The Haunting of Aldburn Park

by Amy Cross

  “I -”

  “You're all like that, aren't you?” she continued angrily. “You hide your real feelings.” She was looking at His Lordship now. “There's no way of knowing how any of you feel about anything, because you work so hard to keep it all under wraps. You know, when I moved into Aldburn Park, I was worried about how it would feel to have a butler. That's not what I should have been worried about, though. I should have been more worried about how it would feel to have a butler for a husband. Because that's what you're like, Matthew. You're like a butler, except without the candor!”

  “Lawrence,” His Lordship said calmly, “please leave us for a moment.”

  “No, Lawrence, stay!” she said firmly. “And why is this place called Aldburn Park, anyway? Most of the land has been sold off, so it's not really set in acres of parkland anymore. It's only May for one twelfth of the year, and I don't see any fields either!”

  “Lawrence,” His Lordship said again, while keeping his eyes fixed on his wife, “please allow me to speak to my wife alone.”

  “Don't you dare go anywhere,” she said to me.

  I hesitated, unsure as to what I should do, and then I turn and began to leave the room.

  “Hey!” Her Ladyship called after me in a shrill, vindictive voice. “I'm your employer too, now! I command you to come back here at once, Mr. Lawrence. Do you hear me? Matthew isn't the only one in this house who gets to give you orders!”

  Just as I reached the door, I heard the most tremendous crashing sound, and I turned to see that Her Ladyship was in the process of frantically pushing all the plates and cutlery from the table. His Lordship, meanwhile, remained in his seat and watched with surprising passivity. I knew full well that he would be horrified by such a terrible display, but evidently he preferred at that moment to simply observe his wife's behavior. Much, I noted at the time, the way that a parent might try to wait for a child's tantrum to end.

  “It's all just a waste,” Her Ladyship said finally, breathlessly, as she pushed the final glass to the floor, letting it smash against the boards. “None of it matters, does it?”

  “I shall fetch a dustpan and brush,” I said, still managing to stay calm even though I could have struck the woman for her appalling lack of gratitude.

  “Don't bother, Mr. Lawrence,” Her Ladyship replied, stepping around the table and making her way over to His Lordship. “There'll only be more later. And more after that. The whole world is filled with waste, even if my illustrious and very noble husband refuses to admit as such. Why, I think he actually enjoys living here in this airless house. Why bother going to the townhouse in London, when one can stay here and rot in peace?”

  “Mr. Lawrence,” His Lordship said, once again sounding so very calm, “if you would be so good as to leave us for a moment.”

  “Very good, Sir,” I reply, and then I turned and headed out into the corridor.

  “He's like a puppy!” Her Ladyship laughed behind me. “Oh, if anyone had told me that marriage would be like this, I'd have surely -”

  Suddenly her tirade was cut short by a brief, sharp slapping sound. I stopped in my tracks and listened, telling myself that His Lordship would never have struck a lady. Then, as I waited in silence, I realized that Lady Fetchford must simply have pushed him beyond his limits. Why, he most assuredly held out for far longer than any other man could have managed, and if he finally snapped then, well, one must take the circumstances into account.

  A moment later I heard Her Ladyship sobbing.

  “There,” His Lordship said after a few more seconds, “it's alright, Catherine. You just had another one of your spells, that's all. You know how it is. You always feel better once they're over, don't you? Just try to calm down, and then we can find something else to eat.”

  I heard her say something to him, although I could not make out the words. The sobbing continued, but now she seemed to be trying to sniff back the tears.

  “See?” His Lordship continued. “Didn't I tell you? There's no need to involve a doctor. You just have a lot on your mind, but you'll get through it. And who knows? Maybe this will be the last time. In fact, I'm sure it will be. You're too smart a girl to let this kind of thing become permanent. I have absolute faith in you, my darling.”

  She said something else, something that – again – I did not quite make out.

  “No, don't think like that,” he told her. “It'll never get that bad. Never ever. I won't let it. Now let's wipe those tears away, shall we? And let's get you up off the floor. I'll help you get better, my darling, I promise. And you mustn't feel as if you're disappointing me, because you're not. We'll get through this together.”

  At this point, I chose to walk away, preferring to not eavesdrop. It was evident that His Lordship had the situation under control, and in that moment I truly assumed that he would be able to iron out any difficulties he might encounter in Her Ladyship's character. It simply never occurred to me that her condition would become as bad as it did, or that – ultimately – His Lordship would be forced to make the drastic decision that soon followed.

  Chapter Twenty

  Blood is Sucked

  “Roses?” Mrs. Ferguson says.

  Half-turning from my task, I see that she is watching me from the doorway.

  “I thought it would be nice to have some in a vase in the house,” I explain. “I held out little hope of finding anything suitable in the garden, but His Lordship's roses have survived the years of neglect. In fact, one might even say that they have thrived.”

  “That's no great surprise,” she says, coming over to join me at the kitchen table, as I get back to work with the knife. “Old Jones the gardener was always buggering things up.”

  “Mrs. Ferguson!”

  “I'm sorry,” she says with a grin. “I meant he was always... messing things up.”

  “He always did his best,” I remind her.

  “Oh, of that I'm sure. But it seems his best was not really very good. The roses certainly look better now than they ever did before.”

  She is not wrong, although I do not wish to encourage any more of this talk. I continue to cut the stems, although in some parts these are rather woody.

  “His Lordship thinks he sees Her Ladyship,” she says after a moment. “That's awfully queer, is it not, considering that she is apparently alive and well?” She watches me for a few seconds. “Or alive, at least.”

  “His Lordship has endured a very trying day,” I point out. “I'm sure he's fine.”

  “He was talking to himself when I took him his stew,” she explains. “Rambling on and on. He barely even noticed that I was in the room. He was telling himself, over and over again, that she wouldn't hurt him. That she would recognize that he had come back to face her. I don't think there are any prizes to be had, for guessing who she is in these circumstances.”

  “It is not for us to question His Lordship's actions,” I reply. “He has every right to -”

  Suddenly the knife's blade slips and slices across the thumb of my left hand. I flinch and drop the knife, and already a bead of blood is running through the cut.

  “Oh, you silly thing,” Mrs. Ferguson says, hurrying to the far table and then returning with some cloths. “You should have let me do this from the start.”

  “It's nothing,” I reply, although she has already begun to wipe the blood away. “I'll be fine.”

  “Did you clean that knife before you used it?”

  “There was no need.”

  “Where did you find it?”

  “In the potting shed.”

  She peers more closely at the cut, while turning my hand so that it's a little more in the light.

  “There's a little bit of grit in there,” she mutters, before sighing. “I'm going to have to get rid of that.”

  “I'm sure I -”

  Before I can finish, she suddenly leans down and – to my utter astonishment – briefly sucks the blood from my injured thumb. I open my mouth to protest, but then she p
ulls away and spits the blood into the nearby sink, and then she takes another look at the wound.

  “There,” she says, furrowing her brow slightly, “I think I got it all out.”

  She reaches over and opens a nearby drawer, and then she takes out a roll of bandages.

  “You have to be careful, you know,” she says as she sets to work bandaging my thumb. “If that knife has been out there in the potting shed all these years, it could be dirty. Sometimes I wonder if you have any common sense at all, I really do. It's all very well learning the rules of a household, and how to act around a man such as His Lordship, but that's no replacement for basic sense. Whatever would you do, Mr. Lawrence, without somebody around you to make sure that you don't kill yourself? Why, I genuinely wonder how you will get on when His Lordship is gone.”

  I open my mouth to reply.

  “There,” she adds, letting go of my hand. “The bandage might not have been necessary, but it's best to be careful with these things. It can come off tomorrow, all being well.”

  I look down at the bandage. No more than three or four minutes can possibly have passed since I cut myself, yet already Mrs. Ferguson has patched me up. The woman is most certainly very good at her job, although a few of her comments have left me feeling rather confused. And I must confess that – in all my life – nobody has ever cleaned a wound of mine in quite such a dramatic fashion.

  “Well, Mr. Lawrence,” she says finally, “you're looking at me with quite a strange expression. Is anything wrong?”

  “No,” I reply, preferring to keep my astonishment to myself. “I must thank you for your swift assistance, even if I think it was rather unnecessary to make a fuss.”

  She does not say anything. Instead, she busies herself with the job of cleaning up. I should go and check on His Lordship, but for some reason I remain right where I am. I cannot shake the feeling that there is something I should say, although I cannot quite imagine what that should be.

  “Have you given any thought to what you might do next?” she asks as she crouches down and starts sorting through one of the cupboards.

  “After what?” I reply.

  “Well, you know.” She turns to me. “After you leave His Lordship's employment.”

  “I have no intention of -”

  “You know what I mean, Mr. Lawrence,” she continues. “You do. There will be some work to complete, I'm sure, but we're neither of us even close to retirement age. Undoubtedly you'll be in demand, Mr. Lawrence, and I just wondered whether you have any preferences.”

  I swallow hard.

  “I have not,” I tell her.

  “I suppose I shall go to wherever I can find an opening,” she replies, returning her attention to the contents of the cupboard. “Mrs. Miriam at Stockdale House is always on the lookout for staff. Of course, that in itself is rather a concern. If a house has so many vacancies all the time, one has to wonder whether there is a problem with the way the place is run. But beggars can't be choosers, can they, Mr. Lawrence? I shall make the best of it, whatever happens. One simply carries on carrying on, doesn't one?”

  “Indeed,” I reply, impressed by her sense of practicality.

  She continues her work, and I continue to watch her. I suppose it is only now that I realize our time as colleagues shall not last forever. His Lordship is sick, there is no doubt about that; in fact, it seems likely that he is sicker than I had previously allowed myself to understand. When he is gone, England will have lost one of its finest sons, and his household must be disbanded. Mrs. Ferguson is correct when she says that I should have no trouble finding another position, although now I am beginning to wonder whether I might be able to gain employment for both of us. Together, as it were.

  “Are you still there?” she asks, getting to her feet and setting a cake-tin on one of the tables. “If you insist on loitering, I should rather put you to work. There's plenty to be done.”

  “No, I am fine, thank you,” I reply, shocked by the way I have allowed myself to linger. “I must go and check on His Lordship.”

  Without waiting for her to say anything, I turn and head out of the room, while checking that my uniform is in pristine condition. As I make my way through the old library, my footsteps seem to ring out rather strongly, breaking the silence of the house. I swiftly reach the study, and to my relief I see that His Lordship is taking another much-needed rest. His eyes are closed and he seems rather calm and untroubled, so I am careful not to wake him as I pick up the empty plate – he has eaten! – and then head out of the room.

  As I go through the dining room, however, I spot the large mirror above the hearth, and I stop in my tracks. It is a long time since I looked in that mirror, and there is a part of me that thinks I should do so now, in order to dispel any slight concerns that might remain in my mind. I glance around, to make sure that Mrs. Ferguson isn't about to appear, and then I start making my way over to the mirror. I almost get there, too, before suddenly stopping once again as I realize that I really need to get on with my tasks before bedtime.

  Putting all this foolish thought about mirrors out of my mind, I head back to the pantry. I intend to speak once again to Mrs. Ferguson but, when I reach the door, I find that she is not here. Unable to ignore a slight sense of disappointment, I set the plates down and then go through to the conservatory, where I attend to some light dusting.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  An Improper Moment

  “Mr. Lawrence, do you ever think about death?”

  Standing the doorway, I look across the dark study and see Her Ladyship kneeling on one of the chairs, looking out the window. A sliver of moonlight is enough to catch the side of her face, although after a moment my attention is drawn to the scratches on her bare forearms. She is wearing nothing but a night-shirt, and a tattered night-shirt at that.

  I reach out to switch on the electric light.

  “Don't,” she says, somehow anticipating what I was about to do.

  “I merely -”

  “I prefer the dark,” she continues, her voice faltering slightly as if she is getting weaker. “Or candles, if there must be light. But electric lights are so crude, don't you think?”

  “I find them to be a most useful convenience,” I reply calmly, while trying to work out how best to handle this situation. I prefer to avoid being alone with Her Ladyship, at least since her troubles began, and I feel ill-equipped to have this particular conversation now. In all honesty, I think I am a little nervous around her.

  I wait, but she is staring at me with the most vexing expression.

  “Perhaps,” I continue, “I should go and fetch -”

  “Are you scared of me, Lawrence?” she asks suddenly.

  “Scared of you, Your Ladyship?” The question is rather shocking. “Absolutely not.”

  “But I don't fit, do I?” she continues, slowly rising from the creaking chair and stepping toward me. The front of her night-shirt is stained, although in this darkness I cannot tell whether the stain is blood or perhaps paint. “Matthew wants me to be a certain way, and I've tried so hard, but the more I try to ram myself into the role he has made for me, the more I start losing my edges. Does that make sense to you, Lawrence?”

  “I am certain that His Lordship would do anything to make you comfortable,” I tell her, before reaching again for the light-switch.

  “Don't.”

  I hesitate, before pulling my hand away. I cannot disobey a direct order, even when it is clear that Her Ladyship is not of sound mind.

  “Are you scared of the dark, Lawrence?”

  “Certainly not.”

  She stops next to me, staring at me with a rather striking directness. I dearly wish to step back, but I do not wish to appear rude.

  “I almost never sleep now,” she continues. “That's funny, isn't it? Matthew is out like a light every night, as soon as his head touches the pillow. And I just stay awake, staring at the ceiling, thinking about things. Mostly, about how disappointed he must be in me
.”

  “I -”

  “Don't lie to me, Lawrence. I know I'm not the kind of wife he wanted. People don't like me. What I mean is, his friends don't like me. People see through me, they see that I'm not really one of them.” She swallows hard; I hear a clicking sound in her throat. “I can't fake that,” she continues. “Nobody can. I've tried and I've tried, but I just can't be Lady Fetchford. She's some kind of ideal figure in Matthew's mind and it's as if he tried to cast me in that role, but I'm not a good enough actress to be what he wanted.”

  “Perhaps -”

  “And I know he's disappointed that I haven't given him a child yet,” she adds, with tears in her eyes. “I've tried, but it just doesn't happen. What if I can't do it, Lawrence? What if I'm barren? If I could at least give him a son, I think he could live with all the other disappointments I've caused him. I just need to give him one son.” Reaching down, she clutches the front of her night-dress. “I'm just a failure, Lawrence,” she whimpers. “I married a good man and I failed him.”

  “I should -”

  “What's wrong with me, Lawrence?” she gasps. “Why can't I just do it? Why can't my body just do what I tell it to do? Why can't I have a child for him? Why can't I make myself think properly? Why can't I act the way he wants me to act?”

  I reach once more for the light-switch.

  “Why are you so scared of the dark?” she snaps angrily, suddenly reaching past me and pushing my hand away. “Or is it me? What is it, Lawrence? Why don't you want to be in the dark with me?”

  “I -”

  Suddenly she flicks the switch, and the electric light comes on above us.

  “Is that better?” she shouts.

  Then she switches it off again, plunging us back into darkness.

  “Is that scary?”

  She switches it on.

  “And that's not scary?”

  “Your Ladyship -”

  “Which is it?” she screams, and now she's flicking the switch over and over again, causing the light to start flickering above us, constantly changing the room from bright to dark and back. “Am I that terrifying, Lawrence? Do I unsettle you so?”