House of Shadows

by Iris Gower

  It was peaceful sitting near the grass verge, with the pale sun and the slight chill of the country breeze freshening my skin. I rested a little and then, with a sigh of resignation, I climbed in the van and drove the rest of the way home without stopping.

  Tom was standing near the door of the house and my heart lurched as I expected a smile of welcome. Instead, Tom was frowning. ‘I was worried about you, Riana. Where have you been all night?’ He sounded like an angry father, or at least an older brother.

  ‘I stayed in London, of course.’ I was irked. I wasn’t a child, I was an artist, the owner of property. What right did he have to question me?

  ‘So you found a man to look after you then?’

  ‘Mr Readings looked after me – the owner of the gallery – so I stayed in London. Have you any objections?’ I forced myself to be calmer. ‘All my paintings have sold, so at least the trip was worth it.’

  ‘So you celebrated by staying with Mr Readings all night.’

  Angry again, I faced him. ‘Yes, I stayed all night, but not in the way you are implying.’

  ‘And what do you think I am implying, Miss High-And-Mighty?’

  ‘How dare you lecture me, Tom? You are not my keeper, and you are on my land, so please go back to your billet and stop interfering in my affairs.’

  ‘Affairs being the operative word.’

  His sarcasm hurt. ‘Oh, just go away! Go on, clear off. You are not welcome at my house!’

  I’d said too much. White faced, Tom marched away, his broad shoulders squared, outrage in every line of his tall body. I wanted to call him back, but the words stuck in my throat. How dare he assume that I would stay the night with a man I hardly knew? With any man, for that matter.

  I entered the hallway of Aberglasney and was immediately in love with my house again, washed by the tranquillity of the pale thin sunlight falling through the stained tall windows. The house creaked and groaned though there was no one in sight. Even Beatrice seemed to be absent on one of her trips. I wondered where she’d gone, as I often did when she disappeared, but then she was part of the package that came with buying the house. I’d agreed to her staying over sometimes, though she seemed more often here with me than anywhere else, and right now I missed her.

  I made some tea and sat in the spotless kitchen drinking it, feeling suddenly alone. Mrs Ward had been here cleaning while I was in London – that was evident in the sparkling cleanliness of the glass in the panelled corner cupboard and the well-swept wooden floor.

  I wandered up to my studio taking my cup with me, warming my hands around the china more for comfort than because I was cold. On the landing, I thought I caught a glimpse of white cotton and the drift of floating hair, but when I blinked the corridor was empty. I’m tired from the long drive, I thought. I’d better not begin a new painting today. Perhaps a rest will do me good?

  In my room, I finished the dregs of my tea and then lay back against the pillows. I must have slept because I thought a lover came to me . . . he was Tom but not Tom. A man a few years older than Tom. A man with laughter lines round his eyes.

  When I woke, I wondered what it was all about, and then I stopped worrying about the dream and remembered that Tom and I had quarrelled.

  FOURTEEN

  I saw Carl Jenkins myself. I didn’t want any more quarrels with Tom.

  Carl looked shamefaced but mutinous. ‘Sorry, Miss Evans, but I took what was freely offered. No man could resist such a lovely young girl. It’s just asking too much of humankind.’

  ‘You took precautions to protect her, did you? She was a virgin, wasn’t she?’ I stumbled over speaking such plain language, but Carl’s head bent even lower.

  ‘I didn’t know she was a good girl, ma’am. I met her in a public house and –’ he shrugged – ‘well, I just thought.’ He stopped when he saw my expression.

  ‘Was Rosie in the bar?’

  ‘Why, no. She was in a tiny room at the back.’

  ‘The snug?’ I didn’t wait for a reply. ‘It’s where the ladies go, officer. It is the custom for respectable women to sit together in a room away from the men and talk and relax. The snug is not a place into which a man usually strays.’

  ‘I didn’t know that,’ Carl said in a low deep voice.

  ‘So you ruined the girl’s reputation, and what are you going to do about it?’ He didn’t reply. I persisted: ‘Can you imagine the shame of bringing an illegitimate child into the village?’

  He nodded silently.

  ‘What are you going to do about it?’ I demanded.

  ‘What can I do, Miss Evans? I got a wife and children of my own back home. I got enough mouths to feed as it is.’

  ‘Well, isn’t that hard luck for you then?’

  ‘What do you mean, ma’am?’

  ‘I mean, this child is going to be your responsibility and so is Rosie. She’s talking about having an abortion! It’s against the law and dangerous as well. What if she died?’

  Carl’s head was almost touching his chest now. He was behaving like a chastised child.

  ‘Sort something out.’ I almost whispered the words, but they sounded like a clarion call in the pale misty morning air.

  ‘Excuse me, Miss Evans.’ Tom loomed out of the mist. ‘Where do you think you get off chastising my men?’

  ‘Someone has to if you won’t.’ I felt myself grow tense. I didn’t want to quarrel any more with Tom, but he couldn’t speak to me like that and get away with it. ‘Jenkins has a responsibility to Rosie, and so have you. I can’t let her risk an abortion, and I don’t think you can either. Think of the bad publicity the Americans would get if it got into the papers.’

  ‘Are you blackmailing me, Miss Evans?’ His voice was icy. I thought of the times Tom and I had sat together close, warm in the summer twilight under the arch of the cloisters, and I felt like crying.

  ‘I suppose I am.’ My voice was equally cold. ‘Your officer has ruined a girl’s reputation. He’s insulted her because he didn’t know our habits. Here in the village respectable old women and young ladies can sit in what we call the “snug” without being labelled “loose women” . . . but that’s what officer Jenkins did, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s a matter of opinion.’

  ‘No, it is not!’ I would have stamped my foot if I hadn’t been standing on grass. ‘Rosie was respectable,’ I said. ‘Just ask your officer; he took her innocence.’

  Jenkins looked at his feet, and Tom had no choice but to believe what I was saying was true.

  There was silence, and then Carl Jenkins spoke in his deep Southern drawl. ‘I’ll take care of it, sir,’ he said, lifting his head. ‘I’ll take Rosie back home with me, and we’ll sort something out for her.’

  I sighed in relief. I couldn’t wait to see Rosie and tell her it would be all right. Tom, however, turned away and walked off without a word to me. In my mind I made excuses for him: he was embarrassed, upset, feeling guilty at not believing me. And yet, as I turned to go home to Aberglasney, I felt tears cooling as they ran down my hot face.

  Once I was home I managed to tell Rosie the good news, and she closed her eyes in relief. ‘I knew he wouldn’t let me down,’ she breathed. ‘He loves me, and I love him. It’s going to be all right.’

  But the next day Carl Jenkins was killed trying a new modification to one of the plane engines.

  FIFTEEN

  The next ghost hunt in September was another success. Even more people attended, and though the bedrooms were not quite finished I managed to fit fifty people into Aberglasney House.

  Mrs Ward and Rosie did their usual cooking and waiting on tables, and even though Rosie could not hide her devastation at Carl’s untimely death she rouged her cheeks and managed to look almost pretty.

  One of the ghost hunters, a young man from Yorkshire, took a liking to Rosie’s by now rather voluptuous figure and flirted outrageously with her all weekend. Even though Mrs Ward frowned, and tried to freeze young William with a look every ti
me she saw him, he persisted in his attentions until at last, in spite of her mother’s displeasure, Rosie agreed to sit with him in the dining room after supper and have a glass of sherry with him.

  Later I talked to her. Her blue eyes were shadowed, her face pale beneath her rouge, and in spite of her burgeoning size her mother hadn’t yet guessed her condition.

  ‘You have to talk to your mother,’ I said. ‘Look, I’ll help you. I’ll have the baby here as much as I can.’

  ‘But –’ Rosie was almost in tears – ‘there can’t be a baby. You can imagine how my mum would take it if I brought shame on her!’

  ‘You can’t still want to abort it.’

  ‘Why not?’ Rosie was uncomprehending.

  ‘It’s too late to get rid of it,’ I said firmly. ‘No doctor will do it now. You are much too far gone. Six or seven months, is it?’

  Rosie shrugged helplessly. ‘I don’t really know.’

  Mrs Ward came into the room her dark, bird like eyes bright with suspicion. She put her hand on her daughter’s shoulders and shook her. ‘You’ve fallen for a baby, haven’t you? Tell me the truth, Rosie, before I smack it out of you.’ Rosie started to cry, and her mother shook her roughly once more.

  My heart was in my mouth. Mrs Ward was a formidable lady, but I had to speak out. It was clear Rosie couldn’t say anything. ‘Mrs Ward, please stop manhandling your daughter! You might harm her and the baby.’

  Mrs Ward’s mouth was a tight line, but she forced herself to speak. ‘It would be the best thing. Who’s the father, Rosie? Tell me.’

  ‘He’s dead, if you must know.’ Rosie’s voice was a wail of pain. ‘I loved him, he was going to take me to America with him, but he’s dead! Now are you satisfied?’

  Mrs Ward froze. ‘An American? Don’t tell me your bastard child will be a foreigner!’

  ‘Oh, Mum, can’t you care about me for a change? Worry about my feelings, not your own?’

  I was so sorry for Rosie, and when her mother didn’t move I held Rosie in my arms myself.

  She appealed to her mother. ‘Will you help me, Mum?’

  ‘How can I help you?’ Mrs Ward was still stiff-backed, but I sensed her attitude had softened.

  ‘I don’t know!’ Rosie burst into hysterical tears again, and at last Mrs Ward came to her and took her away from me, holding her tightly.

  ‘I’ll do my best, we’ll go away somewhere, it will be all right,’ Mrs Ward said, but her tone was rigidly cool, her brow furrowed with a frown. ‘Though how I will be able to support us all without a job, I don’t know.’

  ‘You and Rosie can stay here with me,’ I said, not being entirely unselfish because I knew I couldn’t manage without the two of them to help me with the weekends. ‘There are downstairs rooms at the back of the house, unused. We’ll do those up between us.’

  ‘But folk will still know. They’ll talk about us,’ Mrs Ward said quietly.

  ‘Rosie will have to have the baby,’ I said firmly. ‘She’s too far advanced in her pregnancy to abort the child now. I’ll talk to Tom. He’ll think of something, I’m sure.’

  I hadn’t spoken to Tom for some days, but I’d wanted an excuse to try to patch things up between us – and this might be it.

  However, when I went to see him, Tom was cold and distant. ‘If you’ve come to make a scene, remember I’ve just lost a good pilot and a good man.’

  I wanted to retort that if Carl Jenkins was such a good man, why did he have an affair with a young innocent girl when he had a wife at home? However, I sat down in his office and just took a deep breath instead.

  ‘I’ve had to write a letter home telling Carl’s wife that her husband has been killed.’ He spoke defensively, wearily.

  ‘I only wanted to ask your advice,’ I said.

  His lines of strain softened. ‘I’m sorry. I know you’re trying to help the girl, and I’ve been hard on you as well as her. What can I do?’

  I shrugged helplessly. ‘I don’t know.’

  He poured us a drink from the bottle in his drawer and sat down again, reaching for my hand as I sat down next to him. It felt comfortable and comforting to have his fingers touching mine, however lightly.

  ‘I wondered if the baby could go to America to be cared for . . . by his own sort,’ I finished lamely, knowing I sounded patronizing.

  ‘Black-skinned folk, you mean.’ Tom withdrew his hand.

  ‘Yes.’ I lifted my chin defensively. ‘You can imagine what sort of life the child would have here among a white community, a very insular village community at that.’

  Tom sighed. ‘I do understand. Perhaps I can arrange something when the child is old enough to travel –’ he looked up hopefully – ‘unless Rosie wants to go too?’

  ‘I don’t think she does. In any case, her mother wouldn’t allow it.’

  ‘Her mother can’t run her life for ever.’

  ‘I know, but Rosie is young, impressionable . . . Goodness knows what would happen to her if she went away with a baby and tried to manage without her mum.’

  ‘How’s the painting going?’ He seemed to soften his voice just slightly.

  I smiled up at him, longing for him to take me in his arms although he did nothing of the sort. ‘Fine. My last exhibition was a great success.’

  ‘I imagine so. After all, you stayed the night in London with your agent . . . or whatever he is.’ There was now an edge to Tom’s voice that I didn’t like very much.

  I didn’t see why I should explain myself to him but I did anyway. ‘That’s right. Mr Readings had a lady friend who ran a guest house. I stayed there for the night because it was late and—’

  ‘And your Mr Readings stayed there too, I presume.’

  ‘He did, as a matter of fact.’ I tried to gloss over the awkwardness between us. ‘He was very pleased at the sales we achieved. Of course, I have to pay him for exhibiting and framing and all that sort of thing, so the profits are virtually halved.’

  ‘Perhaps you have another arrangement – other than money, I mean.’

  I took in his meaning, and the hurt made me stand up and step away from him. So that’s what he thought of me and my work! That I sold my body in exchange for Mr Readings rustling up a few rich customers, who were then persuaded to buy my paintings. I felt like hitting Tom. He was maligning me and my work as an artist. ‘Thanks a million,’ I said sarcastically and walked away.

  Fuming, I went into the house and walked upstairs to my studio. I heard footsteps running up the stairs behind me, and Rosie came into the room.

  ‘What’s happening miss?’ She was breathless.

  ‘Air Commander Maybury has agreed to send the baby to America to be brought up by a black family,’ I said. ‘Now please, Rosie, go away. I have to work if I’m to pay your wages.’ I know I sounded sharp, but Tom’s harsh and unjustified accusations had wounded me.

  I mixed some paints and began to paint: angry colours, bright colours, red and yellow edged with white, the house on fire, flames leaping out of the old roof. And then I painted a faint figure on the roof and covered it with a few layers of a mixture of greyed down and white. She was almost invisible in a cloud of smoke. I don’t know why I painted it. As far as I knew the house had never been on fire, but then no one said art should represent real events. And yet I shivered, hoping I wasn’t tempting fate.

  It was almost dark by the time I’d stopped work and, exhausted, I left the studio. When I went downstairs to the kitchen it was empty. Mrs Ward must have finished for the night, and she and Rosie had gone home. A tray of cold meat and pickle was left covered on a tray on the kitchen table, and an upturned cup was placed in the matching saucer, ready for me to make myself a cup of tea.

  The house was silent, not even the creaking and groaning of the old boards disturbed the silence. I shivered, feeling very alone, but a cup of hot tea and some food soon put me in a better mood.

  After, I wandered round the house looking for Beatrice. There was no sign of her; she was
on one of her mysterious ‘trips’. I never knew when she would be here or away, and I felt a momentary irritation. It wouldn’t be much trouble for her to tell me her plans. It was rude to just vanish!

  And then, as if my thoughts had touched her, she was there outside her door. It hadn’t opened or closed, she was just there. I drew back, startled. Was she a ghost or a figment of my overworked, overwrought imagination?

  ‘What’s wrong, dear? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’ She was so matter-of-fact that I laughed in relief. I was tired, there were shadows on the landing and I was imagining things – foolish things like ghosts.

  ‘You startled me, Beatrice,’ I said. ‘For a moment there, I thought I was seeing things.’

  ‘Come and sit in my room, dear, you look worried. We can talk, if you like. I’m a very good listener.’

  I thought of my nice cup of tea waiting for me in the kitchen. I’d made a fresh pot before I’d gone wandering. ‘No thanks, Beatrice,’ I said. ‘I’ve got some paperwork to do.’

  ‘Well, I’ll say goodbye then, dear.’ She spoke softly. ‘I’m going away tonight to visit some of my people, and I’ll see you in a few weeks’ time.’

  ‘Beatrice, I’ve got a ghost-haunting weekend in a few weeks. I want my guests to see you. They are convinced you are not of this world!’

  ‘Are any of us, dear?’ Beatrice said and went into her room, closing the door quietly behind her.

  I quickly returned to the cheerfulness of the kitchen and sat near the warmth of the open fire. I had a gas stove in there but I loved the coal fire, and now I crouched near it with my cup of tea in my hands.

  I must have dozed, because when I opened my eyes my cup was placed neatly on the floor between my feet and from outside I heard the sound of horse’s hooves against the drive. I hurried to the front door and looked out in time to see an old-fashioned hansom carriage pulling away. Even as I watched, bewildered, the whole thing slowly vanished, and I was left gaping at the arch that led away from the house.

  Was I going mad? Was I working too hard concentrating on ghostly images – imagining the house on fire, haunted? Next I would believe the five young maids were really haunting Aberglasney.