by Amy Cross
“Is that the public house?” I asked.
“Only one for about a hundred miles in any direction.”
“I do not allow myself to enter such dens of iniquity,” I explained. I thought myself to be so superior at that moment, although now I lament that attitude. “A public house is no fit place for a lady.”
“Tell that to the ladies who're there every night,” he muttered, turning and trampling away along the road. “Maybe you'll change your mind some time. And get those ducks inside before nightfall, else the foxes and whatever else'll 'ave 'em.”
“I want to ask you one thing!” I called out. “It's about the child!”
I waited, but this time he did not turn back.
“Please!” I continued. “Just one more question!”
He trudged away, and I realized that I would have to go after him if I wanted to hear any more. Looking up at the ducks, however, I knew that I already had plenty of jobs to be getting on with, and I reminded myself that I should not trouble myself with tawdry gossip. I reached up and began to unhook the ducks, although I quickly determined that I would only be able to carry one at a time back into the house. They were, certainly, monstrous brutes.
Turning, barely able to maintain my balance, I began to make my way toward the kitchen door.
As I did so, however, a hook in one of the ducks caught my finger, and I let out a gasp as I felt my skin tear. Looking down, I saw a bead of blood running from the small wound, and the flicker of pain immediately reminded me of my discipline and its pain. Momentarily stirred, I looked over my shoulder and saw Jim disappearing into the distance. Then, feeling extremely out of sorts, I hurried back into the house.
Chapter Fifteen
“Busy there, aren't you?”
Startled, I look up from my notebook and see that the landlord of the Horse and Hounds has come over to me. I feel momentarily startled, having been lost in my memory of the ducks that hung on the gate forty years ago, and I suppose I probably look utterly lost. After all, it is difficult to think back to one's younger self, especially when one's younger self happens to have been a hopelessly naive young woman. One becomes caught up in the memories.
“Writing a story?” he continues, taking my empty tea-cup from the table.
“Something like that,” I reply, and I can hear the uncertainty in my own voice.
“Another refill?”
I nod, even though I don't need anything. It's getting late, and I suppose the saloon will close soon, but I want to finish my account of Grangehurst before I go to bed. After all, in the morning everything will change.
“It's alright,” the landlord continues, as if he sensed my worry. “I've kicked the regulars out, but you're no trouble. Take as long as you want. I'll be back in a mo with your tea.”
With that, he turns and heads over toward the bar area.
“Do you ever hear anything of Grangehurst?” I blurt out suddenly.
He stops and turns to me. “What was that?”
“Grangehurst,” I continue, “the house on the moor, a few miles from the edge of town. You must know it. Surely everyone knows it.”
“Grangehurst?” He furrows his brow. “You mean that place just off the road, on the way toward Commington?”
I nod.
“I don't think I've ever heard it mentioned,” he says. “Not much, anyway. That road's not much used these days, to tell you the truth, not since the other one was put in. The only people who go that way are farmers who don't want to block the main traffic, and none of them've ever said anything to me about the old house out there. What is there to mention, anyway?”
“Do people still live there?”
“I don't have a clue,” he replies with a shrug. “To be honest, you're the first person who's reminded me of it in years. Why do you want to bring up something like that?”
“I was a governess there,” I explain, “a long time ago. Forty years, to be precise.”
“You were, were you?” He chuckles, as if he finds something amusing about my story. “You must've been young back then. You don't look barely old enough to've been doing anything forty years ago.”
“I was a governess for a family that lived out at Grangehurst,” I explain, although I'm a little surprised that this man seemingly knows nothing of the the house or its history. I remember walking past this very pub and being spat at, yet now it seems the memory of Doctor Elliot Brooks and his wife has faded. “I have not been back in a long time.”
“Come to see 'em, have you? Like a reunion kind of thing?”
“Something like that.” I hesitate, before realizing that he seems to be waiting for me to finish. I suppose it's perfectly reasonable for him to wonder why I am here, yet I am not sure that I can quite articulate my reasons. “Are you wanting to close?” I ask. “I can go up to my room and -”
“Nah, you're alright,” he replies. “Like I told you before, take as long as you like.”
“Might I have another cup of tea?”
“Already on its way. I already told you that, too. Haven't you been paying attention?”
He goes through into the back room, and I hear him setting some water on to boil. I suppose he's right, I've had my mind on other things this evening and I haven't really been listening to anything that has been said to me.
Getting to my feet, I walk across the empty saloon and stop at the window next to the front door. Light rain is spitting down outside, but beyond the dots on the glass I see nothing but darkness. Bumpsford was never a busy town, but it's surprising to see just how little it has changed over the years. I suppose that, living in London these past forty years, I have become accustomed to a rapid pace of change, whereas places like Bumpsford have rumbled along at their own speed. With the world in such a parlous state at present, it's somewhat reassuring to know that some things don't change.
As the water continues to boil in the next room, I step over to the door and pull it open. I immediately feel a breeze blowing against me, so I pull my shawl tighter around my shoulders as I step out into the rain. I suppose I had thought that perhaps I'd see a light in the distance, a light to prove that there are still people at Grangehurst, but I see nothing except endless darkness stretching out before me. In truth, I know that Grangehurst was never visible from here, although that knowledge does not stop me squinting a little and looking anyway.
Are they out there?
After I left Grangehurst all those years ago, what happened to Doctor Elliot Brooks and his wife? What happened to Stephen? I swore I would never come back to this part of the world, yet here I am, preparing to go to the house tomorrow so that I might finally see its fate. Perhaps it was inevitable that old age would make me curious, that eventually I would have to come and see what happened to this place. Or perhaps my husband's recent death has put these thoughts into my head. I do not know. All I know is that tomorrow I shall set out for that cold, fearsome house, and I shall finally find out what happened to that dreadful family.
First, though, I must finish writing down what happened.
I must leave behind an account of the tragedy.
Stepping back inside, I shut the door just as the water finishes boiling. And as the landlord comes shuffling through with a fresh cup of tea, I retake my seat next to the window, and I start writing about that poor, weak, naive young girl who was me. Honestly, it is like writing about a complete stranger, even though in some regards I remember it all as if it were yesterday.
Now where was I? Oh yes, I had reached the part where I began to accept Stephen, which came just before I began to understand that – prior to my arrival – something very ghastly indeed had occurred at Grangehurst.
Chapter Sixteen
“You look absolutely wonderful!” I said, lifting Stephen up from his crib and holding him up high, admiring his little outfit. “Very handsome indeed!”
In truth, his clothes were absolutely splendid. The Brooks family exhibited a curious mixture of poverty and riches, such tha
t I never quite got a handle on whether or not they were particularly well off. They seemed to have money for food and drink, and for good clothing, and Grangehurst itself was a magnificent house that was clearly steeped in a great and illustrious history. But then other aspects of their life – the garden, for instance, or the decor of the house – were left in ruins. There were also great cracks that seemed to run through all the exterior walls, cracks that nobody seemed minded to repair. When it came to Stephen, however, everything was of the highest quality.
Lowering Stephen, I felt a momentary warmth pass through my chest as I saw his dead little face. And then the warmth turned to an icy chill as I remembered the truth of the situation.
It was my third or fourth morning at Grangehurst, and I had begun to feel less sickened by the sight of the child. The smell of him, meanwhile, had become part of my senses' background. I still felt uneasy about the situation, but I had twisted my mind around the idea that this was my fault rather than anybody else's, and I had come to understand that the aim was to help Mrs. Brooks. She was working through her grief, and eventually she would realize that the child was dead. It was my job to help her, and I was helping her.
That, at least, is what I believed.
And while we all waited for the woman to improve, I had even begun to speak to Stephen occasionally. Just a sentence here and there, always followed by a shudder and by a feeling that I was being foolish. Still, I had spent a fair deal of time around Mrs. Brooks and Stephen by that point, and I had begun to get into the habit of talking to the child when his mother was around. That habit had even seeped into the times I was alone with him. I suppose it is difficult to spend so much time in the company of a face – of any face – and not speak to it a little. Call this weakness, or foolishness, if you like. But until you have spent so much time around a corpse, you cannot say that you would not do the same.
Hearing footsteps approaching the door, I began to settle Stephen back into his crib, just as Doctor Brooks came into view.
“My wife's doctor has arrived to see her,” he announced dourly, with a degree of concern in his tone. “You must keep Stephen up here for the duration. You will stay with him also. There are to be no interruptions while Doctor Farrar is here, do you understand?”
“Of course,” I replied obediently.
“And he -”
Stopping suddenly as his gaze fell upon the child, Doctor Brooks seemed momentarily taken aback by the sight of him. Indeed, it was as if he had seized up entirely, and it took several seconds before he was able to turn to me again. Looking back now, I think it was fear that I saw in his eyes. At the time, however, I thought it was disgust.
“See that we are not disturbed,” he added, before slamming the door shut.
I stood in silence for a moment, listening to the sound of him walking away.
Finally, turning to Stephen, I momentarily felt compelled to reassure him, but then I reminded myself that he could not hear me. I supposed that I should find some other task to occupy my time, yet I hesitated for a moment before kneeling in front of the child and looking directly into his dead, half-open eyes. In the absolute silence of the room, I tried to imagine what the poor boy must have looked like while he was alive, and in my mind's eye I saw a happy, smiling child, and I heard the sound of him gurgling contentedly. The image lasted for only a few seconds, however, and I swiftly forced myself to stop daydreaming, and I found myself staring once more at the discolored little thing that sat before me.
“It's alright,” I said finally, unable to stop myself. “There's no need to worry.”
I remember that a tear ran down my cheek at that moment, and that – as I was wiping the tear away – I saw the marks around Stephen's neck for the first time.
Reaching out, I gently tucked the edges of his shirt aside, so that I could see better.
By this point, I had bathed him several times, but I had never before noticed these particular marks. There was an uneven ring of darkness around his neck, and I confess that my first thought was that it looked almost as if somebody had taken hold of the boy and throttled him. His skin had become a little darker and more blotchy over just the course of a few days, so I suppose that this process of slow decomposition had perhaps caused certain patterns to become more visible. And as I gently tilted him forward to see the back of his neck, I felt a growing sense of concern. Until that moment, I had assumed that Stephen died of natural causes. Now, for the first time, I began to wonder what else might have happened to him.
“What caused this?” I whispered. “How did you die?”
I waited, but the room remained silent.
Yet in Stephen's eyes, in the final expression that had crossed his features as he died, I began to think that I saw something akin to surprise.
A moment later, I was disturbed by the sound of a door slamming somewhere downstairs, and then I heard distant voices that seemed to be engaged in some form of argument.
Getting to my feet, I hurried across the room. I pulled the door open slightly, and now I could hear the voices a little more clearly. Doctor Brooks was speaking to somebody, and I immediately realized that the other voice was male. It seemed that perhaps this Doctor Farrar gentleman had already finished checking Mrs. Brooks, and that he was now delivering his verdict. Although I was an obedient and conscientious girl, I was not without curiosity, so I hesitated for a moment before creeping very carefully to the top of the stairs. I knew that it was a sin to eavesdrop on a conversation, but I could not help myself as I stopped and listened to the voices that floated up from a room below.
“Have you reconsidered my suggestion?” Doctor Farrar was saying. “I've been telling you for some weeks now, a short stay in a facility might be of great benefit to her.”
“She is not going anywhere,” Doctor Brooks said firmly.
“She is not getting better here.”
“You see her once a week,” Doctor Brooks continued, sounding as if he was rapidly losing patience. “I see her every day, every hour, and I am telling you that she is improving. She makes progress each day, not much but enough that I mark it, and I am certain that she would not take well to a move.”
“The death of a child is not easy to overcome. For a woman, especially.”
“I am looking after her,” Doctor Brooks told him, “and I think I know better than anyone how she should be treated.”
“But -”
“We need no help from the outside! We have always kept ourselves to ourselves here at Grangehurst, and I refuse to allow Severine to be poked and prodded by complete strangers. If nothing else, the idea is utterly obscene!”
“There is a good facility near Reading,” Doctor Farrar replied. “They work with the mind, they are taking on some quite modern theories from the continent.”
“Do not even waste my time with such suggestions,” Doctor Brooks said dismissively. “Severine is going to remain here at Grangehurst, and that is final. This is her home, for Christ's sake!”
“Have you at least considered getting someone to help? A housekeeper, perhaps?”
“We have no need of one. We are quite alright by ourselves.”
I felt a shudder pass through my chest. Why, I wondered, had Doctor Brooks told me to remain upstairs, and why was he now denying that I even existed?
“I shall come again in a week,” Doctor Farrar continued. “I hope to see real, substantial progress. If not, I shall want to discuss this matter with you some more.”
“I believe a week is all she needs,” Doctor Brooks replied. “She will be much better, she just needs a little more time to come to terms with what happened. Then she will be back to her old self, and our lives can resume.”
“But -”
“I invited you here as a courtesy,” he added, “not because I believe there is anything you can actually do to help Severine. You have seen her now, you know that she is well. I am happy for you to come back next week, but her care is in my hands and I will not allow you to interf
ere. Severine and I are quite alright on our own out here. I do not need your constant efforts to wear me down.”
“I heard she was seen in town with a girl. A housekeeper, perhaps?”
“That is none of your concern.”
“And a child's carriage.”
“Again, that is not a matter of which I wish to speak.”
“Elliot, listen to me. It's been more than a month since -”
“Good afternoon. I hope your walk back to town is pleasant.”
“But Hannah -”
“You will leave now.”
I heard silence for a moment.
“Where is Hannah?” Doctor Farrar asked finally. “Has she left?”
“She has left.”
“Where did she go?”
“Good day to you,” Doctor Brooks said darkly. “I trust that your journey back to town will be pleasant. You should set off soon, before the rain sets in.”
I waited for the visiting doctor to reply, but I heard only a few mumbled words accompanied by the sound of footsteps. Then, finally, the front door opened and I realized that the man was on his way. Taking care not to make a noise, I headed back through to the nearest room and peered out the window, and I was just in time to spot a figure walking along the path that led to the gate at the garden's far end. I recall feeling for a moment as if I should call out to him, as if his departure was leaving me once more in a world I did not understand. For the very first time, I began to feel as if I was trapped at Grangehurst.
I steadied my nerves, however, and watched as the man went out through the gate, and then I looked back over at the empty doorway as I thought about the conversation I had just heard. One question filled my mind, arousing my curiosity even though a part of me felt that curiosity was by its nature sinful. I had tried to focus on other things, but now I had to know.
