by Amy Cross
Behind him, poor obedient Matthew has already removed his shirt, and I watch in horror as he bends across the desk. There's fear in his eyes, and he's still trembling even though it's clear that he wants to appear brave.
“Now get out of my sight,” Uncle John mutters, waving me away. “It's late, and I wish to retire to bed soon. The pair of you have already caused me so much aggravation today.”
I watch Matthew for a moment longer, as he grips the side of the desk. It's clear that he fully expects his punishment, and I dare say he's used to these beatings. Still, it breaks my heart to know that this is in any way my fault. I know from experience that if I keep trying to dissuade my uncle, he will not only give me more lashes, he will also double the number that are due to Matthew.
Slowly, I turn and start shuffling out of the room, although I stop after a moment as I hear Matthew's punishment begin. The poor boy doesn't cry, since he has been taught to stay silent during his beatings, but I know he must be enduring great pain.
I take another step forward and then turn toward the stairs.
“Not that way!” Uncle John calls to me. “The drawing room!”
I freeze.
“Are you weak-minded, girl?” he continues. “Go to the drawing room!”
I want to ask why, but I know there's no point. Instead, I turn and shuffle along the corridor until I reach the door that leads into the drawing room. I hesitate for a moment, listening to the sound of Matthew's punishment, and then I pull the door open. Even before I look through, I know what I will see.
Mr. Harcourt is sitting once again in the armchair, having evidently returned to the house at some point during the day. As soon as he sees me, a smile flickers across his face and he starts easing himself down onto the floor. His bones creak as he gets into position, and it's clear that he's in pain, but finally he starts crawling toward me.
“Feed,” he gasps, with a hint of excitement in his voice. “Feed me.”
I feel a shiver run through my body, but I know what I have to do. With a heavy heart and a growing sense of nausea in my belly, I step into the room and pull the door shut.
“Feed me,” the old man hisses, edging closer and closer until finally he reaches toward me with a thin, bony hand. “Feed!”
I shudder as I start unbuttoning my dress.
Chapter Fourteen
Later, once Mr. Harcourt has finally been fed and satisfied, I slip out of the house and make my way to the hanging tree.
There's thick fog tonight, thick enough that the tree is hidden until I get closer. I know the path by heart, of course, so I have no trouble trampling through the undergrowth until finally the twisting dark branches loom high above me, blacker than night. Sometimes, I wonder if the tree is reaching up toward the heavens, and I have noticed in the past that even the roots seem to be bulging out from the mud.
Perhaps the tree tires of its role in the lives of men. After all, this is where thieves and murderers were hung in the old days. If I were a tree, I would not to be used in this manner.
This is where I come when I want to see ghosts.
Sitting at the foot of the tree, with my back against the damp bark, I look up and see the branches still reaching toward the starry sky. There are no leaves on this tree, not anymore, and I suppose the entire thing might very well be dead. It was struck by lightning once, many years before I was born, and a huge crack was opened in the trunk. By day, the crack is a thing of sadness, exposing the tree's dead guts; at night, though, the crack allows a river of stars to be seen twisting deep into the very heart of the trunk. It might be damaged and horribly deformed, but at least the tree can still appear beautiful. If one chooses to look at it in a certain way.
I wait for several hours, shivering slightly. Mr. Harcourt's feeding session was mostly calm and sedate, although he had a few violent outbursts, and I still carry the marks from Uncle John's beating earlier. Still, the pain is rather soothing, since it reminds me that my flesh is still alive. If the pain were to stop, I'd be scared that -
Suddenly I hear footsteps.
Turning, I look around the side of the trunk, but there's no sign of anyone in the darkness. The footsteps continue, however, and it's quite clear that somebody is approaching. Instinctively, I get to my feet and take a step back, still listening as the steps reach the tree. It's quite possible on this moonless night that I simply cannot see the new arrival, although I know from experience that sometimes the ghosts do not like to show themselves. As the steps come to a halt just a few feet away, I cannot help wondering whether the ghost is watching me, or whether it is completely oblivious to my presence.
I wait.
Silence.
I am being watched.
Of that, I am certain.
Reaching out, I move my hands through the darkness, in case I might feel some passing figure.
A moment later, I hear more steps coming closer, accompanied by the sound of voices. A crowd, perhaps, although there is still no sign of anyone in the darkness. As footsteps trample through the grass all around me, I start to make out certain distinct voices in the chorus, and it's clear that these people are angry. I back away from them, convinced that at any moment I shall feel a shoulder or an arm brushing against me, but the crowd seems to be passing without leaving any physical trace. I look around, seeing nothing but the dark land and the starry sky, and then I look back toward the tree.
A noose is hanging from one of the branches.
I feel a shudder pass through my chest as I listen to the angry cries that ring out all around me. People are shouting about 'him', about some man who has displeased them, and I fear the crowd has now come to a halt. A general calm seems to fall, followed by voices getting louder and louder at the front, close to the spot where the noose dangles in front of the night sky. Surrounded by the hush of expectant witnesses, I watch the noose as it quivers slightly, and then I hear voices calling for the act to be completed. The air all around is filled with anticipation.
“Wait,” I stammer, “you can't -”
Suddenly there's a loud cheer, as the noose twitches and tightens. I take another step back, horrified by the thought of someone hanging out here, but the vindictive cries of the crowd continue to fill the air. Some are telling the victim that he'll be damned for eternity, while others are calling for his legs to be pulled down, and I even hear one man suggesting that the prisoner's belly should be cut open. These cries continue for several minutes, building to a roaring crescendo, until I have to put my hands over my ears.
“Stop!” I hiss. “Please, you don't need to do this!”
Ignoring me, the voices continue to shout. I take a step back, but the fury builds all around me. Finally, however, the noise abates slightly, and I realize that the invisible crowd seems to be dispersing all around me, with voices drifting away into the darkness. I open my eyes and look around, still hoping to spot some sign of movement, but there is nothing. Over the next few seconds, the entire scene falls still, and I am left standing alone in silence.
Or, almost silence.
Hearing the faint creak of a rope, I turn and look toward the noose, which is swinging very slightly against the night sky.
On a windless night.
I know I should run, but instead I take a cautious step forward. I have wanted all my life to see a ghost, and my trips to the hanging tree have always been part of my attempt to witness some sign of the supernatural. Even though I have seen no hint of other people up here tonight, other than the spectral voices, I am quite sure that the rope itself was not here earlier. Edging closer, I look up and watch as the noose swings slightly, almost as if it's being moved by the weight of a dead body. Despite the fear in my chest, I reach up, holding my hand out through the darkness so that I can check whether there's any hint of a presence.
Nothing.
Taking a deep breath, I step back. I have read many stories of the hanging tree, of course, and I know that there is no formal count of the men who died here.
I also know that others have told stories about this place, about things they have seen and heard. And now, just like those who came before me, I realize I can hear another sound.
Someone is sobbing.
“Hello?” I call out.
No reply.
Just the soft, whimpering cry of somebody's grief.
I turn and look around, but the sound seems to be coming from everywhere all at once. Stepping forward through the darkness, I find that the sound now follows me, trailing and edging closer. I glance over my shoulder, seeing nothing but the pitch black night.
And then I feel a rope around my neck.
I freeze, as the sobbing sound comes closer. Slowly reaching up, I find that my head has indeed passed through the noose, with the rough fibers scratching against my flesh. As I carefully move the noose away and step back, I also realize that the sobbing is coming from my own lips, and that indeed my chest is heaving as grief fills my body. I take another step back, until I am resting once more against the tree, and then I slide down to the grass.
Above, the noose still hangs where it was tied, although now the night sky is lightening, giving way to dawn.
***
After setting the rope, now untied, back on the bench in Blackwych Grange's pantry, I make my way quietly into the main part of the house. I can hear Lionel, Uncle John's manservant, already working in the kitchen, but it's clear that nobody else is up yet. I managed to make it all the way to the hanging tree and back without my absence being noted.
Once I'm sure that Lionel is not about to discover me, I creep up the spiral staircase. A few of the steps creak under my footfall, but I know that Uncle John is a heavy sleeper, and I am quite sure now that I can make it all the way back to my room without arousing even the slightest hint of suspicion. Still, when I get to the top of the stairs, I find myself staring at the door to my uncle's bedroom, and I feel a faint shiver pass through my chest. I can easily sneak past, of course, and he would never have any idea that I was out at the hanging tree tonight.
Yet I am not ashamed of what I have done.
Stepping forward, filled with a sudden sense of urgency and courage, I push the door open and step into the room. Uncle John is still asleep on his bed, so I make my way around to the side and stop for a moment, watching his closed eyes and listening to the sound of his soft, contented breaths. For a man with such a fearsome reputation, he most certainly seems to sleep very soundly, and I dare say I could stay right here for another hour at least without waking him. Despite everything he has done, he sleeps as if he has a good, calm conscience.
Reaching out, I place a hand on his shoulder and push gently.
Almost immediately, his bloodshot eyes flicker open.
“I disobeyed you again,” I tell him, my voice sounding strangely calm. “I didn't retire to my room. Instead, I went out all night, to the hanging tree.”
I wait for a reply, but he simply stares at me.
“You told me to never go there again,” I continue, “but I did it anyway. I was there for several hours. I know you don't like any talk of ghosts, but I heard voices and I think I witnessed...”
My voice trails off.
“Well,” I add, “the important thing is that I disobeyed your strict, explicit instructions. I wanted to go to the tree, and even if that had not been the case, I would have gone regardless. Just to spite you.”
He hesitates for a moment longer, before sitting up in the bed. I can see anger starting to stir in his eyes, and any hint of sleep is now banished.
“Shouldn't you discipline me?” I ask, still feeling the cuts and bruises from last night's punishment, and the poorly-knitted wounds from months gone by. “If you don't, I shall only be encouraged to do such things again. I might spiral completely out of control.”
Again I wait for a reply, and this time I refuse to break the silence. He must be the one to talk now, the one to decide what happens next.
“Go to my study,” he says finally, “and wait for me there.”
“How many lashes shall I receive?”
He pauses. “Thirty.”
“Is that all?”
“Forty.”
“Why not fifty?” I ask. “Or do you worry that I would crumble and die?”
“Fifty, then,” he sneers. “And if I hear one more word from you, I shall give you many more!”
“How about one hundred?”
He opens his mouth to reply, but I can see that I've caught his attention. He knows full well that one hundred lashes would most likely kill me, and he doesn't dare push me that far.
“Go to my study,” he says firmly, “and wait for me. I shall be along presently to administer your fifty lashes.”
“Of course,” I reply, unable to stifle a slight smile. “Whatever you deem appropriate.”
With that, I turn and head to the door. I know the pain will be horrific, and I know I could easily have avoided the whole situation, but I feel that I have won a small, Pyrrhic victory against my uncle. His cruelty may know no shame, but at least I have found its limits.
Chapter Fifteen
“There's no such thing as ghosts,” Matthew mutters as he follows me along the country lane later that day. “Father says ghosts are for simple-minded people who cannot fathom the world as it is.”
“Your father says a lot of things,” I reply, limping next to him. I glance down at my chest, to check yet again that no blood is seeping through the front of my dress, and then I turn to him. “I have seen ghosts.”
“Liar!”
“Or heard them, at least. I heard some last night, actually, out by the hanging tree. It was as if I had been transported back in time to an earlier period.”
“You're lying.”
“I don't claim to understand the phenomenon, only to have experienced it. You might find such things difficult to believe, Matthew, but please try to keep an open mind. Don't be like your father.”
“Father is a successful and powerful man.”
“I know, but -”
Before I can finish, I hear the sound of horses approaching, and I turn just in time to see two riders coming into view. I instinctively place a hand on Matthew's shoulder and move him out of the way, but as the horses come closer I realize with a flash of relief that I recognize them both. Sure enough, they slow as they reach us, and I cannot help but smile as Daniel dismounts.
“What a surprise,” I say with a broad smile. “I had hoped to bump into you later, once we're at the village.”
“I bet you had,” Daniel's friend Joe mutters cheerily.
“You can ride with us, if you wish,” Daniel tells me, before glancing cautiously toward Matthew. “Well, I mean...”
“Don't worry about the boy,” I continue. “He's not entirely like his father.” I turn to my cousin. “If these kind gentlemen let us ride with them to the village, you won't tell anyone. Will you?”
Matthew hesitates, but I can already see that he desperately wants to climb up onto one of the horses. Having always lived such a sheltered life under his father's wing, he is remarkably easy to persuade, so long as one offers a crumb of excitement or adventure. Beneath his cowed demeanor, he is still just a child.
“We'd be delighted to accept your offer,” I tell Daniel, turning back to him. For a moment, I'm struck by the innocence of his expression, and I cannot help thinking that the sight of my injuries would horrify him. “But only so long,” I continue, “as you can promise that you and your friend will be perfect gentlemen.”
“I would dream of nothing else,” he replies, although his smile suggests otherwise. “You are quite safe with me, Miss Marringham.”
***
“The lodgings will be enough for now,” Daniel continues later, as we sit in a corner of the tavern. “Once I'm there, I shall be able to look for work, and then I can begin to think about finding somewhere more suitable.”
“Suitable for what?” I ask.
“For us!”
I allow myself a br
ief smile.
“You don't believe me,” he says with a sigh. “That's fine, I shall simply have to prove myself to you. There will be much for me to do, and the task is undoubtedly ambitious, but I shall let nothing stop me. Even if you don't believe me at the moment, Elizabeth, please try to remain open to the possibility. In this matter, I am as determined as a man can be.”
“I believe you,” I tell him, hoping to make him feel better. “Honestly, I do, it's just...”
I hesitate for a moment, before glancing at Matthew. Still sitting next to me, having said not one word since we reached the tavern, he seems unusually sullen. Sometimes I think there is a great deal of his father's temperament in his soul, while at other times I think he is entirely his own person. Right now, there's a kind of darkness in his eyes, hinting that perhaps his father's darker aspect is starting to break through. The struggle is constant, but I am determined to draw out his more positive qualities and keep his father's influence from taking over his soul.
“Are you okay, Matthew?” I ask cautiously. “Would you like something to drink?”
“Are you leaving me?” he replies.
“I -”
Hesitating, I realize that he seems scared.
“No,” I tell him, “of course not.”
I glance at Daniel, but now he's the one who appears confused.
“I shall work something out,” I continue, realizing that I cannot leave Matthew at his father's mercy. My uncle clearly intends to mold his son in his own image, which would be an utter tragedy. At the same time, I cannot possibly take Matthew with me if I follow Daniel to Bristol. I must find a solution, but for now I know full well that running away is simply not possible. The child ties me here.
“It might take six months,” Daniel says uneasily, as if he has sensed my doubts, “or even a year, but -”
