The woman looked from the boys to me, and then smiled sweetly at her children. “I’m afraid I’m very tired. Our visit must come to an end.”
“But, Mother, we just got here!”
“Please don’t leave us!”
Mrs. Darrow and I stared at each other during this exchange, and I searched myself deeply for a response I would not live to regret. There would be consequences from dabbling with the dead, this I felt most certain of all. But was there also not a wealth of things to learn? The veil of death had been lifted for this regal, beautiful woman, so stoic and frail, broken by the end of her own life in a way that perhaps even the children would be unable to fix. Were there others like her? I attempted to stifle the thought before it became fully formed, but it was too late. It blossomed in my mind, accompanied by images of Jonathan and my parents.
I could not ignore the strength of Mrs. Darrow to overturn the rules of existence, to find a way out of death, and to fight for her children. There was something powerful in such love, such conviction, such devotion, and at the same time such desperation, a weary stubbornness to deny what must occur. I could not refuse her or the children or my own curiosity, despite the danger I sensed in the agreement I was about to make.
“There will be other visits, and I imagine that we’ll be seeing your mother again soon enough,” I told the boys.
“She can’t come home with us?” James stuck out his bottom lip. His eyes welled up with tears.
“Oh, my darling James, I wish that I could. But this is my home now.”
“Can we bring Father next time?”
“I’m afraid you mustn’t, Paul.”
“Why not?”
“It’s almost like a spell that’s keeping me from leaving you forever, and if you tell your father, it will be broken. Do you understand?”
Both boys nodded and hugged their mother tightly around the neck. She kissed each of them roughly on the lips and turned them back over to my care.
“Mrs. Markham, it was truly a pleasure meeting you.”
I took the hands of the children into my own and squeezed them, searching for further conviction.
“And you, Mrs. Darrow.”
“Please, call me Lily.”
The woman escorted us out of the parlor and into the main foyer of the House of Darkling. Many stories above, I saw someone leaning against the railing of the grand staircase, watching us and smoking casually in the dark. But before I could look more closely, the doors swung open and the damp, cool air of the orchard swept over us. Lily kissed me affectionately on the cheek, and ushered us out the door.
“Please come back as soon as you can,” she said.
The boys waved at their mother as we set out for the main path between the trees. Something howled in the distance, the sound of it languishing in the chilled air. We continued into the gloom until we came to the familiar wall of mist, and passed through to return to sunshine and the world of the living.
That evening, I struggled to put the children to bed. James sang and squealed slowly toward exhaustion, jumping up and down on his bed and playing so loudly that I was finally forced to threaten him with an ancient form of Indian torture I had learned as a young girl in Asia. This prompted an inevitable inquiry into my life abroad, and soon the excitement the boys felt over their rediscovered mother was eclipsed by curiosity, and they were able to listen to my tales of the Far East as they drifted off to sleep.
I left the nursery dabbing the perspiration from my forehead with a handkerchief. I was about to return to the schoolroom to organize my lesson plan for the following day when I realized I was not alone in the hallway.
“Mrs. Markham.”
I jumped and quickly laughed at myself. I had been so absorbed in the strange events of the day that I had not noticed Mr. Darrow standing behind me, the pale illumination from the gaslights suffused in his golden hair. He was a tall man, with a lithe frame and a distinguished, sharp face that was more beautiful than handsome, and the way his hair glowed in the darkness gave his appearance a quality that bordered on angelic.
“Mr. Darrow! I apologize, I didn’t notice you.”
“From the sounds of it, the boys had you on the run this evening.” He smiled at me and pointed down the corridor. “Would you mind joining me in the study before turning in for the night?”
My stomach twisted into knots. Did he suspect that something was amiss? Or—I could not help but let my mind wander to the strange, romantic thoughts one cannot avoid while traveling through a dark, old house at night—perhaps he had something else in mind? Even in light of meeting his late wife, I could not deny that I found the second possibility rather exciting. Is that not the way most stories go? With the young governess falling in love with her handsome widowed employer and living happily ever after? We both deserved some happiness. Even the dead, it seemed, were entitled to get the things they wanted most.
“Not at all.”
The gaslights flickered above us in their cracked glass husks, fighting against the darkness that attempted to envelop the house. I was unpleasantly reminded of the agreement I had made earlier in the day. I wrung the handkerchief in my hands.
“Are you all right?” Mr. Darrow paused at the door to his study and nearly touched my shoulder, but he seemed to catch himself and placed his hand against the door instead, pushing it open. I stood stupidly in the hallway, rousing myself from the day’s events and wondering what his hand would have felt like against my skin.
“Yes, perfectly fine.” I followed him inside.
He sat behind his spotlessly clean desk and folded his hands, framed beneath the portrait of his late wife. At the other side of the room, the door to the office stood open.
“The children seem very happy,” he said.
“They have a wonderful home and a loving father. How could they not be?”
“You are doing wonders for them, and I want you to know that I intend to compensate you accordingly.”
“Mr. Darrow, I can assure you that my current salary is more than generous.”
“A fact of which I’m quite aware, but even so, I think you deserve a raise. It’s been a difficult year for our family . . .” His voice cracked, and for a moment I was unsure if he would be able to continue. “You were right the other evening, I’m afraid I have been growing distant with the children.”
It was true that since Nanny Prum’s death, Mr. Darrow had been keeping even stranger hours than usual, having afternoon tea in the middle of the night, taking meals in his study, and on the rare occasions that he did join us he drank too much. He was in mourning again, not just for his late employee, but, I felt sure, for his wife. It was a pain I knew too well.
“With all due respect, you must not ignore the impact of your loss.”
Mr. Darrow attempted to smile, but instead he looked faraway and sad. “Quite right. We used to spend every weekend together as a family, but ever since Lily . . . They remind me so much of her.”
“Perhaps you could reclaim your time with them on the weekends? We could plan an outing by the lake.”
“Perhaps.” He sat back in his chair and sniffed the air. “Mrs. Markham, have you chosen a new perfume?”
I felt my chest tighten. I must have gotten too close to Mrs. Darrow during our visit to the House of Darkling.
“No, why do you ask?”
“It’s nothing; I suppose I’m just tired. I don’t mean to keep you.”
He stood from his chair and leaned against the mantel behind his desk, averting his eyes from the portrait of his wife that hung above it, keeping them trained on the fireplace.
“The lake. Yes, that would be splendid.”
“Good night, Mr. Darrow.”
I crept out of the room and left him to his thoughts.
CHAPTER 6
A Question of Spirits
The next morning I woke before sunrise. I had decided in the middle of the night to run a very specific sort of errand to help alleviate some of my concerns about the promise I had made to the children the day before, and so I chose a long black dress from my wardrobe—the kind of severe uniform one would expect a typical governess to wear. I hardly thought of myself as ordinary, and while I much preferred to wear something lighter and more colorful, I had set my mind on this particular mission and knew that it would be best to dress for the occasion. I even wore the brooch I had found in Nanny Prum’s room.
The house was dark and quiet except in the kitchen, where Mrs. Mulbus berated Jenny for failing to adequately clean the soup kettle.
“There’s a ring of filth around the rim!” As she was a big woman, she lifted the heavy pot without any effort, flailing it in the air above Jenny’s head.
“Yes, Mrs. Mulbus. Of course, Mrs. Mulbus.”
“Don’t get sharp with me, Jenny Saxon!”
“I wouldn’t think of it, mum!” Without turning from the sink, Jenny performed a small curtsy.
Mrs. Mulbus slammed the pot down on the counter and clutched her chest. “You’ll be the death of me, I swear it!”
“I shall make it my personal duty to put wildflowers on your grave every Sunday morning.”
There was a sudden murderous look in Mrs. Mulbus’s eyes, and as she motioned to grab for the heavy pan once more, I spoke up to make my presence known.
“Good morning, Mrs. Mulbus.”
The cook turned away from Jenny, who had never turned away from the sink, halfheartedly scrubbing the dishes that always seemed to be there.
“Good morning to you, Mrs. Markham. I hope we didn’t wake you?”
“Nonsense. I have an errand to run this morning.”
“This early?”
“I’m afraid it must be done before the children wake.”
“Of course. Might you want something to eat before you leave?”
The kitchen was small for such a large house, but it was filled with food. Baskets of fruit and freshly baked breads, smoked meats hanging above the butcher block, stacks of pungent cheeses, rows of spices from India and the Far East (bought by catalog in a very sweet effort to appease my palate), jars of jellies and preserves, and large glass containers filled with caramel toffees. I picked up an apple and tucked it away into the small basket I carried at my side. “A piece of fruit will do nicely.”
The cook was visibly disappointed, and as I left the house through the back of the kitchen, I heard Mrs. Mulbus launching a new tirade at the scullery maid: “Spots! On the silver!”
I passed Roland as I crossed the grounds, and we smiled at one another as the shouting continued in the kitchen.
“Early morning for you, mum?”
“I should hope that I’m a little young to be called ‘mum’!”
“Sorry, Mrs. Markham, just trying to be respectful is all.”
“I can’t imagine you being anything less.” The young man had started at Everton a few weeks before my arrival. There wasn’t much need for a gardener as the grounds were rather small, but Fredricks was getting older and someday soon would be unable to tend to his duties. When Roland wasn’t outside, he followed the butler around attempting to understand the old man’s mumbling and increasingly senile instructions. The week before last, Fredricks had asked him to bring Mr. Darrow a box of his favorite cigars, which was alarming since the only member of the Darrow family who had ever enjoyed smoking was Mr. Darrow’s father, and he had been dead for over fifteen years.
“Roland, have you noticed anything strange around the grounds since the night Nanny Prum was attacked?”
“How do you mean?”
“I’m not sure exactly. Everything about what happened was so unusual . . . and with the murderer still at large, I worry for our safety.”
“I walk the grounds with the rifle for a bit every night before I turn in, but no trouble yet. Not even that strange smell that was all over the place it happened. No, I think the bastard that did it is long gone. Pardon my language.”
“If you see anything suspicious, do let me know. Even the smallest thing could be important.”
“Of course. Miss.”
“Now that’s more like it.”
Roland winked at me and tugged on his hat, about to set off toward the caretaker’s shed, but he stopped and nervously wrung his hands together like a schoolboy.
“And how is Mrs. Larken?”
“Susannah is coping as best she can. She’s very grateful to you.”
He blushed. “Good woman, there.” He looked dazed for a moment, and then continued. “If you see her, tell her that I’m keeping an eye out, so she has no cause to be scared.”
“I’m sure she’ll be very pleased to hear that, Roland.”
He nodded once more, and I descended the hill toward the village below. Blackfield was just beginning to come to life. Mr. Wallace was in his shop with key in hand, hurriedly winding each clock face to match up with its siblings, but he was too hungover and slow, and the clocks chimed at him sporadically out of spite. Mr. Rookway, the butcher, stood on a ladder behind his shop window hanging the day’s offerings of plucked geese, sausage links, and cured beef. I stopped in the dress shop to see Susannah, but Mrs. Willoughby had her busily sorting through containers of buttons for a set with a mother-of-pearl finish she desperately wanted to use for Mrs. Reese’s dinner gown but had apparently misplaced. I promised Susannah that I would come back after my errand and continued on my way to the church.
St. Michael’s was a small country church with stone walls and a family of sparrows nesting within the steeple. The vicarage sat behind it, a modest little cottage with a half dozen birdhouses carefully placed in the surrounding trees. Mr. Scott had been trying for the last three weeks to convince the sparrows to move out of his church, but with little success. His sermons had taken on an air of hysteria as he struggled to shout over the annoying but otherwise lovely birdsongs while the faithful attempted to dodge being sanctified by any unwanted sacrament from above. Despite all this, attendance at the Sunday morning service had never been higher.
The sun was just coming up. I shifted my basket to the other hand and rapped sharply on the door. There was a stumbling, a muffled curse, and the door wrenched open to reveal Mr. Scott.
“Mrs. Markham?” His hazel eyes were watery in the young sunlight.
“Good morning, Vicar. I hope I haven’t disturbed you?”
His hair was mussed and his collar crooked. He fumbled with them as he replied. “Of course not! I always have time for the devoted.” He motioned for me to enter the cottage.
It was as small on the inside as it appeared from the exterior, sparsely decorated with every surface covered in what appeared to be birdhouses in varying degrees of construction. Mr. Scott moved a birdhouse from one of the chairs and motioned for me to sit beside him. “Now, what seems to be the trouble?”
“What do you make of spirits?”
He looked disappointed. “I wouldn’t know. I don’t touch the stuff. Man of the cloth, you know.”
“Not spirits, spirits. As in apparitions of the formerly living.”
He paused and rubbed his chin. “Well, I can’t say that I’ve ever seen one.” He looked at me strangely, as if I’d suddenly grown a pair of horns.
I quickly elaborated. “Neither have I, of course. But I’ve been reading the children ghost stories, and James asked me if all spirits were evil. I didn’t want to answer him until I’d consulted an expert.”
“Expert?” Mr. Scott squinted for a moment, and then blushed. “Oh, you mean me? Mrs. Markham, you flatter me. I’m afraid I don’t know any more about ghosts and spirits than you do.”
“But surely the Bible says something on the subject?”
“Well”—he stood from his chair and paced the roo
m—“I do recall a line from the Gospel of Luke. I believe it says that spirits are not permitted to return to the earth without a valid purpose, such as offering up a warning.”
“So not all spirits have malicious intent?”
“It’s hard to say. The Book of Job mentions that demons have no power that God himself does not allow. So I suppose that spirits must work along the same lines. They might wish a person harm, but only as a test of faith.”
“I see. And how would one defend themselves from spirits or demons, if God had decided to test them?”
Mr. Scott opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again. He narrowed his eyes in amusement. “James was very specific with his questions. He sounds like a clever young man.”
“He does have an excellent governess.”
“So I see. Well, if one is being tested by God, then there really is no protection available, but none should be needed. God is a force for good in the world, and he loves each of his children. On the other hand, the demons and spirits you mentioned may be given their power by God, but are more frequently the tools of Lucifer in his quest to lure mankind into damnation. Such creatures use temptation and trickery over physical harm or injury. The best defense against such tactics is good judgment and honorable choices.”
“I see.” I looked around the room and noticed a small crucifix hanging above a doorway. “And what about holy relics? Crosses, holy water, that sort of thing?”
“It couldn’t hurt, I suppose, but again, these are complex questions. What good would holy articles do against forces that have their power sanctioned by God, regardless of whether or not they’re in the employ of the Devil?”
“Such are the mysteries of life, I suppose.” I said this with sullen annoyance at the complexity of my situation.
“Indeed.” The vicar nodded with heavy importance.
I stood and turned for the door.
“I do apologize, Vicar. I didn’t mean to interrupt your morning routine. You’ve been most helpful.”
“No trouble at all, always happy to assist. I suppose I’ll see you on Sunday?”
Charlotte Markham and the House of Darkling Page 7
