Miles and Flora

by Hilary Bailey

  As Flora turned and turned in her ivory dress Elaine remembered the eight-year-old girl whom she had been put in charge of at Bly. Flora had been tall for her age, but thin and pale. In her dark dress and long black stockings her bright hair had seemed the only colour about her. Elaine had assumed the child’s gravity, sweetness and obedience were the result of a bereavement and a change of home. It had been only a year since the deaths of both parents and the return from India to Britain.

  Sitting in the dusty square opposite the Bennetts’ house Elaine saw the sweet pale face of the child, Flora, as she slept, saw the thin, agile figure running, running under big heavy skies towards the lake with her brother, heard again those high, light voices talking and laughing. She saw again the two heads together on the nursery rug as they arranged their toy houses, their farms, their village. That had been a whole world, populated with villagers, a blacksmith, farm animals, talking horses, sheep, ducks and dogs. It had seemed a charming fantasy until one day, eavesdropping on the imaginary events at Fullheart, their name for the toy village, another part of the inner world of Miles and Flora had, horribly, emerged.

  Mr Badge and Jessamy, two characters not encountered before, were in Farmer Smiley’s barn, making love, using words Elaine herself scarcely knew, or understood.

  And Elaine sat remembering as darkness came, the traffic diminished and a little breeze came up. She leaned sideways against the bench and fell into a thin, restless sleep.

  In her room Flora slept on in the silent house. Then, suddenly, she woke with a start. A voice in her ears said, ‘Flora – stay with me.’ His tone was light and pleasant, but commanding. Her eyes opened, her whole body became rigid. She turned her head on the pillow looking towards the place where the voice seemed to have come from, the window. In the half darkness stood the young army officer against her pale curtains. He was in khaki breeches and long boots. He wore a khaki tunic. His cap was beneath his arm. He said again, ‘Stay with me, Flora.’ Flora looked into the long pale face with the dark lick of hair on his brow that she had known so well. She looked with fear, yet with love, for here was the grown-up face of her brother, Miles. She shook her head, whispering, ‘No – no, I cannot.’

  ‘Stay with me,’ he said again. ‘We need you. Miss Jessell and Peter Quint and I – we need you.’

  ‘Please leave me alone, Miles,’ she pleaded like the child she had once been to the child he had been. ‘Leave me alone. I want to be happy.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry, my dear,’ he said sweetly reasonable, ‘but I can’t – I can’t leave you alone, I mean. And if that means you can’t be happy, well, I can’t help it.’

  ‘Please, please,’ she repeated. But he was gone.

  Flora lay for a moment gazing at the spot where he had been. Her eyes filled with tears. She said aloud in a low voice, ‘Miles, oh Miles – how can you? What shall I do?’ She paused. ‘Someone must help me.’

  Then Flora got up, put on a wrapper and went downstairs. For a moment she stood looking blankly from the drawing room window at the lightening square. Elaine had just awakened. She saw the white-gowned figure in the window. A mocking voice in her head said, ‘Can’t sleep? Too bad, Flora, so near your wedding day.’ Then she seemed to hear peals of laughter.

  Bradley, up early, found Flora sitting, motionless, in the drawing room. ‘Miss Flora,’ he exclaimed, ‘you’re awake. Will you have breakfast?’

  She shook her head without looking at him. Disturbed by her demeanour he went upstairs to Beth and Geoffrey’s room. He apologised for waking them and explained he had found Flora in the drawing room, looking, as he termed it, unwell. Beth got up immediately. Geoffrey lay awake and staring at the ceiling.

  After his return from Strand he had incessantly turned over in his mind what Mrs Grose had told him. The story haunted him. He would catch himself searching Flora’s face covertly, as though he would find the truth of what had happened written there. Yet all he saw was the young woman he had always known. Sick at heart, he knew he must never tell Flora, nor his wife, what he had heard.

  Forty

  The wedding was to be at All Souls, Langham Place. Messages flew back and forth between Bedford Square and Grosvenor Square. Flowers were delivered. Guests, tradesmen, the dressmaker arrived. The cortege, eleven carriages in all, finally set off from the Bennetts’ house.

  Elaine Selsden stood on the pavement outside the square with a little knot of people and saw Flora in her ivory dress led out by her uncle. Her head of bright hair was crowned with the pearl coronet. She put one satin-shod foot to the step of the carriage, and, as she stepped up, the lovely folds of her satin gown streaming behind her, she turned to smile at Geoffrey. ‘Oh, isn’t she lovely,’ whispered the woman beside Elaine, her own timid face lighting up as if some of Flora’s beauty and charm had imparted itself to her.

  Elaine crossed the road, eased her way through the guests who were still getting into their carriages, and stood by Flora’s carriage, which was at the back. Bradley was now helping Beth in. None of the Bennetts looked at Elaine, standing, pale and untidy, in her grey dress. The other carriages set off, Flora’s remaining.

  Elaine now stood on the pavement some three feet away from the carriage containing Flora, Geoffrey and Beth. Bradley came up with the bouquet of lilies and roses Flora was to carry and carefully put it into Flora’s hands. It was as she took it and he closed the carriage door, that Flora caught sight of Elaine. She stared at her directly, showing no sign of recognition. Geoffrey banged on the side of the vehicle and it started its slow progress to the church. Elaine stood watching as it turned the corner of the square and went out of sight.

  The church was very big and crowded. The friends and relations of the Bennetts reached only two-thirds towards the church doors on one side, while on the Kilmoynes’ side the church was full, for they were a numerous family with extensive connections.

  The church was filled with flowers and colour.

  Outside, a crowd of two hundred people, mostly women, many with children, had assembled, for this was one of the most notable weddings of the year, an event to witness, then to go home and report on, giving an account of the bride’s dress, the demeanour of the groom, who the guests had been. They had already seen Justin arrive, with Thomas, who was to be his best man. Both were in full regimentals, tight red coats and white breeches. They wore swords and carried bright burnished helmets beneath their arms.

  The carriage containing Flora and her uncle and aunt drew up. The crowd parted as Flora, very lovely, leaning on Geoffrey’s arm, ascended the steps and waited on the graceful, multi-pillared portico outside the open church doors, while Beth was conducted to her seat by an usher. Some of the crowd outside called ‘Good luck.’ Flora did not register the voices. Now, even those outside the church could hear the organ playing Greig’s joyous wedding march. The heads of congregation turned as Flora and her uncle entered the church and began to walk down the aisle.

  Geoffrey Bennett glanced sideways at Flora as they advanced towards the altar. The smell of the flowers seemed overwhelming. The church was hot. But Flora seemed cool and steady as, smiling slightly, she moved forward to where Justin stood at the altar, half turning to see her coming towards him. The choir sang. The service began. They had reached the final vows, that point in the wedding service when all know the marriage is made, and finally made, and Flora had already responded, in a steady voice, ‘I do,’ when she seemed, as far as the attentive congregation could see, to take her eyes from the clergyman’s face and lift them to the altar behind him. And then, even as the bishop delivered the final words of the ceremony, Flora half turned, to look not at Justin but backwards, into the congregation. Her face blanched. She swayed. The congregation saw the officiating clergyman’s startled face. Justin caught Flora just before she fell. Thomas swiftly moved to Flora’s other side and together they supported her to the Kilmoynes’ pew, where Lady Kilmoyne was already standing.

  Water was fetched. Flora seemed to revi
ve but, alas, looked around her in terror, as if very fearful. Gradually, however, she calmed and was, not long after, ready to leave the church, supported by Justin and Thomas. Nevertheless, she was very pale as they walked up the aisle and her eyes seemed to be flickering fearfully from side to side as if searching for an enemy.

  Following them was a group containing Lord and Lady Kilmoyne and the Bennetts, who had joined the Kilmoynes’ pew as Flora was helped away from the altar. Lady Kilmoyne, in a controlled, very clear voice, said to Beth, ‘She looked so frightened. Is there anything the matter with her?’

  ‘It must have been the emotion of the moment,’ Beth answered.

  ‘I expect so,’ replied Lady Kilmoyne. Her tone was concerned, but she was anxious. A fainting bride is not a good omen. There was another possibility, but a questioning glance’ at Beth was answered by Beth’s silent response, that she had no reason to believe Flora pregnant.

  They left the church for Grosvenor Square.

  After a short rest upstairs, Flora, who desperately wished to get up, was pronounced well enough to go downstairs to the reception. There were two hundred guests, a buffet spread across four long tables in one room. In another an array of wedding presents was displayed.

  Arm in arm the smiling Flora and Justin moved among the guests. But as soon as she could, Flora broke away and found Father Rawley, who was standing under an immense painting of the Battle of Waterloo, in his old cassock talking to Henry Reeve and Justin’s colonel. She put her hand on his arm. ‘May I talk to you for a moment?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course, my dear,’ he said. He addressed the others. ‘Flora is my godchild – we must have a little word before she departs’ – for the couple were to leave that day for Venice.

  Henry Reeve’s eyes followed Flora and Father Rawley as they moved slowly through the guests, stopping every now and then to accept good wishes or say a few words. Once they had left the statelier rooms of the house Flora began to move more quickly. She led Father Rawley down a narrow corridor and pushed open a green baize door giving on to the servants’ part of the house. She opened the door to a small room where there were some cupboards, half open, shelves and a table on which stood a tin of plate powder, two neatly folded polishing cloths and a silver spoon. There was only one window, grilled and high up in the wall. The air smelled strongly of the pungent powder used to polish silver. There were several wooden chairs round the table.

  Father Rawley looked at Flora, who was no longer smiling. ‘I hope nothing’s the matter,’ he said.

  ‘I can’t bear it,’ she burst out. ‘I’m going mad – it’s getting worse. I should have told someone – asked for help earlier.’

  He was almost at a loss. ‘You must tell me, Flora, if you want to – but we can’t stay here too long. People will be looking for you – Justin will be looking for you. What is it, my dear? What troubles you? You fainted in church.’

  ‘I must tell you. I should have spoken earlier. I am not well, Father Rawley, not well at all.’ Her voice broke. She began to weep. ‘I see, God help me, I see a figure, a man who is not there. At first I did not know who it was – he is in uniform; an army officer. Father Rawley, I know who he is now. He is my brother, Miles. Miles who died thirteen years ago. I saw him when I ran from your house – and again last night in my room. He spoke to me! He spoke! He told me not to leave him. He said he would not leave me. And then in church. In church, on my wedding day, just as the bishop blessed us, behind the altar itself – I saw him again. On my wedding day! Father Rawley—’

  She was now weeping almost uncontrollably.

  Father Rawley bent forward and put his hands on her shoulders, ‘Flora … Flora …’

  ‘He was standing in front of me behind the altar,’ she wept. ‘He pointed into the congregation.’

  ‘Yes,’ he soothed. ‘Was that why you turned? To look where he was pointing? What did you see?’

  ‘The two dead people. The dead people from Bly.’

  He gazed at her in horror. ‘Who? Which people?’

  ‘Miss Jessell. Peter Quint. I looked where Miles pointed. They were there, halfway up the church in a pew. Shadowy – not like the real people. But there! And Miss Jessell was smiling.’

  He grasped her shoulders more firmly. ‘Who are these people?’

  ‘Were. They were. They are dead,’ she said. She buried her face in the handkerchief he now gave her. He could not see her face as she said, ‘I am going mad. I knew when I was coming to see you all was not well. But now it is worse. And I am married. Someone must help me.’ She looked up. ‘They must.’

  He took her hands. ‘I will help you, I promise,’ he said as reassuringly as possible. ‘But Flora, we must plan. They will be looking for you now. You’re due to leave for Venice today.’

  ‘How can I not?’ she said in despair. ‘But how can I go?’

  ‘You had better feign illness,’ he said. ‘Better a small deceit now, while we tackle this—’

  Already there were far-off voices crying, ‘Flora! Flora, where are you?’

  Flora dabbed at her eyes, patted her hair.

  Father Rawley opened his mouth to speak but at that moment the door was flung open and Thomas stood in the entrance taking in the scene – the bride and the shabby clergyman, talking in this little, abandoned room. He smiled widely. ‘So there you are. Come – you must dance with your husband.’

  Flora got to her feet, forcing a smile. ‘I’m coming,’ she told him. He seized her arm and drew her from the room, through the baize doors, up the corridor to where there was noise and laughter and an orchestra played.

  Father Rawley plodded after them, an anxious expression on his face.

  After the cortège had left Bedford Square Elaine Selsden had gone straight to King’s Cross Station. There, she boarded the train to Edinburgh.

  Forty-One

  ‘Mr Reeve went to London yesterday, to Flora’s wedding,’ remarked Mrs Constantine heavily.

  The women were sitting outside in a patch of shade under a mulberry tree in Mrs Constantine’s small garden. This garden was a practical affair with a washing line outside the back door, a small patch of lettuces and tomatoes and a few currant bushes at the end. In the middle was a patch of lawn and the tree under which they sat. Mrs Constantine sat in her basket chair rather rigidly for, like many a countrywoman, she was not at ease sitting outside. Mrs Grose, in a dark print dress, sat opposite her, feet planted firmly on the ground. Marguerite leaned back a little in her chair. The little group, truth to tell, was not easy. Too many mistrusts, fears and cross-currents now ran between the three women.

  ‘He was good enough to say he would go back to Scotland Yard and ask if there was any news,’ Marguerite said. There was no need to say what news they wanted, and now feared. Elaine had been gone now for six weeks.

  ‘I believe you have upset Mr Reeve’s friend, Mr Bennett,’ Mrs Constantine said remorselessly to Mrs Grose. For this was all she knew of the interview between Mrs Grose and Geoffrey Bennett.

  ‘I’m afraid I did,’ Mrs Grose said.

  ‘Will this affect you in any way?’ asked Mrs Constantine. ‘Do you think it will?’

  ‘I think it may.’

  ‘That might alter your plans?’

  ‘Yes, indeed.’

  Marguerite saw that Mrs Constantine was upset by the idea that Mrs Grose had incurred her employer’s anger, and worried that perhaps in so doing she had incurred Henry Reeve’s displeasure. She suspected that Mrs Constantine was beginning to regret ever taking the Selsdens into her house. Moreover, Mrs Grose, occupying Elaine’s room, had given no indication of her future plans. The news that Mr Bennett might have withdrawn his offer of a cottage to Mrs Grose did not reassure Mrs Constantine, Marguerite could tell. She said, ‘Mrs Constantine, I visited Miss Honour Greenslade this afternoon. Do you know of her? She is the principal of Westwood Academy.’

  ‘I think I have seen her from time to time,’ Mrs Constantine said. ‘A tall, earnest-look
ing lady with spectacles. Why did you go there? I hope you are not thinking of leaving me.’

  ‘I don’t wish to,’ Marguerite said awkwardly. ‘But in the circumstances I feel – felt – well, that I must do something. Miss Greenslade was very kind. She says there will be a teaching position for me in September, and I may begin there in July, when most of the girls go home to their families for the holidays. I should be in charge of those who are remaining.’

  ‘I congratulate you, though I shall be sorry, as I say, to lose you,’ said Mrs Constantine. ‘And I know Mr Reeve has a sincere regard for you.’

  ‘And I for him,’ Marguerite told her.

  ‘But what of Elaine?’ Mrs Grose burst out. ‘Elaine may need you.’

  ‘I know,’ said Marguerite, ‘but I cannot stay here, merely waiting, forever. I must earn my living, Mrs Grose, and have some occupation—’

  ‘She has been gone only a few weeks,’ Mrs Grose reproached.

  ‘Six. And there has been no news at all,’ Mrs Constantine told her firmly. ‘And I have a friend at the police station who assures me that the chief news in the case of such disappearances will come within a week, and, if it does not, a much longer wait can be expected.’

  ‘I don’t see why that should be,’ protested Mrs Grose.

  ‘That is the way it is,’ said Mrs Constantine. ‘Miss Selsden, I think you have done the right thing. The only thing, perhaps.’

  ‘Perhaps I am impatient,’ said Marguerite to Mrs Grose, ‘but I am not good at waiting.’

  ‘Waiting is the lot of most ladies,’ Mrs Grose said. ‘One might say it is what we do best.’

  ‘That may be, but I must earn my bread,’ said Marguerite.

  ‘Your poor sister,’ sighed Mrs Grose.

  It was like a reproach, Mrs Grose seemed to be implying that, if Marguerite were not prepared to wait indefinitely in Mermaid Street for news of her sister, she, Mrs Grose, was.

  A silence developed. Mrs Grose said she had decided to go upstairs to rest, the heat was a little too much for her. Mrs Constantine then said, ‘It is rather hot out here. Shall we go back into the house?’ Elaine’s bedroom, where Mrs Grose was sleeping, overlooked the garden and anything said there could be overheard.