The Ghosts of Tullybrae House

by Veronica Bale

  With a quick, satisfied breath and a glance to where the plastered ceiling met the wall, Emmie left the room, walked briskly along the corridor of the servants’ quarters, and pattered lightly down the stairs. She took care to mind their uneven heights. From her time as a history major in university, she knew that the long, heavy skirts of the Victorian maid were not the only reason so many of them fell to their deaths. It was the stairs themselves. High and narrow, there was no thought to uniformity, and some stairs were shallower than others. That, added to a platform that wasn’t even half the length of a typical foot, and long hours of physical labour, it was no wonder stairs had been so fatal back then.

  She’d been worried about Lamb when they’d come up here. She liked the stoic old butler on sight. And besides, no matter how enamoured with all things history she might have been, witnessing one of those historic fatalities was one experience Emmie was happy to forego.

  Outside in the sunshine, she pulled open the rear hatch of the boxy, ugly blue car she’d picked up three days ago. She’d spent a week in Glasgow after her flight out of Newfoundland (from which she’d had to make a maddeningly delayed connecting flight in Toronto), and had taken the opportunity to peruse used car lots for something that was both sturdy and budget-friendly.

  Unfortunately sturdy was too pricey. She’d had to settle for a demure, rinky-dink ‘city’ car.

  Fiat Panda. And powder blue at that. The GMC Sierra pickup truck her brother drove would steam roll right over it without so much as a hiccup.

  Emmie struggled to dislodge her bags, which she’d packed into the back with the precision of an engineer. She’d paid a mint to have all this stuff flown over, but it was an expense she was willing to bear. Scotland would be her home now for the next few years at least, assuming she didn’t do anything to displease Lord and Lady Rotherham… like calling Lady Rotherham’s late lamented father Lord Cranberry to her face. Three enormous suitcases were stashed in the back, and another one was squeezed into the passenger seat. An oversized and overstuffed gym bag was wedged under the dashboard on the passenger side, on top of which sat her purse.

  Her most valued books were being shipped directly to Tullybrae from Corner Brook. She was glad she’d made that snap decision. She never would have been able to find room for them in the Panda.

  It took Emmie three trips to lug her baggage up to her room on the third floor. Once they were carefully ordered beside the lone wooden chair, she went to work unpacking. Removing items one by one, with the care of someone who had saved her money to buy every precious piece, she began assigning them to their appropriate places. Jackets and blazers that had been neatly folded for the flight were put to one side of the bed; they would likely need dry cleaning to remove the wrinkles. Her silk and satin blouses, too. Knit and cashmere sweaters were stacked snugly in the drawers, and her cotton dress pants and skirts were slipped onto wooden hangers and hung in the armoire.

  Each article of her wardrobe had been chosen deliberately, with thought to how it might complement existing pieces. Emmie was, by self-imposed rule, mindful of her appearance and the impression she made on people. Her hair was always groomed and immaculately highlighted, her nails always filed so that they extended only slightly past her fingertips, and flawlessly painted in demure colours. In her sleepwear, her active-wear, and even her frump-around-the-apartment wear, there was an air of careful composition.

  It was not that she was vain, though. Far from it. Structure, order. They were the code by which Emmie lived her life. They were ingrained into her psyche.

  She knew all too well what happened when one lost sight of structure in one’s life.

  The last item at the bottom of the duffle bag was wrapped in white tissue paper and a bath towel for extra security. Taking it in both hands, she tenderly unwrapped the soft, protective layers to reveal the framed photograph within. The frame, a hand-buffed wood with gilded decorative scrolls, had been a high school graduation present from her adoptive mother. It had been meant to hold a photo of her family, and to sit on her desk in her dorm room at college so that she wouldn’t feel homesick.

  Photos of her family were packed neatly beside her wallet in her purse: her adoptive parents, Grace and Ron Tunstall, and her adopted brother Chase. But they weren’t the ones she put in the frame. She would never tell Grace whom she did put there, because it would hurt the kind, loving woman’s feelings. The photo she chose for the coveted spot smiled out at her from behind the glass. The bright, hazel eyes of her real mother were full of light, and love, and the optimism of youth.

  Emmie positioned the photo on top of the dresser, angled towards the bed where she could see it before she fell asleep each night. As she did every morning and every night, she kissed her forefinger and touched the glass.

  “Here we are, Mom,” she said into the stillness of the room. “Are you proud of me? Your little girl did it. Her first, real job as a full-fledged curator.”

  At seven that evening, Lamb tapped an arthritic knuckle on Emmie’s partially opened door. It creaked inwards an inch, revealing a sleeping Emmie. She was on top of her quilt, with the bedside lamp on and her finger wedged into a paperback novel. Not wishing to disturb her, Lamb scuttled back a step. The faint sound woke her; she opened a sleepy eye and squinted towards the door.

  “Beg pardon, madam— er, Emmie. I didn’t mean to wake you,” he said in his raspy voice.

  Emmie grunted and sat up. She scanned the room for her alarm clock, which she’d set up on the dresser beside the photo of her mother.

  “No, please, wake me. I shouldn’t have been sleeping.” She rubbed her eyes with a balled fist. “Oh—is that the time? I didn’t realize how tired I was. I just meant to close my eyes for a bit.”

  “It has been quite a day, I imagine. I came to tell you that supper is ready, but I can always keep some warm for you, if you’d prefer to eat later.”

  “Don’t be silly. It’s not your job to wait on me.”

  He shrugged. “A habit. I’ve waited on Lord Cranbury and his family for most of my adult life. I am no’ accustomed to having no one to look after.”

  “You’re too good. Did anyone ever tell you that?”

  Emmie stretched her arms over her head and yawned delicately. Then, swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she slipped her feet into her riding boots, which stood at military attention on the vintage braided rug below.

  “I’ll show you the way to the kitchen.” Lamb turned and tottered away.

  She trailed behind, following him down the narrow stairs to the main part of the house. Instead of turning right to the grand staircase, as they had that morning, he went straight and down another corridor that led around the back of the house. Here, yet another camouflaged servants’ door stood open a crack.

  “Kitchen’s this way.”

  The steps down this rear staircase were no less narrow and treacherous. Lamb had to switch on the light, since there was no window like in the stairwell to the third floor. Emmie clutched the railing with her left hand as she descended behind him, and prepared to make a grab at the collar of his sweater vest with her right, if he were to take a tumble. Once both sets of feet were firmly on the tiled floor at the bottom, she breathed a silent prayer.

  The riven-surfaced grey slate was uneven; it felt like the floor of a cave. Her boots made a charming echo with each step, and she imagined what this underground world must have been like in its heyday. If she closed her eyes, she could picture servants in their black dresses and elegant livery rushing to and fro. An army of Victorian ants.

  “Mmmm, I can smell dinner.” She sniffed appreciatively. “It smells delicious. I totally forgot about lunch. I’m starved.”

  “We’re having venison stew. His lordship always did like his venison. I’m sorry it is no’ fresh, it’s been in vacuum packs in the freezer since the fall.”

  “I’ve never had venison before.”

  “I hope it suits your palate, then. It is leaner than beef, and h
as a distinct flavour to it. I cannot place it, exactly, but you’ll know it to taste it.”

  “Freedom?” Emmie suggested, somewhat tongue-in-cheek.

  Lamb cocked his head to one side; a low, airy chuckle bubbled up from his sunken chest. “Aye, freedom. I suppose that’s what it is.”

  The corridor at the bottom of the stairway led to a main, central hallway, with several closed doors down the length. Some had windows looking into the hall, but those windows were unlit. Peering through, Emmie could see that one or two had windows to the outside as well, but the dust on them was so thick that not much of the fading evening light made it through.

  “There’s plenty of old items in there,” Lamb noted when she paused and leaned close to the glass. “Mostly just pantry rubbish, cooking pots and skillets, jugs, crates, flatware—those kinds of things. But if you’re interested in researching them, too, I’ll fetch the keys. Just say the words.”

  “Yep. I’ll be knee deep in all this stuff eventually.”

  “I’ve no doubt.”

  The last door on the right led into the kitchen. It was the only lit room, besides the corridor itself. A cozy glow warmed the windows that looked into the central hallway. The unpainted plaster walls were tiled to about waist height, with old-fashioned orange tiles arranged in a subway pattern. The wooden countertops were easily a century old, and an authentic Victorian range stood unused in the corner farthest from the door. Copper pots and pans hung from hooks on the walls, and from a suspended pot rack over the counter beside the romantic black range.

  A solid work table dominated the centre of the room, at which sat two wooden stools painted a cheery sea green. Two placemats had been set out, with empty drinking glasses, forks, spoons and knives. Each placemat also had a small plate with a slice of whole-wheat bread. A crock of butter waited in the middle of the table, along with a utilitarian, but still antique-looking set of porcelain salt and pepper shakers, and a ceramic water pitcher.

  “You didn’t have to go to all this trouble.” She pulled out the stool that faced the back wall of the kitchen, and sat down.

  “It was no trouble. I would have been doing this for myself anyway, if you hadn’t been here.”

  Lamb hobbled over to a modern stove where a pot of venison stew was simmering, and began ladling the thick, brown liquid into bowls which had been laid out on the sideboard next to it.

  Emmie watched his hunched shoulders thoughtfully. “You know, I sometimes forget that this is a way of life for people.”

  “What is?”

  “Eating dinner at the table.”

  “You don’t eat at the table?”

  She shrugged one shoulder. “Well, I mean, we used to when I was a kid. Grace—my mom, that is—would always have dinner ready for us, and we’d sit down and eat as a family. But then, when I went away to university, I got into the habit of eating on the go, or eating in front of the TV. I don’t ever really bother with the formality of dinner anymore.”

  “I’m sorry,” Lamb offered. “I didn’t mean to assume.” He shuffled back to the table with two steaming bowls of stew.

  “Oh, no, don’t get me wrong. I’m happy to be doing it again.” She paused, and added shyly, “I’m happy to have someone to eat dinner with again. It gets kind of lonely eating in front of the TV all the time.”

  Lamb sat carefully on his stool, and once he’d set the bowls down, he placed his palms on top of the table. He stared intently at his spotted hands.

  “I’m… happy to have someone to eat dinner with again, too.”

  His awkward honesty warmed her heart. Grinning to herself, Emmie tucked her spoon into the rich stew, pulling up a mound of chucky potatoes, carrots, celery and venison. Leaving the conversation at that, she popped the spoon into her mouth.

  “My God, Lamb, this is amazing,” she moaned once she’d chewed. “My compliments to the chef.”

  He nodded, and brought his own spoon to his mouth with a shaky hand. “Is there anything in particular you like to eat for breakfast?”

  “I hope you don’t think it’s your job to cook for me.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  “Maybe not, but I do. I’d prefer to pull my weight around here—although if the rest of your cooking is anything like this, it’ll be hard to resist.” She shook her head decisively. “No, we’ll take turns. How ‘bout this: for this week, why don’t you take breakfasts and I’ll take dinners? Next week we’ll switch.”

  He considered her proposition. “If you’re sure. What about lunch?”

  “Actually, I often forget about lunch,” Emmie admitted. “I get so involved in what I’m doing when I’m working that sometimes I go all day without even a snack. It’ll probably be best if we just fend for ourselves for lunch. I can’t be relied on for that.”

  Lamb frowned. “I don’t like the idea of you no’ eating lunch. You’re thin as a rail as it is.”

  “That’s kind of you to say.” She laughed lightly. “Tell you what: I promise to try to remember to eat lunch, if it makes you happy.” When he agreed and went back to his bowl, she changed the subject. “So… I meet Lady Rotherham tomorrow.”

  “Oh, aye?”

  She hesitated, pushing a chunk of soft carrot around with the edge of her spoon. “Any words of advice? I’ve only talked to her a few times over the phone.”

  Lamb finished chewing a piece of venison. “I imagine she’s much the same in person as she is on the phone.”

  Then, oddly, he jerked his shoulder and scowled.

  “You okay?” Emmie ventured.

  “Oh, quite. Just a nagging ache,” he responded rather forcefully. “I’m sure you have nothing to concern yourself with, where her ladyship is concerned. She’s personable enough. It was her particular instruction that you be well looked after in your time here.”

  “That’s nice of her.” She popped the disintegrating carrot into her mouth. “It’s just that this is my first real job in the field. I want to make the right impression.”

  “You’ll do fine.” Lamb jerked his shoulder again, but said nothing.

  Emmie watched him briefly, wondering about the strange mannerism. Was it a tick?

  Or perhaps it was a ghost, begging for a bite of supper.

  She laughed to herself at the notion, picturing the late Lord Cranbury himself standing over the old butler’s shoulder.

  EMMIE PASSED A rough night in her new bed at Tullybrae House. From an unknown location somewhere near the stairs, the wind was finding its way in. It whistled through the empty rooms, a hollow sound that prevented her from drifting off. At times, she wondered if Lamb was having the same trouble sleeping, or if the male quarters were more insulated.

  When she did manage to sleep, she would periodically wake to find herself shivering. Every time she got up to search for her blankets, there they’d be, in a rumpled heap below the footboard.

  Five bloody times this happened.

  If those things alone hadn’t been enough to make any night unbearable, her dreams had been plagued by a strange, high-pitched giggling. Like that of a child. By the time her alarm clock went off at seven thirty, she could have sworn she’d only just nodded off.

  The bed made a metallic creak when she stumbled out of it. Emmie yawned heavily, then pulled open the bedside drawer for her toiletries.

  With the pearl-pink, faux silk bag tucked beneath the crook of her arm, she yanked her fleece robe from its hook on the back of the door, and stuffed her arms inside the plush sleeves. Last, she slipped her manicured toes into a pair of terrycloth slippers, before she trundled off to the remodeled bathroom.

  Having made a scouting tour of the servants’ quarters last night before turning in, Emmie had confirmed that, like most houses of this period, the servants’ quarters were divided into male and female wings. A long time ago there would have been a door separating the two which (she imagined fondly) a dour-faced head housekeeper had once kept firmly bolted and the key secured in a starched pocket. Neither the d
oor nor its lock remained, though.

  The male wing, too, had its own washroom, which suited her fine. Emmie liked Lamb immensely, but something about the idea of sharing a shower with the octogenarian Scot butler she’d just met seemed a little queer. Both his bedroom and his washroom were separate from hers, and on the other side of the house.

  When she reached the bathroom, she shut the door and twisted the brass cabin latch above the handle to lock it. The shower in her bathroom was a repurposed clawfoot tub. It had probably been at Tullybrae for the last century… like everything else around here, including Lamb. Giving in to her historian’s curiosity, she searched the tub for a manufacturer. None could be found, but she did find a model identification number beneath the nickel-plated faucet.

  The rolled lip of the tub indicated it, too, had been mass-produced. She clucked her tongue sadly. A less coveted antique, probably. But still worth a check. She made a mental note of the location of the model number for later research.

  An oval-shaped metal curtain rod had been bolted to the ceiling in a more recent decade. To keep the water in, Emmie had to pull a series of mismatched curtains, three of them, around the circumference of the tub. To her relief, the strong odour of new plastic suggested that they were not antiques.

  She fiddled with the handles at the head of the tub. One final twist, and water gushed loudly from the mounted shower head. It, too, was new by the looks of it. A small lever on the underside would adjust the flow. Emmie tested out the four different positions, deciding on a powerful, steady stream. She needed the water drumming into her head to wake her up.

  The water was hot. It felt good biting into her shoulders and the back of her scalp. With her hands dangling loose at her sides, she stood for a while, letting the water pound into her tired bones. When she’d loosened up enough, she shampooed and conditioned her hair, scrubbed her body vigorously with a loofah and her favourite watermelon bath gel, and washed her face with a cleansing milk. The familiar scents swirled inside the shower’s vortex of steam, providing a measure of comfort.