Christmas at Gravesend

by Amanda DeWees

  “But sir, Warren was wrong about one thing.”

  To his credit, Clara’s husband showed no impatience. “What’s that?” he asked.

  The boy squirmed a little, evidently stricken with self-doubt now that he had the baron’s full attention once more. “It probably doesn’t matter.”

  “Tell me anyway, like a good chap.”

  “Well...he said the lady had dark hair, as dark as...as a hog or something.”

  “Mahogany?”

  “That’s it, sir. But she didn’t! She had fair hair.”

  A gasp drew my eyes to Clara again. One hand had crept to her throat, and her eyes were wide and shocked.

  I drew her away from the doorway. Whatever else we might learn from the boy didn’t seem as important now as her reaction. “Clara, what’s wrong?” I asked in a low voice. “You look dreadful.”

  It was not the most tactful phrasing, but she ignored it. “Sybil,” she whispered, gripping my hand, “I saw her too. The ghost woman.”

  “What!” I hadn’t sensed a ghost anywhere in the house, yet two separate people had encountered it? There was something awry here. “Last night, do you mean?”

  “Yes, just a little while after the boy was frightened. You know the portrait of my mother-in-law—well, I know it sounds impossible, but I saw her coming to life. It looked like she was emerging from the frame into the living world.” She shivered. “You never met her, so you can’t understand how I felt, thinking for an instant that she might ruin my happiness all over again.”

  That must have been why I found her examining the painting earlier. “You’re certain it was her?”

  Hesitating, she bit her lip. “I didn’t see her well. The candle went out so quickly. But she wore something long and white and had fair hair, just as she looks in the painting. Oh, Sybil, what if Lady Telford is haunting the house? What if she is the one who frightened that little boy? Atticus and I will never be able to open the school.”

  Understanding dawned. “That is why you don’t want anyone talking about the curse—because then no one will send their children here.” That would also explain why my usually coolheaded and skeptical friend was so shaken: this dream so dear to her and her husband was at stake.

  She nodded miserably. “It’s so important to us...and I’ve been so emotional lately that every anxiety is magnified. I feel horribly weak and foolish, but Vivi says it’s because of the baby.”

  “Seeing such a thing would leave anyone shaken, baby or no,” I said as soothingly as I could. “Let me examine the painting. Perhaps I can sense something useful.”

  The drawing room was empty when we reached it, so I was able to go right up to the painting. The chilly countenance of the late Lady Telford seemed unchanged to me, and no fold or frill of her white dress seemed out of place. When I placed my hand on it, it felt like normal canvas with paint and varnish. Nevertheless I closed my eyes, the better to concentrate, and stood thus for a few minutes, just to be sure. I felt not the slightest twinge of anything out of the ordinary.

  “Nothing,” I told Clara at last. “Let’s have a closer look at it.” With her help, I examined the frame and the back of the canvas, just in case there were clues to be found, but there seemed to be none.

  “You’re certain you didn’t feel anything odd?” Clara asked. There was a hopeful lift to her voice.

  I nodded. “That doesn’t rule out the possibility that something supernatural is afoot, mind you, but I can say that I generally do feel some kind of twinge or frisson in the presence of ghosts. I am cautiously optimistic in declaring your mother-in-law completely dead.”

  Her smile was tentative, but it was a smile all the same. “Now that is a statement one does not hear every day,” she said, and I was so relieved to hear her sounding like her normal self that I gave her a quick embrace.

  “The question now,” I said, “is who you and this boy saw. Who would have been wandering about last night frightening people?”

  “She was crying,” Clara recalled. “I wonder why.”

  My mind went back to our conversation yesterday with her friend. “There is one person here who we know to be in low spirits, by Martha’s account: Virginia Flood. And she is fair haired.”

  “That is true—and from what I saw earlier today, she feels a powerful desire to bestow maternal affection on a child. Perhaps she didn’t mean to frighten the boys but was frightened away herself.” The last of her indecision had passed, and she looked resolute. “Let’s go speak to her.”

  Curiously, though, when we found her, she was watching a group of children playing in the ballroom without any indication of pleasure or interest in her eyes. She looked pale, and her eyes were red, leading me to think that Clara’s theory might well be right. Clara asked in her gentlest voice if she would join us in her morning room to talk away from the rest of the gathering, and when Mrs. Flood assented almost inaudibly, the three of us withdrew to the privacy of what was clearly Clara’s private domain. Her new sewing machine held pride of place, and there were comfortable divans and chairs upholstered in cheerful colors.

  Clara bade us sit down, but young Mrs. Flood was evidently uncomfortable doing so in the presence of one who ranked so much higher; she sat on the very edge of a divan, her hands clutching each other in her lap, and stared at Clara as if afraid she would pounce. I wondered what her history with the gentry was. It was probably natural for her to feel intimidated by the grand surroundings and the presence of her titled benefactress. Perhaps entertaining a similar train of thought, Clara did her best to soften her presence with a smile and a gentle tone of voice.

  “Mrs. Flood,” she said, “I hope you’ll forgive a peculiar question. But did you happen to be in the gallery last night while the boys were sleeping?”

  I had expected prevarications, denials—but not for the young woman to burst into tears. “I’m that sorry, your ladyship,” she managed to say. “I had to know for certain.”

  “Know what?”

  Wiping her eyes with the handkerchief Clara handed her, Mrs. Flood turned a woeful face toward us. “I could have sworn one of the lads in the mummer’s play was familiar,” she said. “Even with the mask on, the way he walked and spoke put me in mind of my Fred—my poor husband, dead these many years. Even the cowlick over his forehead. I was told years ago by the woman who looked after my little boy that he had died, but if he had lived, he might have been very like this lad.”

  I remembered the intense concentration with which she had watched the play. She must have been trying to trace the likeness. “But you couldn’t be certain,” I said, “so you thought you’d take a closer look at the lads after they went to sleep.”

  She nodded. “After all these years, to know that my little boy may be alive after all—it was all I could think about. I only meant to take a quick peep, so as not to disturb them. But before I was able to get a look at all of them, one of the little fellows woke up and gave a shout. I must have frightened him half to death.” This made her begin crying again.

  If she had been less agitated, or a smarter person, she might have simply gone to Clara yesterday and asked permission to spend time with the boys, and thus prevented all the trouble. But Clara, rather than reproaching her, reached out for the woman’s hands and clasped them comfortingly.

  “Please don’t fret, Mrs. Flood,” she said. “It wasn’t you alone that frightened him. One of the older boys had been telling ghost stories about the house, and that prepared the others to be frightened. What happened after that?”

  Mrs. Flood sniffled. She looked almost childlike, and indeed she was probably still in her twenties—and had had a hard life, according to Martha. I shouldn’t have been surprised that she hadn’t the presence of mind to go about things in a less dramatic fashion. “Well, mum, when the boy began to scream, I ran. I wasn’t thinking which way to go, and as soon as I came to myself I found I was lost. It’s a big house you have, your ladyship, and I felt a bit hopeless.”

  �
�And distressed that you hadn’t been able to find the little boy you wanted to see, I expect.”

  “Yes, ever so much! So I was carrying on a bit.”

  Clara nodded. “I think that’s what I heard.”

  “And when Lady Telford walked into the drawing room,” I said, “you were so startled you froze where you were—until her candle went out.”

  A vigorous nod made a strand of the flaxen hair slip out of its hairpins. She looked so very helpless that I couldn’t help feeling sorry for her despite the uproar she had caused. “I didn’t know it was you, mum,” she told Clara, “but I didn’t want anyone thinking I was making free of the house! So I got out of there right quick when your candle went out.”

  Clara’s eyes met mine in relief, and the tension had eased out of her posture. Then something else occurred to her. “You were wearing something white,” she said. “Your nightdress?” When Mrs. Flood nodded, Clara asked, “Why weren’t you wearing a dressing gown? Gravesend is chilly at night.”

  The meek face showed surprise. “Why, I haven’t one, your ladyship.”

  “Well, that must be remedied. I’ll speak to the matron.”

  “Thank you, mum.” But Mrs. Flood didn’t seem to find that good news, and she wiped her eyes again. “This morning I thought I’d found the boy again, but then I learned he couldn’t be mine after all.”

  This made no sense to me, but Clara seemed to understand. “You mean Bob, the lad who was with Fred Waring. But why can’t he be your boy?”

  Mrs. Flood gulped back a sob. “I never saw Mr. Waring before in my life, mum. And if his people are local as he says, it’s unlikely they’re related to my husband. If he’s the lad’s father, there’s no question of him being mine.”

  “But Mr. Waring isn’t the boy’s father.”

  “What?” Mrs. Flood exclaimed.

  “You weren’t close enough to hear what he said, but the boy is a foster brother to him. I imagine they will have departed Gravesend now that the way is cleared, but never fear, Mrs. Flood, I’ll send someone out to bring them back if necessary. If there is a chance that he is your son, we’ll do our best to find out.” Clara made to rise, but I gestured for her to stay seated and pulled the bell cord in her stead.

  When a maid answered the ring, Clara instructed her in finding Mr. Waring and the boy. Then she added, “Would you mind fetching my husband first? I’d like to let him know what happened.”

  Clara’s husband must have been intrigued, for almost at once he appeared, bringing with him the lad who had been so frightened the night before. The expression of relief on the boy’s face when he was introduced to pretty young Mrs. Flood and she explained how she had come to be in the gallery was a welcome sight. Now he need not fret about ghosts and curses.

  But the young woman was still on edge. She wrung her hands restlessly as the minutes passed. When the maid finally showed in a man of about thirty wearing rustic work clothes and a small, shy boy, her body went rigid, and she could only stare at the child. I recognized the young man as one I had spoken to the night before and wondered what he had to do with all of this.

  Clara said, “Mr. Waring, thank you for joining us. I summoned you back in hopes that you can shed light on something for us—that is, if you don’t object to a personal question.”

  The young man’s good-humored expression did not show any offense. “I’m happy to be of service in any way I can, your ladyship,” he said, but when he removed his cap and raked his fingers through his tousled hair as if to smooth it, it was not Clara but Mrs. Flood to whom his eyes were drawn.

  Clara’s husband took up the thread now. “Can you tell us how young Bob come to be a member of your family? I assure you we aren’t asking out of idle curiosity.”

  “It’s no secret, your lordship. My parents took him in some years ago. My aunt—my mother’s half-sister—ran one of those baby-minding places in London, and she had to give it up because a child died in her care. She couldn’t tell us where to find this little fellow’s mother—the last address they had for her hadn’t seen her in weeks, and they couldn’t say who paid for the child’s keep. The lad was scarce more than a babe then, and rather than let him go to an orphanage, my mother took him in.”

  “When was this?” Mrs. Flood broke in. “Was it in ’sixty-nine?”

  “I believe so, miss,” he said, clearly puzzled by her urgency. “My mother said the lad was left with my aunt in June of that year, and she believed he was about a year old then.”

  “And the address of your aunt? Was she in Old Nichol Street?”

  “Now, that I’m not sure of, miss, but I’m certain my mother would remember. Why do you ask?”

  Mrs. Flood knelt before the boy, who was clinging to Mr. Waring’s hand and watching the proceedings with curiosity. When she spoke, it was to him. “I used to have a little boy,” she confided. “I haven’t seen him in many years, for I was told he was dead. But he looked very much like his father—my husband.”

  With shaking fingers she opened a cheap tin locket that hung by a ribbon from her throat. From where I stood I couldn’t see the picture inside, but Mr. Waring’s eyes widened.

  “I’ll be blowed,” he exclaimed. “It looks just like him.”

  Tears were running down Mrs. Flood’s face now, but she found a tremulous smile for the boy. “Do you remember anything of your life before coming to live in Cornwall, my dear?” she asked.

  Not surprisingly, the lad shook his head. After all, if he were Mrs. Flood’s child, he would have been only about a year old when he was removed from the dubious care of the woman in London. He was watching Mrs. Flood intently, and now he produced a small, grubby handkerchief and held it out to her. “Please don’t be sad, ma’am,” he said, and must have been startled when she laughed through her tears and took him in her arms.

  “I’m not sad, you darling boy,” she said in a choked voice. “I think—oh, I hope—”

  Young Mr. Waring was looking confused, which was understandable, and Clara spoke up. “Mrs. Flood was told her child died after she had to leave him in the care of others,” she explained. “It now seems as though the identity of the boy who died may have been mistaken. I think Atticus and Mrs. Flood should speak to your parents about details that might confirm whether your Bob is her child.”

  Clara’s husband smiled at the scene before him. “I’ve a feeling everything will corroborate that Bob belongs with Mrs. Flood,” he said.

  Then the boy sounded an unexpected, discordant note. “But I don’t want to leave,” he cried.

  “Hush, lad. No one is making you leave.” Mr. Waring hunkered down to look the little boy in the eye. “You’ll always have a place in our family.”

  Mrs. Flood’s face had fallen, but she said gravely, “Mr. Waring is right, Bob. I don’t want to tear you away from your new family. I should just like...”

  She faltered, and the young farmer finished the thought for her. “Mrs. Flood would just like to spend time with us and find out if she is a member of our family as well.” To her he added, “Will that suit, as a start?”

  She was silent for a moment. “Mr. Waring,” she said in a low voice, “you know very little about me. My past is not what it should be. After my husband died, and when I thought my boy was gone as well, I—I degraded myself to put bread in my mouth and a keep a roof over my head.” She struggled with herself and finally burst out, “Perhaps you and your parents will decide I’m a poor influence on Bob and that he’s better off without me.”

  “Hogwash!” said Mr. Waring roundly, and helped the woebegone woman to her feet. I noticed that his hand lingered on her arm. “You found the courage to survive when you had no other means. If it’s not too bold of me, I hope you’ll consider me your protector, since you have no other.”

  I caught Clara’s eye. Was he actually going to propose? She looked almost as surprised as I felt.

  A pink tint was stealing into Mrs. Flood’s cheeks, and she dropped her eyes. Little Bob was hol
ding her hand, and when he gazed trustingly up at her, her face softened. She raised her eyes to meet the young man’s.

  “That is most generous of you, Mr. Waring. Perhaps, though, you shouldn’t be too hasty. I should meet your parents first.”

  His hand closed over hers, and he smiled. “They’ll be most happy to meet you.”

  Before she could respond, the door burst open. Roderick appeared on the threshold, wearing an overcoat and muffler, jubilantly holding aloft a parcel wrapped in brown paper. “Success!” he shouted, and only when all eyes turned toward him did he realize that he had interrupted something.

  “Bad time, is it?” he inquired, unfazed.

  “We were just drawing our conversation to a close,” Clara said. “I think I’ll have Mrs. Threll bring us all some tea.”

  “Then I shall just borrow my wife. Come, my Sybil!”

  “What are you so excited about?” I asked after I had joined him in the corridor. “What is in the box?”

  He looked smug. “Unwrap it and see.”

  “This very minute?”

  “This very minute.” He set the box down on a half-moon table and folded his arms. I regarded it with curiosity. Slightly bigger than a breadbox, it bore markings that indicated it had been sent down from London.

  Mystified by his jubilation, I tore off the paper to reveal a cardboard box with the name of one of the nicer London drygoods emporiums on it. When I lifted the lid, I gasped.

  Inside the box were the twins of my ruined boots. From the Louis heels covered in gilded leather to the pink and blue embroidered forget-me-nots, they were identical to the ones that had been destroyed. “How did you find them?” I cried, lifting one out and caressing the white suede.

  He was grinning at my delight. “When I went with Telford to drive around to his tenants, I asked him to stop by the station. I wired to all of the best emporiums in London that I could recall would be open, describing the boots and asking them if they had any to send them here. That’s why I was so peevish when we were snowed in—I couldn’t return to the station to find out if anyone had responded.”