Kirkland Revels

by Victoria Holt

  She held out her hand to me as though I were an acquaintance who had made a formal call.

  " Do come again," she said.

  Gabriel and Friday were constantly in my thoughts. I was still hoping that one day Friday would come back to me. I simply could not bear to think that he was dead. But there was one matter which surprised me; although I remembered so vividly the occasion of my meeting with Gabriel, I had to concentrate to remember exactly what he looked like.

  I reproached myself for this because in some ways it seemed disloyal; and yet, deep in my secret thoughts, I knew that although we had been husband and wife, Gabriel and I had been almost strangers in some respects. Each day some revealing action had betrayed to me the fact that I had a great deal to learn about him. I told myself that this was due to an innate reticence in his nature. But was this so? I had been fond of Gabriel; I had missed him deeply; but what did I miss?

  Was it a friend rather than a lover?

  Now I carried Gabriel's child and I believed that when I held my baby in my arms I should be happy. Already I loved my child and the force of my emotion was teaching me that the feeling I had had for Gabriel was shallow compared with this new love. I longed for the spring as I never had before because, with the coming of spring, my baby would be born. But there were many dark days between me and that happy time.

  The weather had set in damp and, even when the rain ceased, the mist was with us. It crept into the house like a grey ghost, and shut out the view from the windows. I liked to walk whenever possible, and I did not mind the rain for it was not cold yet and was that gentle damp which came from the south and which put a soft bloom on the skin. I felt very well, only impatient of the dragging of time.

  I was delighted when I noticed for the first time the lines of green in the brown fields on the Kelly Grange land. The young wheat was pushing through the earth: the promise of a new year and a reminder that spring was on its way. My baby was due to be born in March and this was November. Four more months to wait.

  I had been over to Kelly Grange to see Hagar, and Simon had driven me back. We no longer talked of the monk incident, but I had not ceased to be watchful; and there were occasions when I woke in the night startled from some vague dream and hastily lighted a candle to make sure that I was alone in my room.

  My feelings towards Simon were undergoing a change and this was the result of my friendship with his grandmother. Hagar always welcomed me and if she did not say how pleased she, was to see me--she was after all a Yorkshire woman and 142 therefore not given to demonstrations of affection I was certainly made aware of her pleasure in my company.

  And when I was with her the conversation invariably turned to Simon. I was reminded again and again of his many virtues. I believed I understood him; he was blunt even to the extent of tactlessness; there was a hardness in his nature which I imagined no one but his grandmother had ever penetrated; but he radiated practical common sense; he liked under taking difficult tasks, which most people would find impossible, and proving that they weren't all part of the arrogance, of course, but admirable in its way.

  He was not uninterested to women. Hagar hinted at certain entanglements. Not that he had suggested marriage with any of these women. Hagar saw nothing immoral in this: a liaison would not have been nearly as shocking to her as a mesalliance.

  "He has far too much sense for that!" she said.

  "When he marries he'll marry the right woman. He'll see to that."

  "Let us hope," I retorted, "that she whom he considers right will be able to apply the same adjective to him."

  Hagar looked startled. I think it astonished her that any one should not see this grandson of hers as she did. Which showed, I told myself at the time, that even the most sensible people had their weaknesses.

  Hagar's was undoubtedly her grandson. I wondered what his was. Or if he had any at all.

  Still, I should always be grateful to him for believing my version of what I saw in my bedroom that night, and I was less cool with him than I had been before that happened.

  I said good-bye to him and went straight up to my room.

  It was late afternoon and in half an hour or so the darkness would descend upon us. There were shadows on the stairs and in my room, as I opened the door I felt that horrible sense of evil which I had experienced when I opened my eyes and saw the monk.

  This was perhaps a slight matter to arouse my feelings. but it was reminiscent: the curtains were drawn about my bed.

  I walked straight to them and drew them back. I was half expecting to see the monk there, but of course there was nothing.

  I looked hastily round the room and went into the powder- closet.

  There was no one there.

  I rang the bell and very soon Mary-Jane appeared. ^ "Why did you pull the curtains about my bed?" I demanded.

  Mary-Jane stared at th bed. " But .. aw.Ssim ... 1 didn't ..."

  " Who else would have done that?"

  " But, madam, the curtains are not drawn about your bed."

  "What are you suggesting? That I imagined they were? I have just drawn them back."

  I looked at her fiercely and she recoiled from me.

  " I ... I did now't to 'em. You've always said that you didn't want them drawn...."

  "Who else would have been here?" I asked.

  " No one else, madam. I always do your room myself as Mrs. Grantley said I should."

  " You must have drawn them," I said. " How otherwise could they have been drawn?"

  She backed away from me. " But I didn't, madam. I didn't touch them."

  " You've forgotten. You must have forgotten."

  " No, madam, I'm sure I didn't."

  " You did," I answered unreasonably. " You may go now."

  She went, her face stricken. The relationship between us had always before been so pleasant, and it was unlike me to behave as I had done.

  When she had gone I stood staring at the door and Sarah's words came back to me. " You're angry because you're frightened."

  Yes, that was it. The sight of the drawn curtains had frightened me.

  Why? What was so strange about drawn curtains?

  The answer to that was simple. It was because I had been reminded of that other terrifying occasion.

  After all anyone might have drawn the curtains . to shake out the dust, say . and then forgotten them and left them drawn. Why could not Mary-Jane have admitted to that?

  Simply because that had not been the case. Mary Jane had not drawn the curtains. She would have remembered if she had, because I had always insisted that I would not have them drawn about the bed while I slept.

  I was trembling slightly. I was thinking of it all again, that sudden waking in, the night . that awful apparition and then turning to pursue, only to be faced by a wall of blue silk. It had reminded me, that was all, and it had frightened me. But I was already asking myself whether it was possible 144 that I was not forgotten, that the weeks of peace were now over and new terrors were being devised for me.

  I had been angry because I was afraid; but I had no right to turn that anger against Mary Jane

  I felt very contrite and went at once to the bell. Mary Jane came immediately in answer to my summons, but her bright smile was missing and she did not meet my eye.

  " Mary-Jane," I said, " I'm sorry."

  She looked at me in surprise.

  " I had no right to say what I did. If you had drawn the curtains you would have said so. I'm afraid I was overwrought."

  She looked expectant and still bewildered. Then she said:

  " Oh ... madam, it's of no account."

  " It is, Mary-Jane," I insisted. " It was unjust, and I hate injustice. Go and bring the candles. It's growing dark."

  " Yes, madam." She went out of the room happier than when she had left it a few minutes before.

  By the time she came back with the candles I decided to be frank with her. I was anxious that she should not think that I was the sort of woman who vented
her anger on other people when she was suffering from some personal irritation. I wanted her to know the reason.

  " Put them over the fireplace, and on the dressing-table. That's much brighter. The room looks different already. Mary-Jane ... when I saw those bed curtains drawn I was reminded of that occasion...."

  " I remember, madam."

  " And I thought someone was playing another trick. So I wanted it to have been you who drew them. That would have been such a comforting explanation."

  " But it wasn't, madam, I couldn't say it was if it was'nt."

  " Of course you couldn't. So I'm left wondering who did it ... and why."

  " Anyone could have come in, madam. You don't lock the doors during the day."

  " No, anybody could have done it. But ... perhaps it's not important.

  Perhaps I'm too sensitive. It may be due to my condition."

  " Our Etty isn't quite like she used to be, madam."

  " I believe women are often so."

  " Yes. She used to like to hear Jim sing. He's got quite a voice, Jim has. But now she can't abide it; she can't bear what she calls noise of any sort." 145 "Well, that's how we are, Mary-Jane. It's as well to be prepared for our strangeness. I've a dress here which I thought might do for you. I can't get into it any more."

  I brought out a dark green gabardine dress trimmed with red and green tartan, and Mary-Jane's eyes glistened at the sight of it.

  " Why, madam, it's grand. And it's sure to fit."

  " Then take it, Mary-Jane. I'd like you to have it."

  "Oh, thank you, madam."

  She was a gentle creature. I believe she was as pleased that the pleasantness of our relationship had been restored as she was to have the dress.

  When she had gone I felt that some of her pleasure remained behind her.

  I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the looking-glass. I looked young, and my green eyes were brilliant. Candlelight is always so flattering.

  But even as I looked I found I was peering beyond my own reflection; I was trying to probe the shadows in the room. I was expecting some shape to materialise behind me.

  Fear had come back.

  That night I slept badly. I kept waking to stare about my bed. I kept fancying that I heard the swish of silk. But I was mistaken. The curtains remained as I had left them and I saw no more apparitions in my room.

  But who had drawn the curtains? I did not want to ask, for fear of attracting the suspicious glances again. But I was on the alert.

  It was only a few days later when it was discovered that the warming-pan was missing from my room.

  I had not noticed that it was gone, so could not say exactly how long it had been absent from its place on the wall over the oak chest in my bedroom.

  I was sitting up in bed while Mary-Jane brought my breakfast-tray to me. I had taken to having breakfast in bed on Dr. Smith's orders, and I must say that I was ready enough to indulge myself in this way, because, on account of the disturbed nights I was having, I almost invariably felt delicate in the mornings.

  "Why, Mary-Jane," I said, my eyes straying to the wall, "what have you done with the warming-pan?"

  Mary-Jane set down my tray and looked round. Her astonishment was obvious.

  " Oh, madam," she said, '" it's gone."

  " Did it fall or something?"

  " That I couldn't say, madam. I didn't take it away." She went over to the wall. " The hook's still there, any road."

  " Then I wonder who ..." I'll ask Mrs. Grantley. She might know what has happened to it. I rather liked it there. It was so bright and shining. "

  I ate my breakfast without giving much thought to the warming-pan. At that stage I did not realise that it had any connection with the strange things which were happening to me.

  It was that afternoon before I again thought of it. I was having tea with Ruth and she was talking about Christmas in the old days and how different it was now particularly this year when we were living so quietly on account of Gabriel's death.

  " It was rather fun," she told me. " We used to take a wagon out to bring the yule log home; and there was the holly to gather too. We usually had several people staying in the house at Christmas. This time it can't possibly be more than family. I suppose Aunt Hagar will come over from Kelly Grange with Simon. They generally do, and stay two nights. She's almost certain to manage that journey."

  I felt rather pleased at the prospect of Christmas, and wondered when I could go into Harrogate, Keighly or Ripon to buy some presents. It seemed incredible that it was only last Christmas when I was in Dijon.

  Rather lonely those Christmases had been because most of my companions had gone home to their families and there were usually no more than four or five of us who remained at the school. But we had made the most of the festivities and those Christmases had been enjoyable.

  " I must find out if Aunt Hagar will be able to make the journey. I must tell them to air her bed thoroughly; last time she declared we were putting her into damp sheets."

  That reminded me.

  "By the way," I said, "what has happened to the warming-pan which was in my room?"

  She looked puzzled.

  " It's no longer there," I explained. " Mary-Jane doesn't know what has become of it."

  " Warming-pan in your room? Oh ... has it gone?"

  " So you didn't know. I thought perhaps you'd given orders for someone to remove it." 147 She shook her head. " It must have been one of the servants," she said. " I'll find out. You may be needing it when the weather turns, and we can't expect this mildness to continue long now."

  " Thanks," I answered. " I'm thinking of going into Harrogate or Ripon soon. I have some shopping to do."

  " We might all go together. I want to go, and Luke was saying something about taking Damaris in to do some Christmas shopping."

  " Do let us. I should enjoy that."

  Next day I met her on the stairs, when I was on the point of going out for a short walk because the rain had ceased for a while and the sun was shining.

  " Going for a walk?" she asked. " It's pleasant out. Quite warm. By the way, I cannot discover what happened to yom warming-pan."

  " Well that's strange."

  " I expect someone moved it and forgot." She gave a light laugh and looked at me somewhat intently, I thought. But I went out and it was such a lovely morning that I immediately forgot all about the missing warming-pan. There were still a few flowers left in the hedgerows such as woundwort and shepherd's purse, and although I did not go to the moor I thought I saw in the distance a spray of gorse, golden in the pale sunshine.

  Remembering instructions, I curtailed my walk, and as I turned back to the house I glanced towards the ruins. It seemed quite a long time since I had been to the Abbey. I knew I could never go there now without remembering the monk, so I stayed away, which showed, of course, that my protestations of bravery were partly false.

  I stood under an oak tree and found myself studying the patterns on the bark. I remembered my father's telling me that the ancient Britons used to think that marks on the trunk of the oak were the outward signs of the supernatural being who inhabited the tree. I traced the pattern with my finger. it was easy to understand how such fancies had grown.

  It was so easy to harbour fancies.

  As I stood there I heard a sudden mocking cry above me, and looked up startled, expecting something terrifying. It was only a green woodpecker.

  I hurried into the house.

  When I went to the dining-room that evening for dinner 148 I found Matthew, Sarah and Luke there; but Ruth was absent.

  When I entered they were asking where she was.

  " Not like her to be late," said Sir Matthew.

  " Ruth has a great deal to do," Sarah put in. " And she was talking about Christmas and wondering which rooms Hagar and Simon would want if they came for a short holiday."

  " Hagar will have the room which was once hers," said Matthew. " Simon will have the one he has always had. S
o why should she be concerned?"

  "I think she's a little worried about Hagar. You know what Hagar is.

  She'll have her old nose into every corner and be telling us that the place is not kept as it was when Father was alive. "

  " Hagar's an interfering busybody and always was," growled Matthew. "

  If she doesn't like what she sees here, then she can do the other thing. We can manage very well without her opinions and advice."

  Ruth came in then, looking slightly flushed.

  " We've been wondering what had become of you," Matthew told her.