‘I should like to know if my son is married to someone who will be able to be a proper wife to him,’ Lady Kilmoyne remarked bluntly. Justin’s brother showed no inclination to marry. No new generation was in sight. There was no heir to the Kilmoyne peerage, nor would there be unless Flora were in a fit state to bear a child. All this Dr Barnaby understood. He said, ‘I have every hope. This may be a reaction, though a strong one, to the changes marriage brings. My advice, though, would be to leave the matter of children for a year or so until the marriage has settled down.’ Lady Kilmoyne did not respond.
Upstairs, Flora lay sleeping. A calm, friendly voice, Miles’s voice, told her, ‘It’s all right, Flora. We’re going away now.’
Flora shook her head back and forth on the pillow. ‘No, Miles,’ she said in her sleep. ‘No, Miles. Not true. You’re lying.’
The Bennetts arrived with Father Rawley late that afternoon. Lady Kilmoyne, unimpressed by the priest’s old robe, led them upstairs. Flora was sitting up now, holding a teacup. She smiled.
‘Oh, darling,’ cried Beth Bennett running to her and falling on her knees beside the bed. ‘Oh, darling Flora, you are better.’
Slightly repelled by such emotional behaviour, Lady Kilmoyne shut the bedroom door and retreated.
Both Bennetts went to her bedside, while Father Rawley remained with the nurse. ‘I’m sorry I have been such a worry …’ Flora began, though her voice was weak.
‘No, darling. You are not to blame. You have been ill, that’s all. We’re so glad you’re better.’
‘Justin—?’
‘Justin has been with you much of the time. But now he has duties—’
‘Yes. Justin sat with me. I remember. May I get up?’
‘I think you should see the doctor first.’
‘Well, ask for him straight away.’
‘What’s this? After almost a week in bed you mustn’t get up so suddenly.’
As they talked Father Rawley asked the nurse to come with him outside the room.
In the long carpeted corridor, he introduced himself: ‘My name is Father Rawley. I’m Mrs Kilmoyne’s clergyman, her godfather, and I was a friend of her late parents. I wish you would tell me if you have seen anything remarkable about Mrs Kilmoyne since you’ve been tending her. It might be of great help.’
Had the Irish nurse not felt from his face that she could trust him, and, perhaps even more, had she not believed from his calling himself Father Rawley that he was a Roman Catholic priest, she might have rebuffed him. As it was, she said, ‘Father, just before she woke so much better she said, “No, Miles. Not true. You’re lying.”’
‘Poor child,’ he said sadly. ‘She was speaking to her dead brother. Can you keep this from the doctor? It will be better if you do, I assure you.’
‘If you like,’ she said. ‘A bad dream was all it was.’
‘Yes, a bad dream’ he said, and gravely returned to the room. It did not take him long to decide that it was important he should go to Strand and see Mrs Grose and Elaine Selsden as soon as possible.
Forty-Seven
Marguerite and Mrs Grose met Elaine in London, where she descended, fresh and pretty, from the sleeper from Edinburgh. Expecting a pale convalescent who had faced the long journey from Scotland alone, Marguerite was astonished to see Elaine so happy. Her step was light as she ran into Mrs Grose’s arms crying, ‘Oh, now you are here, all will be well, I know it.’ She carried a small bag of bright new leather.
As the party crossed London in a cab to get to Paddington station, where they would take their train to Strand, Elaine talked a great deal. ‘Oh my goodness, the Bretts are so horrible, the house so gloomy, the servants look as if they were at a funeral. Oh my, you should have seen it. It will be such a relief to be back in dear old Strand. How is Mrs Constantine?’
She did not refer to her disappearance from Strand, her time in London with Tom, or the flight to Scotland. All she said was, ‘I’ve been naughty, I know – but you forgive me. I have my impulsive ways.’ The sanatorium she referred to as a hospital, her stay there as though she had been ill with some physical illness. ‘The matron was so kind. I think I became quite a favourite of hers. I felt better almost immediately. I wish the Bretts had had the common sense to put me on a train to London. Then there would have been no need of a stay in hospital.’
Mrs Grose, listening to this, agreed, made comforting remarks, said, ‘How much better things will be now you are back, and well.’
Marguerite had anticipated a difficult journey, imagining Elaine would be in a wild or confused state and probably downcast or bitter about Tom’s broken promise of marriage. As the cab crossed London she was at first relieved, then disconcerted, by Elaine’s bubbly, insouciant manner. She might have been a flighty girl who had run away briefly and harmlessly on a whim, and Mrs Grose might have been the trusty old servant welcoming her back.
Marguerite herself almost began to think she had taken Elaine’s disappearance too seriously, and wonder if Harold Brett had not exaggerated her uncontrolled behaviour in Edinburgh. At all events, she thought, Elaine was grown up now. She had a right to go where and do what she pleased. She was not, she reflected, her sister’s keeper, and should not be.
On the station, though, waiting for the train for Strand, Elaine confided, ‘Well, the Bretts have Tom chained up now. His father has him in his dusty old office, training for the law, and living at home under his eye. But it won’t be long before he comes for me. We’ll get married then. There’s no point in asking the Bretts for their approval. Tom will say, “We’ll marry, and the Devil take the hindmost.”’
Mrs Grose said, ‘That will be lovely, my dear.’
‘You will be there, of course,’ cried Elaine.
The train puffed in. They were lost in a cloud of steam and smoke among the descending passengers.
Once they were seated in their carriage Elaine did not refer again to her prospective marriage. Marguerite’s optimism about her prospects began to ebb. Harold Brett’s letter had said unambiguously that Tom had been so alarmed by Elaine’s behaviour he had given up all thought of marrying her. That he ought to marry her was not in question. The pair had been lovers; he had given her his pledge. But, Marguerite thought sadly, in a situation such as her sister’s, a woman had no power to decide. Could it be that Tom had told his father he could not now marry Elaine in order to defuse parental wrath? Perhaps he had visited her later in the sanatorium and renewed his vows. If so, there would be a happy ending, or at least the prospect of a happy new beginning for Elaine. But Marguerite had learned by now not to believe every word her sister spoke. She was not convinced.
Sunshine flooded the compartment. ‘Oh, the reapers are out already,’ exclaimed Elaine. ‘The harvest will be early. Look, Marguerite, how charming. A haywain with children sitting on top of the hay. Such a pretty sight. Look, we pass Wainscott Junction – is that not a comic name?’
She had the window seat, Marguerite beside her. Opposite, Mrs Grose smiled at her happy face and delighted chatter.
As they swung round a corner the sun flitted over Mrs Grose’s face just as Elaine bent forward and asked her, ‘Our friends – where are they?’ Mrs Grose, who had closed her eyes against the sun, leaned forward, opening them again. She told Elaine, ‘Absent. But they will come when we need them. We have an agreement.’
Marguerite did not understand who these friends of Elaine and Mrs Grose might be, but felt a shudder run through her. With an effort she asked, ‘What friends are these?’
But Elaine said only, ‘A dear pretty stream, with ducks. Do look.’ There was a little, complacent smile on her face as she spoke.
Forty-Eight
A day after Elaine Selsden reached Strand Father Rawley arrived. Henry, while understanding his friend’s motive in coming, would have been happier to let matters rest. On the morning of Father Rawley’s arrival he said, ‘If Flora’s so much better, as you say, Jack, then I wonder you bother to detach yourself fro
m your parish to see the woman. Not that it’s not most delightful to have you here, but from what you say they need you in your parish.’
Father Rawley said easily, ‘I’ve left things in the hands of my capable curate. He’ll keep up the good work for a bit.’ He looked round appreciatively. They sat beneath a great spreading tree on the lawn. He could not fully understand Henry’s uncooperative mood, for he did not appreciate how reluctant Henry was to see Marguerite Selsden disturbed and upset. He continued, ‘This business still worries me. I don’t believe Flora’s recovered, or, if she is, that she won’t relapse.’
‘I’ve written to Charles,’ Henry said.
‘Good,’ Father Rawley encouraged. ‘I look forward to his reply. I’ll call at Mermaid Street after lunch, to see the ladies.’
However, when he and Henry called at Mrs Constantine’s house she told them that Elaine and Mrs Grose were out on some business of their own. They would be back at teatime.
Mrs Constantine looked warily at the tall figure in his old black cassock. She preferred her clergymen besuited, in clerical collars. Henry, too, felt a little uncomfortable. He looked at his friend, amicable, energetic, having about him the brisk air of a practical man about to tackle a problem he understood.
‘I should see the two ladies, Mrs Grose and Miss Selsden, alone,’ he declared. ‘I wonder how to manage it. I’ll just scribble a note saying I’ll call at teatime in connection with Mrs Kilmoyne, formerly Miss Flora Bennett. You can bring Miss Marguerite Selsden up to Lion House for tea, can’t you, Mrs Constantine?’
‘If you wish it,’ she said, a little piqued by the way things were being taken out of her hands for reasons that had not been explained to her.
Thus it was that on their arrival at Mermaid Street Mrs Grose, Marguerite and Elaine found a note from the gentlemen of Lion House mapping out their afternoon for them. Father Rawley would come to Mermaid Street at four o’clock that afternoon to see Elaine and Mrs Grose. At that hour Mrs Constantine and Marguerite would go to Lion House.
On coming in and finding Father Rawley’s note Elaine immediately said, ‘I’m a little weary. I think I shall need a rest this afternoon. I don’t think I can see this Father Rawley.’
‘You might as well see him,’ advised Mrs Constantine. ‘For he’s very determined and if you don’t see him now, you’ll be forced to see him later. Unless you tell him firmly you do not wish to see him at all.’ She could not refrain from asking, ‘Why, if you don’t know him, does he want to visit you?’
‘He calls himself Flora Bennett’s godfather,’ Mrs Grose said. ‘It must be to do with those old events at Bly so long ago. Flora was eight years old then. I wonder why they’re still on about it all.’ Turning to Elaine she said, ‘You’d better see him, dear. I shall. Then he’ll go away and that will be the end of it.’
Later in the day, exactly as planned, Henry Reeve and Father Rawley came to Mermaid Street, Marguerite and Mrs Constantine left for Lion House with Henry, and Father Rawley ensconced himself in Mrs Constantine’s parlour with Mrs Grose and Elaine.
At Lion House Mrs Constantine said over tea, ‘I really do not understand, Mr Reeve …’
He explained, ‘Father Rawley is as you know an old friend of the new Mrs Kilmoyne’s family. But he thinks some events which occurred in the past, when Flora was a child, are making her ill, particularly those connected with the suicide of her brother, Miles. Mrs Grose and Miss Selsden have knowledge of all this. So Father Rawley has gone to interview them.’
‘Mrs Grose was the housekeeper at the time. My sister was the children’s governess,’ Marguerite told her.
Mrs Constantine’s face became rigid. ‘That puts rather a strange complexion on things,’ she said. She looked piercingly at Marguerite, who found it hard to meet her eyes. Then she said flatly, ‘Well, I’m sure all this was nothing to do with you, my dear. They say what we hide comes back to haunt us, don’t they?’
Marguerite nodded. ‘Things will come clearer soon,’ she said.
‘I’m sure that’s what we all hope,’ Mrs Constantine said emphatically. ‘I’m off to the kitchen, if you’ll excuse me. I have a receipt to give the housekeeper – that kedgeree you love, Mr Reeve. She cannot get it right, she says.’
‘That’s true,’ he smiled. ‘She can’t. She hasn’t your touch.’
She went across the lawn to the back door. Marguerite and Henry Reeve sat on awkwardly together. Then they both spoke at once. He said, ‘Try not to—’ just as she said, ‘Sometimes, I—’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘What were you going to say?’
‘Only that sometimes I think this will never be over,’ she said. ‘It seems now I reflect on it a woefully self-centred thing to say.’
He leaned forward and put his hand over hers, to comfort her. ‘It will end,’ he assured her. ‘It will come out right.’
‘Thank you,’ she said quietly.
Forty-Nine
In the parlour of Mermaid Street Father Rawley settled comfortably in his chair. The two ladies had seated themselves on the sofa facing the fireplace. Mrs Grose was between him and Elaine Selsden, so that he could not see her face without leaning forward. This was not the seating plan he would have chosen.
He said mildly, ‘It’s good of you to see me, Mrs Grose, Miss Selsden. As you know I’m a friend of the Bennetts and am also Flora’s godfather. She’s been troubled for some time now and she’s become ill. I wonder if what happened at Bly so long ago could account for it. But, as you’ll see, unless one knows what happened one can’t apply a solution.’
‘I’ve already explained it all to Mr Bennett,’ Mrs Grose told him.
‘But if you would be good enough to answer some more questions …’ he said.
‘For what purpose?’ she enquired.
‘Flora fainted at her own wedding. She saw something, an imaginary intruder, in the room when in Venice on her honeymoon and had to return home, ill. Now, from what you told Mr Bennett, Mrs Grose, I gather Flora was in the habit of seeing ghosts as a child. I wonder if she is not doing it again.’
‘Seeing ghosts is she?’ said Mrs Grose calmly. ‘I can’t say anything about that. What I do say is that Mr Bennett treated me very badly when I told him what happened at Bly. He was inclined to blame me, Miss Selsden also. He sold my home, Bly, to produce a dowry for Miss Flora, and now I hear he has given the cottage that should have been mine to another. Telling what happened at Bly has served me very badly, so far.’
Father Rawley nodded. ‘Yes, Mrs Grose.’
She went on, in a more conciliatory tone, ‘You will understand, sir, how alone we were at Bly. I am a simple woman, a housekeeper, a servant. Miss Selsden, at only twently years old, was in sole charge of the two children. Before Miss Selsden’s arrival I had been obliged to contend single-handed with the illicit affair of the previous governess, Miss Jessell, and Peter Quint. Then, with the deaths of both, can you wonder there were hauntings, hauntings of the children who had been so close to the evil guilty pair? Now I, the housekeeper, am blamed and punished. I am sorry for what is happening to Miss Flora, but what can I do about it?’
Throughout this Elaine had been sitting quietly, her hands in her lap, her face and most of her body hidden from Father Rawley by Mrs Grose.
‘I do not wish to upset you, Mrs Grose,’ Rawley said. ‘I am sorry about the cottage, too. Where will you go?’
‘I am not sure now,’ she replied.
He shook his head. ‘Oh dear. But will you help me like an honest woman by saying what occurred at Bly?’
‘I suppose I must. What occurred was that Jessell and Quint had captured the hearts of the children, children who had lost their parents not too long before, who were alone but for myself in a strange house in a strange country. That evil pair employed them to mask the state of affairs between them. What they actually saw, I do not know and dread to think. And then Jessell died, in horrible circumstances, and later Quint also died, violently, in circumstances stil
l mysterious. Because of the sudden and dreadful form of their deaths, they returned. They continued their work with the children. You are a clergyman, sir. You may believe me, where Mr Bennett did not. Miss Selsden and I gradually realised the horrible state of affairs – that the children were in touch with Miss Jessell and Quint and keeping this knowledge from us. We had to act. They were in danger.’
‘Did you see these spectres yourself?’
‘Yes, sir,’ she said.
‘Miss Selsden?’
‘Yes,’ came Elaine’s low voice.
‘And decided to fight them for the souls of the children?’
There was a silence. Then Mrs Grose said loudly, ‘We did.’
There was a longer silence. Father Rawley hardly knew how to continue this interview. He hardly knew himself what to believe. Into the silence, the clock struck five. There seemed, in that pause, an infinite amount of time from stroke to stroke.
‘Do you think Miss Flora may be seeing … the same thing … again?’ Father Rawley asked in a low voice.
Mrs Grose looked at him, her expression set and obstinate. She responded flatly, ‘Why not?’ Them – or another. Quint, Jessell and the boy are together now. None are at rest.’
‘Yes,’ came Elaine’s voice, as if confirming some ordinary fact.
‘God help us,’ said Father Rawley. ‘Do you really believe this?’
‘Well, I can’t say,’ she responded lightly. ‘It may be true. What do you think?’
‘I think we should pray together,’ he said. Bending his head he began, in a low voice, ‘The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures …’ But as he spoke the women’s voices did not accompany him. He continued, alone. ‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me—’
Miles and Flora Page 20
