The Haunting of Aldburn Park

by Amy Cross

  “Sorry, Mr. Lawrence,” I remember her saying with a mischievous smile, as she handed the watch back to me. “It's just that you get this angry face whenever I play a little trick on you. I do find it funny. I hope you're not upset.”

  “Not at all,” I told her, “although -”

  Oh, but why am I allowing myself to think back to those times?

  Realizing that there is nothing to be gained from remembering such foolish, nonsensical conversations, I snap out of this daydream and find that I have almost finished cleaning the desk in front of the master bedroom's window. I came in here some time ago, determined to sort out the room in which His Lordship will spend most of his time once he arrives, and somehow I let my thoughts lapse and I did the one thing I swore not to do. I started reminiscing about what happened here at the house all those years ago.

  Turning, I glance for a moment at the empty doorway where – all those years ago – Her Ladyship stood and asked me about matters of the supernatural. For a few seconds I continue to stare at the door, but why? What possible good can come from dwelling on the past? One can become lost if one wanders too far along roads that lead back. Besides, no amount of retrospection could ever change what happened to Lady Fetchford, and that is a truth that even His Lordship eventually had to learn. Daydreaming of the past is a fruitless endeavor.

  I look over at the bed, and suddenly I am reminded of the morning when His Lordship first mentioned his philanthropic ambitions.

  “Do you think one of the big galleries would take some money from me, Lawrence?” he asked. “One of the modern galleries, I mean. I don't want to finance yet another collection of dusty old landscapes. I'm interested in the modern chaps, people like Brockhurst or Frampton.”

  “I'm sure Your Lordship's offers of assistance would be most graciously received,” I replied.

  I confess that, at the time, I wasn't sure whether this would be another flight of fancy. After all, His Lordship often came up with schemes and then forgot them just as quickly. I wasn't to know that this particular scheme would stick.

  “I wouldn't want too much recognition,” he mused as he sat there, still in his night-shirt, with the morning sun streaming through the window. “A building named after me would be more than enough. And I suppose I'd want to be consulted on the gallery's plans. After all, I wouldn't want my money to be financing a load of old rubbish. But apart from that, I'd be very much a hands-off kind of benefactor. Tell me, Lawrence, do you think this is a good idea, or am I just blowing hot air?”

  “I think Your Lordship should perhaps speak to one or two acquaintances who have experience in these matters,” I suggested.

  “That's a good idea,” he replied. “I hadn't thought of that, but I know some people who've dallied in this sort of thing. I shall have to pick their brains next time I'm in London.” He paused. “I could maybe get two buildings named, one for me and one for Catherine. They could sit side by side, I could even try to get them named in time for our wedding day. Wouldn't that be marvelous?”

  “It certainly sounds like a plan,” I told him, choosing my words very carefully.

  “Catherine would love that,” he continued. “Good old Catherine, she's such a sport. And she's interested in art, you know. Why, I think Catherine -”

  Oh, I'm doing it again.

  There's really no need to be reflecting so much upon the past. Not when I have so much work to do. The fact is, His Lordship was never quite able to achieve his goals when it came to the arts, not after the fuss with the Derbyshire appointments, and the whole thing came to something of a scandalous end. I would never criticize His Lordship, but I do think he might have realized that attempting to encourage a show of his wife's artwork might be seen as... unwise, given the circumstances that existed at the time. Of course, I hinted as much to him, but a man in love is wont to make unfortunate choices.

  Stepping out onto the landing, I tell myself that I really must focus on the task at hand, rather than allowing myself to indulge in these meandering memories.

  At the same time, I cannot help but look at the top of the stairs and remember the moment when His Lordship addressed the guests at one of his summer gatherings.

  “Friends and acquaintances,” he said proudly, as the gathered throng watched from down in the hallway, “I bid you welcome to Aldburn Park on this most wonderful of English afternoons. You will find my home completely open to you, and I hope that you will all have the most enjoyable time. I know the world beyond our little country is at times rather fearsome, and there are certainly some causes for concern when it comes to a few of our neighbors. But this weekend is supposed to be all about camaraderie and brotherhood, and it is in that spirit that I ask you all to join me in a toast.”

  A cheer rang out, and there was the sound of glasses clinking. I recall watching His Lordship from this very spot and marveling that he had finally attained the level of confidence that I always knew he possessed. It had been several years since his father's death, and he was finally emerging from the great man's shadow. In that moment, the future seemed bright and I felt certain that His Lordship was destined for greatness.

  Ah, but now I remember why His Lordship had gathered so many people at the house. The real reason, I mean.

  Catherine Walkinshaw, as she was known then, was down in the hallway, attending with her brother. She was not known to members of the local social scene, at least not at the time, although she would swiftly take center-stage and become something of a celebrity. By the time of the party, she and His Lordship had already begun to spend a great deal of time together, and I had become resigned to the likelihood of their relationship progressing. Not that I was particularly keen on this eventuality, of course, but I simply told myself that I had to trust His Lordship's judgment.

  On that day, as His Lordship continued to speak to the assembled crowd, I glanced down into the hallway and saw Catherine Walkinshaw beaming up at him with a face of pure awe. I had to concede then, as I concede now, that despite my misgivings the woman certainly was in love. Or at least, she believed herself to be.

  And yet...

  When His Lordship was giving that speech, was he not standing in the exact spot where – a few years later – Lady Fetchford suffered one of the worst of her breakdowns? Where she stood, naked and covered in blood, screaming at the elements and calling out the names of the furies, shivering like a wild animal?

  I...

  Bowing my head, I close my eyes for a moment. When I open them, I tell myself that this time I really must stop thinking about the past. Each time I promise myself that I shall stick to the present, I find myself almost immediately drifting off into yet another reminiscence. I had anticipated certain difficulties arising upon my return to Aldburn Park, but I cannot allow myself to dwell exclusively on past matters. Especially when those matters relate to Lady Catherine Fetchford, a woman who is long gone. She is in the past, she will stay there. There is no need to spend so much as one second thinking about her.

  She was a part of this house for a relatively short period of time, and I doubt very much that she will register as more than a blip in the history of the Fetchford family.

  Yet even as I stand outside the master bedroom and admonish myself, I know that Lady Fetchford is staring at me. I can see her from the corner of my eye, and I can feel her gaze falling upon me. I blink, staring straight at the banister railing, but the image does not diminish. Still staring straight ahead, I tell myself that I must not look at this apparition, at this ghost from the past, even as it in turn looks at me. To return its gaze would be to invite its strengthening, would be to make it ever more real. Yet does not ignoring it have the same result? How am I to react when a ghost is staring straight at me from close quarters?

  Finally, even though I am not sure that this is the right choice, I turn and meet her gaze.

  There she is.

  Lady Catherine Fetchford, smiling at me from that wretched portrait that His Lordship commissioned to mark
their marriage. Although the woman herself is long gone, a ghost of oil paints stares at me from the opposite wall. At the time of the portrait's unveiling, I privately considered it to be a garish, modern mishmash of poorly-rendered styles. Now, these years later, the portrait is like a ghoul watching over the landing. And that smile, though infuriating and unbecoming in life, is a thousand times more unsettling now.

  For a moment, I ponder taking the portrait down, but I quickly realize that this is not a realistic course of action. For one thing, I would struggle to get up there and remove the wretched thing. For another, I am quite certain that His Lordship would notice the absence and would start asking questions. I could not now, after all these years, finally admit to him that I disapproved of the union.

  So the portrait will have to stay.

  I stare at it for a moment longer, still chilled by the expression on Lady Fetchford's face, and then I turn and head back into the master bedroom. I have made considerable progress already, and I am sure that by nightfall I shall have this room – at least – finished and habitable for His Lordship's arrival.

  Kneeling down in front of the window, I start dusting the skirting board. As I do so, I begin to recall that time when His Lordship came bursting into the room once while I was cleaning. He'd just been for a ride in his new motor car and he was brimming with enthusiasm, and he made the most extraordinary declaration. He had decided, he told me, to become a racing car driver, and he wanted to find out all about the European scene. I recall suggesting that perhaps he could find a less dangerous past-time, but for a short period he was utterly determined. He even took me outside and insisted on describing some modifications that he intended to make to his motor car. Those modifications never happened, of course, since this enthusiasm lasted but a week or two. Still, it was a bright and sunny day, and as His Lordship led me down the steps he was already talking excitedly about attending the race that was due to be held in Monte Carlo.

  “That's where the action is,” he told me merrily. “Oh Lawrence, this is going to be the start of something wonderful!”

  Chapter Six

  A Telephone Call

  Rain taps at the window. Drops cling to the cold glass, shivering in a late evening breeze as – far beyond – the sky begins to darken in advance of night.

  “No, there is still a great deal to do,” I tell Mrs. Ferguson over the telephone, as I stand in the parlor, “but I have at least made a start. I am sure you will be pleasantly surprised upon your arrival tomorrow.”

  I wait for her to reply, but she says nothing.

  “I focused on His Lordship's bedroom,” I continue, “and it is now ready for him. I anticipate that he shall spend most, if not all, of his time in there. Nevertheless, it is my intention to have the rest of the house in proper order. Even if His Lordship does not visit those rooms, one likes to keep up a sense of propriety, does one not?”

  I wait, and again she does not speak.

  “Mrs. Ferguson,” I say finally. “Are you still there?”

  “I am, Mr. Lawrence,” she replies.

  I turn and look across the parlor. I should have switched the electric lights on before I began this call, but I did not think to do so and now the room is strikingly dark. I could excuse myself from the conversation for a moment and go over and switch the lights on now, but to do so might seem rude to Mrs. Ferguson and I do not wish to detain her unnecessarily. I shall simply have to live with the gloom.

  “Tonight I shall work on the reception hallway,” I continue, trying to hide the tiredness in my voice, “and the stairs, and then -”

  “Mr. Lawrence, I think this might all be in vain,” she says suddenly.

  I pause for a moment, trying to digest the meaning of her words.

  “I'm not sure that I follow,” I tell her finally. “His Lordship specifically -”

  “His Lordship has become much worse during the day,” she replies, cutting me off. “Oh, Mr. Lawrence, it pains me to tell you this, but Doctor Farrier had to come out for a second time this afternoon and the prognosis is not good. His Lordship is short of breath now, and weaker in every respect.”

  “That is only to be expected,” I reply calmly. “He has good days and bad days and -”

  “There will be no more good days,” she says, interrupting me yet again. “He cannot even get out of bed now. Mr. Lawrence, it is simply impossible to conceive of him now making the journey to Aldburn Park.”

  “Has he himself said so?”

  “No, of course not. He still asks hourly whether it is time to set off yet. But -”

  “Then nothing has changed,” I point out, and now I am the one doing the interrupting. “His Lordship will be arriving the day after tomorrow and -”

  “He's in such terrible pain.”

  “His Lordship will be arriving the day after tomorrow and -”

  “He's delirious.”

  “His Lordship will be arriving the day after tomorrow and -”

  “His Lordship will be dead the day after tomorrow!” she snaps.

  I open my mouth to respond, but for a moment I do not know what to say.

  “I am sorry, Mr. Lawrence,” she continues, sounding flustered now and on the verge of tears herself, “but I have been trying to convey this to you for some time now, and it's as if you simply refuse to listen. His Lordship can't even travel from one room to another, let alone from London all the way to Aldburn Park.” She pauses, and I can hear a faint sniffing sound. When she speaks again, she sounds more composed and together, as if her brief outburst is over but has left her perhaps a little tired. “I think it would be for the best,” she says, “if you were to shut the house up again and return to London at your earliest convenience. You are needed here, Mr. Lawrence. His Lordship is not going to come to Aldburn Park again. If you set off in the morning, you might make it back before...”

  Her voice trails off.

  Standing alone in the unlit parlor, I try to work out what I should say next. A bird shrieks in the distance, far out in the forest no doubt, and its call only serves to make the silence of this room seem so much louder.

  I glance around the parlor, looking at the shadows. This is foolish. Do I expect to find the right words hidden there?

  Yet if I speak now, my voice will surely betray more emotion that I should like.

  I take a very deep breath.

  Mrs. Ferguson, evidently, is waiting for me to speak next. I must admit, I have seldom been addressed in such a forthright manner, and never by a woman.

  “I very much appreciate your candor,” I say finally, “and your insight into His Lordship's condition.” I pause, trying to pick the proper choice of words. “I would remind you, however, that as head of His Lordship's household, such decisions fall to me and to me alone, in concert of course with His Lordship himself. In that light, and having received no instructions to the contrary, I have no intention of changing the plan. I shall continue to prepare the house, and you shall come here tomorrow with your two girls. His Lordship will be arriving the day after tomorrow and it is my duty to make his time here as comfortable as possible.”

  I almost mention the fact that His Lordship is expected to die here, but at the last moment I decide that this is not necessary. Mrs. Ferguson and I both understand the unspoken purpose behind the journey.

  “So how is it?” she asks finally, having evidently accepted my authority. “The house, I mean. Being there.”

  “It is as it always was,” I reply. “Just a little more dusty.”

  “But it must feel strange to be back there.”

  “Not at all.”

  “You don't mind it?”

  “Mind it? There is nothing to mind, Mrs. Ferguson. I am here to do my duty.”

  I wait for her to reply, but she says nothing. I feel that this conversation is starting to dwindle, and that it is time for me to inform her of my intention to end the call so that I can carry out more work before I retire for the night.

  “I couldn't
be there all alone,” she says suddenly, “the way you are.”

  “I quite enjoy the solitude,” I tell her calmly.

  “I'd be listening to every little sound,” she continues, “and wondering...

  Once again, her voice trails off. I rather think that this telephone call has run its course, although I am not quite sure how to end it without seeming unduly hurried. Perhaps -

  “He says he sees her waiting for him,” she says suddenly, her voice trembling with fear.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Here in London, in the townhouse,” she continues. “He says he sees Her Ladyship. Always in the distance, always watching him.”

  I cannot help but sigh.

  “Don't do that!” she snaps.

  “I merely -”

  “He says she's waiting for him at Aldburn Park,” she adds. “That she appears here, to remind him. That she's waiting at Aldburn Park and he has to go to her.”

  “There is nobody waiting for him here at Aldburn Park,” I reply, somehow managing to restrain myself. “Other than myself, of course.”

  “He says that she's waiting. But how can that be, if she's in an asylum?”

  “Well, Mrs. Ferguson,” I say after a moment, “I think it is time for -”

  Suddenly a scream rings out in the distance, and I turn to look at the window. All I see is darkness, with the sun having finished setting since this telephone call began.

  “What was that?” Mrs. Ferguson asks.

  “A fox,” I reply, still watching the window.

  “A fox?”

  “You have heard them yourself, have you not?” I continue, watching the window for a moment longer before turning back to look at the telephone itself. “There are plenty of them out there in the forest, to be sure.”

  “But it sounded like -”

  “It sounded like a fox,” I tell her, “because that is what it was. I dare say I shall hear the same again, before the night is through.”

  I can hear her breathing now, but she does not speak.

  “Well,” I continue, “I rather think it is time for me to go and do some more work. I intend to retire early and be up at dawn. Are you still intending to arrive here around lunchtime tomorrow with your girls?”