“Irene?” he asked, still grim.
I rose to my feet. “I sent her to find Susan and the others.” Hastily, I walked to the attic door, right through the still shade of Rose, and looked downstairs. Irene stood at the foot, wrapped in her mother’s arms. Emily stood beside them, so did old Lady Haggard, roused from her room in daylight by the crisis. They all stared up at me.
“Miss Salton fell,” I said, “but they caught her in the blanket. The servants have her until the doctor and the constable come.”
“Patrick?” Emily whispered.
“He’s fine. He saved Irene, tried to save Miss Salton. We’re just going to nail the wood back over the window, and then we’ll be down.”
Susan frowned over her daughter’s head. “Let the servants—”
“I think the servants have enough on their plate right now. You might want to check on whoever was with Irene when Miss Salton took her away.”
With that, I turned back into the attic and closed the door. Patrick was already nailing the plank back across the window, using the hammer Miss Salton, presumably, had brought for the purpose of prising the old nails free.
Rose hovered just behind him. For a few moments, we both watched him hammer with unnecessary aggression. Then, deliberately, he set the hammer down and turned to face me. So did Rose, and I knew what she was asking. I wondered if I refused, would she try to come in anyway? It didn’t matter. I was more than prepared for her. I could keep her out if I chose. To have any chance whatsoever with Patrick, I needed to keep her out.
Patrick said, “How did you know she was up here with Irene?”
Guesswork. I guessed. The desperate lie struggled to be born, but I wouldn’t stoop so low. I strangled it. “You know,” I said steadily.
“Rose,” he said. “You spoke with Rose’s voice. It wasn’t the first time, was it?”
I shook my head. “No. We’ve spoken before, she and I. You know that. She tried to help me against Miss Salton in the cellar, and again up here. She haunts this world because she isn’t yet at peace. Neither are you. You have unfinished business between you.”
He walked towards me, scowling. “What do you mean?”
“I mean you’re both suffering and need to speak to each other one last time.”
“She’s dead!” Patrick said harshly.
“And yet she told you where to find Irene. She saved Irene, not you or me.”
Patrick dragged his hand through his unruly hair. “Barbara, don’t do this. I can’t—”
“Can’t what?” I interrupted. “Believe that Rose can speak beyond the grave? Bear the pain? The pain will ease only when you speak to her. I think… I really think it has to come from her. She wants it that way.”
His dark, tormented eyes lifted to mine. “I loved her,” he said deliberately. “I can’t speak to her through you. Even if I believed.”
I smiled sadly. “Clutching at straws, Patrick. You believed from the moment you stopped disliking me. You acknowledged that belief when Rose spoke through me downstairs.”
For a moment, his face was all emotion, raw and anguished. And I thought some of it was because he knew, as I did, that he and I could never go back from this. I would forever be associated with Rose in his mind. That would tear him apart. Tear us apart.
Rose came up to me, less transparent now that the sun was lower and the wood across the window blocked part of what light was left. Her insubstantial fingers touched my cheeks in a caress of gratitude and understanding.
“She’s coming in,” I said hoarsely. “Speak to her, not to me.”
“Will you know?” he said urgently. “Will you remember?”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m like a priest in this. Just a vessel…” And then she was inside me, and I let her all the way in, let all her feelings consume me, current and remembered.
“Patrick,” she whispered, closing the distance between us and him. She reached up, touching his face with my fingers. “I never thought I would touch you again.”
His breath caught. “Neither did I. You feel like her.”
She reached up and kissed him with my mouth. “Do I still feel like her?”
Patrick shook his head dumbly.
“It wasn’t you,” she said. “Or me. Miss Salton pushed me out of the window. But you’ll know that if you have her diary. I wanted you to know it from me too, as I want you to know how much I always loved you. How much I hated myself for what I did with Hugh Cartwright. It was only ever to make you jealous, and as soon as I was doing it, I knew it was wrong for all of us. I should never have believed Margaret. Not that I blame her, only me.”
“We were too young,” Patrick whispered, touching her at last when he touched me. “Playing at being grown-ups with feelings we weren’t mature enough to handle. I was such an idiot, Rose, but the love was always there.”
She stretched my lips into a loving smile. “I know. My love, I know. Mine too. I think we forgive each other now, at last. Hold on to the love.”
“I do. I will.” He kissed her on my mouth, slow, tender, healing, and she slid out of me as if she couldn’t help it, fading into peace, into the realm that was hers now.
Patrick raised his head, staring into my eyes. “Is that you, or her?”
“Barbara. It’s Barbara.”
His fingers touched the dampness running down my cheek. “And those?”
I didn’t answer. They were mine. They would always be mine. I turned blindly away from him and walked out of the attic. I would pack and leave in the morning.
* * * * *
In the end, of course, I stayed on another few days to be with Emily during the aftermath of the Miss Salton affair. I only felt I could because Patrick left the house that night. He’d spent the rest of the day with the doctor and the constable and other authorities hastily summoned from York, and then left with them in the evening.
Miss Salton was taken away, alive and largely unhurt, but now completely silent, turned in on herself utterly. I hoped she was happy in there because I doubted her real life was going to be remotely comfortable any more. The evidence—her diary, the twine, and hooks I’d discovered in the schoolroom globe, the markings on the nursery door—was all shown to the authorities, and spoke clearly for itself.
“It will be a terrible scandal, of course,” Susan said with a large sigh over a rather late dinner. “But at least it’s better than everyone looking askance at Patrick again and writing those shameful things about him in the newspapers.”
“And it’s one in the eye for Hugh Cartwright,” Emily said with satisfaction, forgetting, apparently, that the same Cartwright’s wife had made her doubt her husband’s favourite cousin only hours ago.
I didn’t remind her. Although I did my best to present a calm and even humorous face to the world, inside, where it mattered, I was lost in my own misery because he’d gone and I hadn’t even said good-bye. Even though I knew that was for the best, I would have liked to look into his eyes once more and smiled.
It seemed I had committed the ultimate, unforgivable sin. I had fallen in love with the wrong man at the wrong time. And unlike my grief for Gideon, there could be no end to this one, because Patrick wasn’t dead. I had to hug to myself what I had: a few kisses and a night of love; a few moments of liking and trust and friendship; and the knowledge that I’d helped him to find the peace he deserved over Rose’s death. Those were my rewards for my aching throat and stiffly smiling lips.
* * * * *
The next morning, Emily bounced into my room with her wonderful new idea, namely that I should become Irene’s governess.
“I don’t think that would work,” I said wryly. “For one thing, you’d have to sell it to Susan.”
“Oh I have. Susan’s all in favour of it. She’s decided she likes you after all. Irene told us what you did in the attic, and now you are all that is good an
d kind and brave. Talk to her over breakfast.”
“Perhaps I should be hurt by the speed with which you’re trying to shuffle off your companion.”
Emily picked a pillow off the bed specially to throw at me. I caught it and put it back on the bed. Even that much movement reminded me how abused my poor body was. My face ached too, swollen and cut and quite an extraordinary collection of colours.
“You’d rather teach,” she said sternly. “And you’d still be here at the Hall.”
“As someone else’s employee,” I pointed out. “It wouldn’t be a good recipe for our friendship, Emily, and frankly, Susan and I would flounder. And lock horns, I suspect. I think we should consider Irene in all of this. She yearns for the company of other children, and with the best will in the world, Susan will never be the kind of mother who wants her child underfoot all the time. I think Susan should consider a school for her rather than another governess. Then write to her often when she’s there, visit on the designated days, and let her come home for holidays.”
Emily stared at me. “You’ve got all this worked out, haven’t you?” she said with some chagrin. “You always have everything worked out for the best, don’t you?”
I dropped my gaze to the bedclothes, ignoring the ache I was going to have to get used to. “Always,” I agreed. “Now go away so I can dress for breakfast.”
* * * * *
That evening, after dinner, Arthur broke with convention and, instead of lingering in the dining room over a glass of port, accompanied the ladies to the drawing room.
There, a covered picture sat on an easel in the middle of the room.
Old Lady Haggard seemed inclined to growl at it. Instead, she stumped past so quickly, I was sure she planned to strike it with her stick on the way past. But in the end, Emily got in her way by bouncing over to the easel.
“Oh Arthur, is this your painting? My surprise? Can I look?”
“Of course,” Arthur said, striding forward and whipping the cover off the picture before gazing at his wife with an almost comical mixture of pride and anxiety.
Emily’s eyes widened as she gazed, her mouth forming a soundless “Oh.” She swallowed. “Oh, Arthur. Do I really look like that?”
At last, I dragged my gaze away from her to the portrait. And smiled, because he’d found what had been missing the last time I’d seen it—a spark in the eye, the faintest tilt of her lip that spoke not just of spirit but of temper, as he’d seen in her when they’d quarrelled after the ball.
“Yes,” I said. “You do. Arthur, you are indeed talented!”
“Isn’t he?” cried Emily, glowing. “It’s beautiful, my love! Where shall we hang it?”
Old Lady Haggard cackled.
* * * * *
It was a funny thing, but on the day of my departure from Haggard Hall, I realized how well I’d slept over the last few nights since Miss Salton’s removal. The lust bag and several of the other nastier sentient emotions had vanished with her. And the whole atmosphere of the place had lightened, not just, I thought, through her departure, but through Rose’s. Although several spirits remained, wispy and insubstantial, they were more distant, more calm, in the process, perhaps of moving on as they should. Even in the cellar, I thought, as I walked past the summer house one last time, the nastier spirits were fading. There was less evil, less negative emotion to help them flourish.
It was Emily herself who flourished now, lady of Haggard Hall, undisputed by any other, living or dead. Apart, perhaps, from old Lady Haggard, who retained all the privileges of old age and ill nature. But one was never permitted a perfect life.
I strolled back to the front of the house, where my meagre bag was being placed in a smart and comfortable-looking carriage, together with a small trunk full of gifts from Emily and Arthur, who stood on the steps to wave me off, along with Susan and Irene.
They would have a quiet few days now without any guests at all. Mr. Faversham and Prince Bela had left several days before. “They were Patrick’s creatures,” Emily had confided in me. “He installed them here in turns to look after Arthur, make sure no else tried to hurt him after the statue incident. Isn’t he wonderful?”
“Wonderful,” I’d agreed.
I shook hands politely with Susan and with Irene, who turned it quickly into a hug that pulled at my heartstrings, particularly when she whispered, “Thank you!” in my ear. Arthur, looking gallant with his arm still in a sling, offended Susan by kissing me on the cheek—fortunately my cuts and bruises had healed rapidly in the last couple of days and had almost faded altogether—before Emily threw herself into my arms.
“I shall miss you!” she cried. “But we’re going to London in a few weeks, so I’ll write to you, and if you’re still there—”
“Of course,” I said. “If you’re not too great a lady. Good-bye, Emily.”
As I climbed into the carriage, she gave me a grand, sweeping curtsey so that we parted in laughter. The carriage was out of the drive and bowling along the road towards York before I let the aching smile relax and realized I was weeping.
Chapter Seventeen
When I reached London, I didn’t go straight to my mother’s rooms. She would know too quickly that something was wrong, and I wasn’t ready to talk about it, even with her. Instead, I bought the latest edition of the Voice, Patrick’s journal, dated yesterday, and sat on a bench in the Green Park to read it from cover to cover. There was a particularly interesting article on one of the German principalities still recovering from revolution and suppression.
Only when a supposed gentleman sat beside me and began making lewd conversation did I put the journal away and stand up, reducing him to stammering incoherence with my best teacher’s glare.
Then I picked up my bag and the small trunk and walked regally along the path towards the gate and Lady Fairford’s house.
As before, the superior butler admitted me without expression. I couldn’t help feeling slightly piqued that my mother didn’t rush downstairs to greet me, as she had when I’d arrived the last time. Instead, I carried my own things up the staircase to her first-floor rooms and entered without knocking.
“Crack open the champagne, Mother,” I said dryly, dropping my luggage at the door. “I’m back.”
“So I see,” my mother said with unexpected frustration. “Couldn’t you strive for a more daughterly greeting? Just once?”
Too late, I realized she had company at her cosy little arrangement of sofas to the right of the sitting room. Although she stayed firmly seated to state her displeasure, her male visitor rose to his feet and turned to face me, and my heart seemed to stop beating.
Patrick Haggard inclined his head. “Mrs. Darke.”
Somehow, my feet carried me across the room. From appearing to stop altogether, my heart now lurched and thundered erratically. And my stupid legs shook.
“Mr. Haggard,” I managed. “What brings you here? Have you finally learned the value of communing with the dead?”
I couldn’t hold out my hand in civil greeting because it trembled too much. To my relief, he didn’t insist, although his eyes were as sharp and steady as ever on mine. He said, “It’s the living who interest me more. Your mother is quite…fascinating.”
“Isn’t she?” I said cordially, shooting her a stare that was at once quizzical and threatening. I hoped she’d stuck to truth. Though why I should care what he thought of us now, I didn’t know, except I couldn’t help valuing his good opinion and I’d no idea why he was here. Surreptitiously, I reached out with my senses, searching for any spirits, chiefly Rose. I hoped my mother had not enticed her back for him. They both needed to move onwards. What if I’d been wrong to let him talk to Rose? What if it had only fed his obsession now that he believed again in her love?
“She isn’t here,” my mother said flatly.
I flushed. “I don’t know what you mea
n. Please, sit down, Mr. Haggard. I need to refresh and change, so I’ll leave you to your talk.”
“Oh in the name of God!” my mother fumed, at the same time as Patrick, his eyes alight with silent laughter, finally caught my hand to prevent my walking away.
“I came to speak to you, Barbara,” he said, interrupting my mother, who still had a lot more to say. Rather to my surprise, she shut her mouth. “If you don’t mind.”
I didn’t mind. I wasn’t sure how often I could bear saying good-bye to him, but I would never object to his company. I would always soak it up like winter sunshine, uncaring that I’d wilt again as soon as he’d gone.
“Pour more tea, Barbara,” my mother said vaguely, rising at last from her sofa. “I just need a word with dear Lady Fairford…”
My mouth showed a tendency to fall open at this very odd behaviour on her part, but since Patrick still held my shaking hand as she left the room, I allowed myself to sit on the nearest sofa, if only to avoid touching him.
And yet when I drew my hand free, it only felt cold and lonely and I wanted to take his long, strong fingers back.
“I know what you did,” Patrick said softly, “and after talking to your mother, I understand better what it cost you.”
“I don’t follow—”
“Yes, you do,” he said with a first hint of impatience that made me smile in spite of myself. “Rose. You gave both Rose and me peace in the only way you could. It was the most generous thing I’ve ever—”
“It wasn’t generous,” I interrupted with a hint of desperation. “It’s just what I do. What’s the point of a gift like this if you don’t use it? I refuse to let it become merely a curse.”
“Of course, your motives were entirely selfish,” he agreed, and I couldn’t help the breath of surprised laughter that spilled over my lips. His lips quirked in response. “Even so, I left without saying thank you.”
I’d tried so hard to read nothing into his being here, and yet still the pain twisted and squeezed.
“A note would have sufficed,” I managed.
The Dead of Haggard Hall Page 22
