“How?” she asked.
“Because instinct tells me.”
There it was! That radiant smile! Oh, how it captured me. How it enlivened me. It resurrected hope when hope had been buried for so long.
I yawned again. I awoke.
I truly awoke.
Josie was gone. All that I found myself clutching was the necklace, its stones twinkling.
I smiled to see it and then my smile faded.
There was another bang at the door – and this time it was real.
Rosamund Chapter Sixteen
There was no escape, no one to help me, not now. I had to face him. Pit my wits against his. It was a battle and the only armour I had: a necklace that glittered.
As I secured it around my wrist, the cuff of my sleeve amply covering it, I thought of making safe harbour for myself also. The attic. Perhaps I could open the door, dodge beneath his arm, and run. He would not follow me there. Why?
“Rosamund!”
Father’s voice almost deafened me as the door burst open. Upon sight of me, he stopped, and, for a moment, we simply stood there, as if he was bracing himself as much as I; as if there was a glimmer of fear in him too. Seeing this, my back straightened, an almost involuntary movement. Perhaps it was this that caused him to lunge across the room; to grab me by the arm; to haul me out of the bedroom and down the corridor – that spark of defiance.
Whatever had caught alight in me, however, rapidly dimmed as we continued past the corridor that led to the attic. I looked longingly at it; it was so close and yet so far.
At the top of the stairs, I dug in my heels. “Let me go.” With my free hand I batted at him.
In return, he exchanged my wrist for my neck and slammed me against the wall.
“Do not issue commands at me, do you hear?”
Briefly, my eyes left his and I glanced behind him, to where there was a window. It was not yet full dark, but soon it would be, in another hour, maybe less. Out here in the countryside darkness arrived so completely. And within it, I would be trapped with a drunk and a murderer.
If I was really capable of constructing my world, as Josie had suggested, I would have done so now; I would have peopled it with a thousand Josies; a thousand Constances; I would have filled the house with them, wall to wall. And they would have come to my aid. But there was no Josie and no Constance. There was not a single soul that I could see. Not even the doughy outline of Miss Tiggs.
At last Father released his grip on my neck, the skin continuing to burn from his touch, and I began to splutter as my breath also found release. And then we were off again, downstairs, while I held onto the balustrade handrail with one hand lest I should trip.
As the kitchen had been Miss Tiggs’ domain, the study had always been Father’s lair. That was our destination and in it I knew I would be trapped further. As he shoved at the door, not with his hand, but with his foot, kicking it wide open, he pushed me through, throwing me finally into the chair, which squeaked loudly in protest. I looked about me, astounded at what I saw. There were pictures piled upon his desk, all of them drawn by myself. I had, of course, lost count of how many I had created over the years – with so little else to do at Mears House it must have numbered in the thousands. I thought many of them had been disposed of, but plenty had obviously been kept by Father, not just a few, but scores of them, dating back years.
“Father?”
“Look!” he ordered, pointing at them. His face was no longer ashen; it was bright red, from alcohol no doubt as well as from the efforts he had recently expended.
“These are my drawings.” What else was I to say?
“Look!” he screamed again, grabbing at my chin and pulling me closer.
“I am looking!” I squealed.
Mears House was a perennial subject; the only subject I could think to draw sometimes, but there were a number of portraits too, of me, Miss Tiggs, the maid before Josie, a governess or two… and someone else.
“Who is this?” he said, pointing.
“I… I do not know.”
He was not content with that reply. “Who is it?”
“I… I…”
I had sketched in the woman’s hair, but because I had used a light hand, it was neither dark nor fair. The eyes were dark, though, and the face heart-shaped.
“I do not know,” I repeated, although there were many likenesses of her.
“Rosamund,” he barked, turning my face towards him so that I had no option but to stare into those narrow eyes of his. “That is your mother. How do you explain it?”
My mother? A nervous laugh escaped me. And then I remembered, I confessed.
“I have a photograph of Mother! I found it in the library, tucked between books.”
He looked shocked, utterly shocked.
“She left something of herself behind?”
“Yes, yes she did. That explains the likeness.”
He let go of my face and straightened, one hand reaching up to scratch at the stubble on his jaw. “I thought I had rid this house of every single item relating to her.”
Not her photograph, or her necklace, or me. Am I not also to do with her?
A shadow crossed his face and I tensed; my rebellious thoughts – triumphant thoughts – quickly concealed.
“Where is this photograph?”
I was loathe to tell him.
“Rosamund!”
“In the attic,” I answered at last, a hint of rebellion remaining. He hated the attic; it was safe there.
His reaction, however, surprised me. He simply laughed and shook his head. “It matters not where it is, only when you found it.”
“When?”
“Indeed. Tell me.”
“It was… It must have been… three years ago.”
“Three years ago? You are sure?”
Time was often a blur at Mears House, but that day had been a momentous day; unforgettable. “Yes, Father. I am certain.”
There was no more laughter. He grabbed at one of the portraits, then another, and another, until he had a fistful of them, thrusting them into my face. “These are portraits of your mother; the same likeness; the same shading, and they were completed well before you reached thirteen years of age; when you were nine; when you were ten; when you were eleven and twelve. You had no idea of your mother’s appearance back then; you could not possibly remember her, but still you were drawing her. It is proof I tell you, proof!”
“Father, not all of them are alike. See? There are differences.” It was true, there were, albeit slight. As for there being a likeness to my mother, yes, indeed there was, but that could merely be coincidence, my father also being guilty of seeing what he wanted to see.
“What was the colour of your mother’s hair?”
I shook my head, bit hard upon my lip. How would I know? The photograph was black and white.
“I asked the colour of your mother’s hair?”
“I… erm… red,” I replied finally, having to pick a colour, any colour.
“That is correct, red! And her eye colour?”
I swallowed hard, knowing I had to answer. “Green.”
“Yes!” He said, punching at the air.
“It is because of Josie,” I said. “I picked those answers because of her.”
“Josie? I have heard you mention her; calling out for her even on occasion. Who is she? Come on, tell me!”
“I… I do not know.” A ghost or a spirit perhaps, but not someone frightening, for who could be afraid of Josie? She was goodness itself; a woman who – in the absence of a mother – had been the closest thing.
“Is this her?”
Having let the portraits fall to the desk, he now held several sketches of Mears House – the exterior views.
Again he grabbed me, the back of my neck this time, forcing me to look at what I had, by my own hand, sketched.
“I do not understand…” I began.
“Look at the windows and the figures depicted at the
m.”
Figures? They were just windows, the eyes of the house.
“Is one of them Josie?”
One of them?
“Who are the others, Rosamund?”
Were there figures at the windows? It was shading, was it not? Mere shading?
I continued to stare at the sketches; I had no choice; remembering how, in the drawing room, Josie had stopped to stare at them too; how I had seen her at the window one day whilst out walking, and she had been waving… If it was indeed her. It might have been someone else.
It might well have been someone else.
Shading. Shadows. Figures.
There were so many of them, in every drawing and in every window, staring back at me. Clearly, these were drawn by my hand, but my eyes had refused to see, at least back then; but not now. You have awoken remember?
My father took a step backwards. Oh the look of him!
“You can see,” he whispered.
Still biting my lip, I could feel the tang of blood.
“And if you can see, you can also summon.”
Rosamund Chapter Seventeen
I believed that I knew fear. I did know fear. But not like this. Never like this.
Summon? Summon what?
“Ghosts?” I whispered. Is that what he meant?
His voice was so derisory. “Rosamund, there is so much more to this than ghosts.”
I began to rise from my chair, determined that I should flee this time. Outside, the night had taken hold; a cold night, a winter’s night, frost in the air that would nip mercilessly at my toes and my fingers; but better that than the darkness that had now blossomed inside this house; that had consumed Father so completely. I could avoid the woods by heading down the gravel path, or… I could run to the attic.
“Sit!” he commanded, noticing how bold I was becoming.
I hesitated to obey, my mind attempting to calculate the lesser of two evils.
Evil.
It was not an exaggeration; every cell in my body acknowledged it. Evil was resident in Mears House this night and it wished to invite more in.
You are equipped to deal with this.
That is what Josie had told me. Should I continue to sit there rather than take my chances and run? Should I trust her? Believe in her?
The decision was made for me. Father walked over to the door and, pulling a key from the pocket of his jacket, locked it.
“Father, what are you doing?” I said, aghast at this new development.
“Making sure,” was his sole reply.
Sinking into the chair, I screwed my eyes shut as if by that very act I could shut him out too; as if that alone would protect me. My hands rested in my lap, clenched tight, my nails digging into my palms, deeper and deeper; the silence and the tension both thicker than any fog that London could conjure.
Having barred my exit, Father moved to his desk. There was a definite mocking aspect to his leisurely gait; he had no need to hurry: I was a fly entangled in his web.
All I was able to do was anticipate his every move, and hope that eventually he would see sense.
“Father,” I urged, trying to hasten the latter. “You believe I can see extraordinary things, but you are mistaken. I cannot. I am an ordinary girl. I want nothing more than to live an ordinary life. Whatever you are planning, I want no part in it.”
He did not so much as even glance my way as he bent to pick up the carpetbag he had clutched to himself all the way from London.
I tried again. “We could be happy here, you and I. We could perhaps freshen the house; make it brighter somehow; a better place to live in. We could employ a maidservant; a local girl perhaps; one that is looking for an escape from her own circumstances, because… because it is overcrowded. I do not expect she will demand a vast sum. There may be plenty of girls that would be thankful for such a position. In the past this was a fine house and we could make it so again. Please, Father, listen to me.”
Rummaging in the bag, he paused. “We could freshen the house, could we? We could employ more servants? What with, Rosamund? What with?”
I shook my head. “What do you mean?”
“Money, you stupid girl! There is none available. It went a long time ago, on you and your dresses; on having to keep up appearances, it being essential for London; from a certain class so much is expected.” His expression was nothing less than bitter. “No, no, no. Every last penny is gone. We are in debt up to our necks. But do not fret,” he reached for the decanter on his desk, poured some whisky into a tumbler and downed it in a single quaff, before repeating the action, the alcohol as ever giving him ballast. “I have a plan. There is really no need to fret about any of it.”
“What plan?” Again I was bold enough to ask.
“You shall learn soon enough,” he said, finally retrieving what he was looking for and holding it up for both of us to see – a brown bottle, filled with liquid.
My heart sunk to see it. “Laudanum?” I asked.
Taking the time to down yet another shot of whisky, he eventually answered me. “You know it is not.” He handled the phial more lovingly than I have ever seen him handle anything. “It is Scopolamine and early trials have proved very promising. This is a truth drug, because you, daughter of mine, lie not only to me but also to yourself. All those to whom it is administered find it impossible to deceive. When this resides in one’s system, there is no imagination; there is no power to think or to reason. I shall ask the question and I shall receive the truth.”
“You cannot force me to take it.” There was a distinct quaver in my voice.
“But I can.”
“I shall refuse to swallow it.”
“Oh, you will swallow it, Rosamund, you will.”
“I can see!” There! It was out, I had admitted to it. Would he leave me be now?
Yet another shot of whisky was poured. “Rosamund, there is something specific I wish you to see and when you do, I want no lies at that point; no denials. I need you to describe it exactly; to commune with it, via me.”
“Commune?” The very word was enough to send shivers dancing along my spine. “I do not understand.”
How calm he was; how sure of himself. “But you will, soon you will.”
“Let me go please.”
“Tell me, where would you go?”
I could not sit still any longer. Whilst his hand was halfway to his mouth, the tumbler refreshed yet again, I upped and ran to the door; pulling at it; banging on it; kicking it so hard I thought the bones in my toes might snap. It moved not an inch.
My father roared with laughter.
“If it’s Constance you would run to, she is no more – she is dead. As for Josie, I do not think ghosts will offer much assistance. There is no one that cares about you; no one to come looking for you should you happen to disappear.”
I swung around. “What happened to Constance, tell me!”
“It is of no matter now.”
“Tell me! I demand to know.”
How narrow his eyes were; like a fox, as cunning. “How many times must I remind you? You are in no position to demand anything!”
“Tell me,” I continued. I felt I could not take another breath if I remained ignorant of the facts. The ghost of her – the apparition – the blood that had surrounded those once beautiful eyes – yet again it caused my own eyes to water. “Tell me and I will take your drug, willingly, with no force required. Please, Father.”
“She was an addict,” was his languid reply.
“Yes, yes, I now know that to be true.”
“And predisposed to fancy.”
“We all have an imagination, Father.”
“We do. And hers was vivid.”
I had to ask it. “Could she see?”
His laughter was so cruel. “Nonsense is what she saw; nothing but the result of an addled mind.”
“And yet you would use a drug on me?”
“A different drug, remember?”
I nodded a
t his tumbler. “Different to yours as well?”
I was such a source of amusement to him that he continued to laugh.
“Did you kill her?” I whispered.
“Oh, Rosamund! Rosamund! I should have liked to; she was an impertinent madam, so certain of her charms, she thought she could blind anyone with them.”
“She was beautiful,” I declared.
“But spoilt. That fool, Arthur, guilty as charged.”
I disagreed. “Constance was clever; she was determined, and she was to be an integral part of the changing world.”
“Quite enamoured of her, were you not?”
“She was my friend, truly my friend. What did she see that caused her to gouge at her own eyes?” That is how Arthur had described her actions, and I knew it to be true.
“She believed she saw a ghost,” again Father’s voice was full of derision. “Oh, how excited the society became; she could do it, she could see beyond the veil! A ghost, a glorious ghost, smiling at her, with hands held out beseechingly. But then she panicked and started to babble. I do not want to see these visions. I must shut them out. She raised her hands and tore at her eyes so that she could not. Arthur bolted forward to stop her, but she pushed him aside. Before it could be prevented, she ran from the room, along the corridor, and pulled open the front door. Arthur shouted after her as did some of the others, including that fool Stephen, but still she would not stop. This is wrong. It is all wrong. Her voice was so shrill. I had followed Arthur the length of the corridor, curious as to why she had reneged; to discover what had now terrified her; but I had the good sense to hold him back at the door; to slam it shut before anyone could realise which house she had appeared from.”
“How did she die?” I asked, my voice reduced to a whisper again as I envisaged Constance’s bewilderment all too well.
“She ran straight into the path of an oncoming carriage.” He paused. “It was a sorry end,” he added but without sentiment; without any evidence of emotion at all.
“And you shut the door on her?”
“I did, to protect the society.”
“A society you are still a member of?”
He shook his head. “Not after this night. Who knows whether in the future it may develop, but it is not for me. I have outgrown it. In truth, it was never for me.”
Psychic Surveys Companion Novels Page 47
