you be so good as to fasten the window more tightly? It’s making such a racket. And why not draw the curtains while you’re at it?”

I had been sitting on a low divan near the window. Putting down my board and brush, I crossed to it and fumbled with the catch, which either Johnson or Hepple had left unfastened. As I did so I glanced out into the darkening garden.

There may have been a movement, I am not sure, but something drew my attention to a point near the far end of the lawn, just where the garden ended and the screen of trees began. It was at first impossible to distinguish with any clarity, but moments later I saw someone step away from the trees and onto the lawn. It was a woman or girl, wearing a full-length gray dress, with long fair hair that fell below her shoulders. She was coming toward us quite quickly, not running, but moving rapidly somehow. As she drew closer I saw that she was quite young, about my own age or a little older.

I turned my head to Antonia.

“Who is the young lady in the garden?”

Antonia’s paintbrush seemed to freeze in midstroke.

“I don’t understand.” she said. “What young lady?”

“Why, come and see. She’s coming this way.”

If ever in my life I have seen someone turn pale, it was then. Antonia stood and joined me at the window, somewhat reluctantly, I thought. When I looked down again, there was no one there. Just wind and the last of the thin rain.

“Where?” Antonia demanded. She had grabbed my wrist hard and her voice was strangely hoarse.

“Why, there.” I pointed toward the spot where I had last seen the figure in the gray dress. “Well, I can't think where she can have gone.”

“What . . . did she look like? What was she wearing?”

I described her as best I could, and as I did so Antonia drew away from the window.

“Draw the curtains, child, quickly.”

“Why, what is it, Antonia? You’re shivering. Whatever’s wrong?”

She was in the middle of the room now, clearly struggling to retain possession of herself.

“Wrong?” She smiled horridly. “Nothing’s wrong. Why should you think that? I just felt a chill, that’s all. Hurry and close those curtains, there’s a draft in here.” I did as she asked, then returned to my seat on the divan.

“Do you know who she was?” I asked.

“Who?”

“Why, the girl in the garden, of course.”

Affecting disinterest, she picked up her brush and started painting with short, nervous strokes.

“It must have been Rington’s girl, from the Low Farm. He sometimes sends her over with accounts for Anthony. She’ll have to hurry if she wants to get home before dark.”

But she had been coming this way, not away from the house but toward it. And quickly, as though running. But she had not been running. I said nothing more. But of one thing I was certain. Whatever I had seen on the lawn the night before, it had not been the girl from Low Farm.

* * *

That night at dinner, as though prompted by his sister—as I suspect he had been—Anthony spoke of the visitor he had received that afternoon.

“Young Clara. She’s almost a woman now. It won’t be long before Rington marries her off to one of the local lads."

He turned and smiled at me.

“Have you ever been to a wedding, Charlotte?”

I said I had not.

“Then we must see that Clara’s is a proper occasion. We’ll have the whole countryside in and give the young couple a feast, There hasn’t been a wedding on the estate for as long as I can remember. Has there, Antonia?”

Antonia shook her head but said nothing. I sensed the tension in her posture and silence, and remembered stumbling upon her the day before, in a wedding gown, in tears.

Later, when I got to my room, Mrs. Johnson was tending to the fire, which had been blown about by the storm. I watched her brush soot from the hearth and poke the remaining logs back into flame. A smell of resin wafted through the room.

“What sort of girl is Clara?” I asked.

She straightened, looking at me with a puzzled expression.

“Clara? Who exactly do you mean, miss?”

“Why, Clara Rington. The girl from Low Farm.”

Her face lightened.

“That Clara? Well, I see very little of her. A dull enough girl she is, and fat like her mother. Lazy, too, by all accounts.”

This did not sound much like the slim creature in a gray dress I had seen on the lawn.

“I’ve heard her hair is very fine,” I said.

"Her hair?”

“She has lovely long fair hair, doesn't she?”

Mrs. Johnson shook her head.

“Why, bless me, no. She’s as dark as the devil himself, is Clara Rington. Whatever do you want to know all this about her for, anyway?”

“Oh, nothing. I just thought I saw her today when she visited the house.”

“Visited . . . ?” She looked at me strangely. “Why, no, you must be mistaken, miss. There’ve been no visitors today. And, as I say, Clara Rington is dark, not fair.”

“Then who was it I saw this afternoon, walking across the garden?”

Her face did not turn pale as Antonia’s had. but nonetheless I saw her expression change and a sort of hoodedness fall over her eyes. I described the girl I had seen in as much detail as I could muster.

“You must have been mistaken, miss,” was all she said when I had finished. “There was no one here like that today. The rain plays tricks. The light, late in the afternoon.”

“But I saw her clearly. I . . .”

She shook her head decisively.

“No, miss. There was no one in the garden today.” “But I tell you, I saw someone. She—”

“Please, miss. It’s better you don’t say any more. The mind can play all sorts of tricks. When my boy—” She pulled herself up suddenly, as though she had said something out of place, and started abruptly for the door.

“You were going to say something about your son. Mrs. Johnson. I didn't know you had children. Does he live nearby?”

She seemed about to twist away from me, but I would not let her go.

“Yes,” she said flatly, ‘I had a son. A boy about your age, miss, a lovely boy with a voice like an angel. He used to sing in the choir at Kirkwhelpington. He . . . he died. My husband left us soon after that, there’ve been no others.”

Her voice had clouded over, and I felt embarrassed to have opened an old wound so clumsily.

“I’m sorry, I—”

“It’s all right, miss. It was a long time ago. I’m over it now. Well over it.”

“What were you about to say about him?”

She hesitated.

“Only. . . Only that after he passed on, I sometimes thought I saw him. In the house here, out in the grounds, places I’d seen him when he was alive. But it was fancy, miss, that’s all. Fancy and grief. They make a bad pair. It passed in time. But I know the mind does queer things. Like what you fancied you seen today.”

I said nothing in reply. She gazed at me hard for a moment, as though torn, as though there were more she could say, but dared not. At last she seemed to think better of it.

“Remember to keep your door locked as I told you, miss. The storm is set for worsening tonight. Keep it locked and you’ll not be wakened."

When she had gone, I sat for a long time by the fire, listening to the sound of my clock ticking, to the ashes falling into the grate. Outside, the wind was still rising. I could hear it blowing in gusts across the lops of the trees, hurling itself against the high roof of the house. My window rattled constantly, and from time to time the thin curtain would move in a little trembling dance. Cold drafts crept into the room, toying with the flame of my lamp, making me shiver.

I went to bed soon after midnight and fell asleep, worn out by thinking about the girl I had seen in the garden and about whom everyone was lying to me. Sometime in the middle of the night I was startled into wakefulness by a loud noise. I sat up in bed, listening carefully. The wind was howling fearfully by now, cracking and bumping around the house like a questing beast. The noise came again, a banging sound from outside. I lit my candle and clambered out of bed. It was bitterly cold. The fire had long since died to ashes. Still half-asleep, I threw on my shawl and stumbled to the window. When I drew the curtain, I found I could see out quite clearly, for the wind had blown the clouds away.

There were stables at the end of the east wing, and I saw now that one of the wooden doors had come unhooked and was banging against the wall. Even as I watched I saw someone appear from the house and make his way across the courtyard to the stables. It was Hutton, carrying a storm lantern. He made the door fast and returned to the house. All became still again, except for the wind, which, as if frustrated by this interference in its work, seemed to be blowing harder than ever.

I thought I would never manage to get back to sleep, what with the terrible noise and the drafts blowing through every crack in my window frame. As I prepared to draw back the curtain, however, I noticed that the window had inside shutters. They would certainly help deaden the noise and keep the drafts out.

At first I thought they must be stuck fast. Certainly they had not been opened in a very long time. But I exerted all my strength and managed to get one wing open. Inside, it was full of dust and cobwebs. The hinges were jammed with rust, but I pushed and pulled until they gave and the shutter moved into place.

I had expected the second wing to give me the same trouble, but to my surprise it came open with very little effort, as though it had been regularly used not so very long ago. I pushed it shut and turned away.

At that moment I felt something very like a draft pass through the room. It reminded me of the cold I had experienced on those three occasions in the dining room. No sooner had it vanished than I became aware that I could hear something. I felt my flesh crawl, thinking the sound came from within the room. But, as I listened, I realized that I was mistaken, that it came in fact from the corridor. And that it was the sound of someone sobbing bitterly.

I stood in perfect silence, straining to hear. The howling of the wind was muted now by the shutters. I had not been mistaken. Someone was weeping, very softly, in another room. I lit the oil lamp on my dressing table. Taking a deep breath, I lifted it and stepped to the door. Taking care to make as little noise as possible, I turned the key and opened the door a fraction. The passage outside was pitch-dark and cold, very cold, colder even than my room. I listened attentively, trying to ascertain from which direction the sound was coming. It seemed to issue from my left, where the locked room was situated. The sobbing was pitiful now, rising and falling without pause, as though someone’s heart was broken.

The more I listened, the more certain I became that it was a young woman or a girl of about my own age. I felt an awful sense of dread creep into me. My legs were like lead, I could hardly move from where I stood, and yet I knew I had to go farther. I could not return to my room and leave unanswered the question drumming through my mind.

Slowly, like someone moving in a dream, I walked to the opening where the short passage branched off. It stretched ahead of me, flickering with shadows stirred by the light, At its end the stairs led to the door. It was just as I remembered it, but for one thing: it was halfopen.

The weeping continued, every sob chilling me to the bone. In the shadows, the door seemed to beckon to me.

I wanted to run, to pick up the hem of my nightdress, turn tail and flee back along the corridor, hurry to my room and slip inside and turn the key and take refuge in my bed. But I knew I could not. Not now.

I must have stood there shaking for a very long time, I could not say how long. Everywhere shadows bobbed up and down, for the lamp was trembling in my hand. That such a simple thing as a girl weeping should have filled me with such fear may appear ridiculous to you. But you were not there, you did not have to see the darkness behind the door, you did not have to listen to the endlessness of that voice.

It took me a long time to cross the short distance separating me from the stairs. My heart pounded painfully as I climbed up. At the top I leaned forward.

“Who’s there?” I called. “What’s wrong?”

At that instant the crying stopped. It did not falter or fade away, it just halted. Nowadays we would say “as though someone had turned a switch.” And at that very moment I heard a voice behind me.

“Charlotte. What are you doing out here? What can you be thinking of?”

I turned, my heart beating loud enough to fill all that sudden silence. Antonia was standing behind me, a candle in her hand. She was dressed in a long white nightgown, and her loose hair hung down over her shoulders like a veil.

“Do you know what time it is?” she demanded.

“I . . . I . . .” I faltered. “I heard something.” "Heard? What did you hear?”

“Why, didn’t you notice it? You must have. She was weeping so loudly. It went on for such a long time. And she must be in there now. I have to find her, I have to go to her.”

“Weeping? Someone in there? What sort of nonsense is this? The only sound I have heard is the wind. The wind singing outside. You have mistaken the wind for something else.”

Nimbly she slipped past me and closed the door. There was a key in the lock. She turned it and took it from the door, clutching it tightly in her hand.

“Come away from here at once,” she commanded. “You will catch your death of cold.”

“But. . . ,” I tried again.

She looked very coldly into my eyes.

“There was nothing there,” she said. “A door blown open by the wind, and the storm howling outside. Do not deceive yourself any further, Charlotte. Go back to bed.” There was nothing more I could do. I walked quickly back to my room and slipped inside. As I turned to lock the door I felt something brush my cheek. It was . . . as though someone had touched me softly with their hand. The touch was followed by a rustling sound, very gentle, like a woman’s dress. And then the sound of my clock ticking. And the wind outside, crying across the night.