“Yes, and you have not had any hallucinations,” she’d countered.
“Well, perhaps I’m used to it,” he said. Then he’d given her a look. “Have you been working on your novel?”
He knew she had. He’d read bits of it aloud mere days ago and found it quite wonderful. So now he was trotting out the “it’s just your vivid imagination” rationalization, was that it? That perhaps she had not seen a grotesque corpse shrieking her name. Rye bread, nerves, that huge, decaying house…
That woman in the elevator. He and Lucille were so entirely unconcerned. Perhaps they’ve both seen things they could not explain and don’t want to frighten me with the truth. But if they can see them, and know now that I can too, wouldn’t it be more reasonable for them to admit as much to me?
But Thomas would discuss it no longer and she finally gave up. None so deaf as those that will not hear; none so blind as those that will not see, she told herself. On the subject of hauntings in their stately home, Thomas could not be persuaded to entertain any other idea than that she had frightened herself.
Then I will prove it to him, she vowed.
The snow was falling thicker and faster, and the postal depot bustled with horse-drawn farm wagons loading and unloading parcels and crates in advance of the impending storm. Finlay attended Thomas as he pointed Edith toward the back of the depot, where a small postal office stood. She had a reply to Ferguson’s most recent update to send.
As she counted out some coins to pay for the stamps, the postal clerk noted her name and address.
“You’re Lady Sharpe, then?” he said. “Forgive me, madam, but there’s a few letters for you. One came in just this morning.”
He disappeared for a moment, then returned with some envelopes. As he handed them to her, he said, “Two of them are legal—certified letters from your solicitor—and another one comes all the way from Italy.”
Edith frowned quizzically, examining the postmark on the Italian letter: Milan.
“It’s not mine,” she informed the man.
“You are Lady Sharpe, are you not?” He pointed to the handwritten name and address on the envelope. “Lady E. Sharpe?”
She nodded. “But I don’t know anyone in Italy.”
“Respectfully, Your Ladyship, it’s quite apparent that you do. Open it and find out.”
He seemed a bit too inquisitive, and so she simply took the letters without opening them. Outside, the promised storm had arrived, and as she looked for Thomas, the prospect of returning to Allerdale Hall was even more disconcerting than before. She never wanted to set foot in that terrible place again, and to travel through this deluge to get there was more than she could stomach.
She found Thomas and Finlay at the loading dock. Thomas proudly showed Edith the contents of several wooden crates as Finlay diligently carried them and put them on their wagon.
“This is a valve controller,” Thomas said, showing her a shiny part. Her father’s daughter, she recognized its function. “I had it fabricated separately in Glasgow. This could make all the difference. Think lucky thoughts, Edith. The Sharpe Mines might reopen if this thing cooperates.”
He laughed and embraced her, and she held her mail tight. He was so excited about his machined parts that she didn’t want to change the subject by showing him the strange letter from Italy.
At least, that was what she told herself. Because he did not believe her, a rift was growing between them. She had thought he would be sympathetic, but he had gently mocked her. Marriage decreed that two halves became one whole, but she felt separated from him now. She didn’t feel that she could bring her fears to him with the hope of obtaining relief. She must arm herself against them, then, in any way she could.
“Look at the storm,” he said breathlessly. “Do you see? Just in time. In a few days we won’t be able to leave the house.”
The thought appalled her. There was nothing in this world that she wanted less.
The shipping agent overheard him and deferentially approached. “The storm is getting worse. I suggest you stay the night, Your Lordship. We have a small room downstairs, if you’d like.”
Thomas looked to Edith, who happily nodded her consent. She would do anything to stay out of the storm.
And away from that house.
* * *
It was a small room, just as the man had warned, but warm and cozy, with a humble quilt on the bed and a fire in the grate. To Edith, it was the most wonderful room she had ever been in, never mind the elegant hotels they had stayed at in London.
Now they were propped up in bed, still in their clothes, and she felt a bit shy at the prospect of readying for sleep in a more intimate manner. They had still not been together.
The depot manager had brought them tea and some broth and bread, and Edith devoured it, famished. Assuming that she would have to occupy herself on the return trip home once Thomas had his new valves and gears to examine, she had brought along her manuscript. Thomas had spotted it and asked to read it, and she was both flattered and a bit abashed. The ghostly subject matter would only serve to reinforce his belief that she had imagined the horrendous visitation of his mother’s ghost. But he seemed most insistent upon reading her new pages, and began to read it aloud:
“‘A house as old as this one becomes, in time, a living thing. It may have timbers for bones and windows for eyes and sitting here, all alone, it can go slowly mad. It starts holding on to things, keeping them alive when they shouldn’t be, inside its walls. Things like memories, emotions, people.’”
He paused, then went on. “‘Some of them good, some are bad… and some… some should never be spoken about again.’”
He kissed her on the forehead.
“This is rather good. I am so glad to see you’re still at it. And this fellow ‘Cavendish’—your hero—has he no fears? No doubts?”
Edith looked straight at him. “Of course he does. He’s a haunted man.”
“Well, I like him. There’s a darkness to him. But does he make it all the way through?”
She shrugged. “It’s entirely up to him.”
“What do you mean?” He smiled quizzically at her.
“Characters talk to you. Transform. Make choices,” she replied.
“Choices,” he echoed.
“Of who they become.”
He grew quiet. And then he gestured to their room. “This is quite dismal, I’m sorry to say. But at least it is warm.”
She moved closer to him, hoping then, to close the rift. “I like it much better.”
“Better than?” he asked.
Surely he must know what she meant. “The house.”
He thought a moment, and then he laughed. He looked almost boyish, his cares lifting from him. “It is much better, isn’t it? I love being away too.”
“Away from Allerdale Hall?” she persisted. She wanted him to say it. To realize that it was a real possibility. It would mean the world to her.
“Yes. I do.” He exhaled. “I feel as if I can breathe.”
They embraced and she laid her head on his chest. His heart thumped, then quickened. Perhaps her nearness was affecting him.
“You could sell the house.” She mentally crossed her fingers, willing him to consider the possibility that would free them both. To emerge from that dank, terrifying place and live in the wide sunny world.
“Sell it? Impossible.” Then he went silent for a moment, as if reconsidering. “As it is, it would be worthless.”
Hope grew in her. He was actually pondering it.
“Just leave it then.” Close it up and walk away. Why not? All the money that they had planned to use to restore it could be put into the mine operations. Or traveling the world. Thomas could hire managers the same as her father did for projects that were too far away for him to oversee himself.
“That, too, is impossible, I’m afraid,” Thomas replied. “It is all we have: our name, our heritage, our pride.”
“I left everything I had,” sh
e riposted, though her tone was very gentle. She wanted to bring him around to her point of view. This was a very serious discussion. “Everything I was. Behind.” She let that sink in, and then she went on. “We could live elsewhere.”
“Elsewhere?” He sounded genuinely puzzled, as if the thought had never dawned on him before.
“London, Paris,” she tempted him.
His face softened and he took on a daydream expression, seeing their future in a different way. “Paris. Paris is delightful, yes.”
“Anywhere you want.” And then she thought of the letter and added leadingly, “Milan…”
He jerked. “Why would you say Milan?”
“Or Rome,” she covered, but she knew then that Milan was significant. What was in that letter? “Have you been to Italy?”
“Yes. Once.” Then his mood shifted. Darkened. As if he was burdened by Allerdale Hall again. “But I can’t leave Lucille. And the house. The house is all we are. Our heritage, our name.”
He was saying the same thing over and over.
“The past, Thomas. You’re always looking to the past,” she murmured. “You won’t find me there. I’m here.”
He said softly, “I’m here too.”
Yes, Thomas. Yes.
Willing her love for him to make him listen, she daringly moved on top of him. Her gown clung to her body and her desire for him emboldened her as she kissed him and moved sinuously against him. True, she was chaste, but she was also this man’s wife. So she kissed him passionately, and put her arms around him; and she felt his response. He wanted her as much.
No, more.
As in his workroom, their passion ignited. Seemingly oblivious to his scorched and bandaged hand, he pushed her onto her back and undid his trousers, snaking them down to avail himself of her body; she opened herself to him and then he was thrusting into her—finally, finally—and the pleasure was indescribable.
Oh, my Thomas, my love—
They were one. Finally making love. And as bliss lifted her up to the stars, she believed that all would be well. They would love, and they would live.
Far away from Allerdale Hall.
* * *
In the morning, the world was new. There was more kissing and lovemaking, and Chinese tea and fresh bread still warm from the oven. Sunlight gave the village a charming luster; the snow, though falling, was gentle.
Edith didn’t mind the ride back so much; she and Thomas talked the entire time. They were together now, all barriers down, and things would be different. They would leave. They would travel.
He kissed her when he helped her down in front of the house, drinking in the sight of her, reluctantly parting from her to assist Finlay with the crates. Gliding into the house, she gazed up at the opening in the ceiling and watched the snowflakes sparkle as they floated down, soft as feathers. She removed her bonnet.
“Lucille!” she greeted her sister-in-law. “Lucille!”
There was no answer, but she could hear a clattering in the kitchen. They had eaten their bread and tea hours ago, and something more substantial would be nice. And something to take the chill off the long drive through the countryside. Even that bitter tea.
Carrying a few parcels—little things she had purchased, such as warmer mittens and a muffler—she walked into the empty kitchen and set them down. A pan sat untended on the stove. The potatoes in it were burning and smoking, and she took it off the burner.
“We’re back!” she called.
And then Lucille approached from the far end of the kitchen, her face drawn and pale. There were rings under her eyes.
“Where were you?” Her voice was strained. She moved like one of Thomas’s automata, as if every muscle in her body had been stretched to its limit.
“We got snowed in,” Edith said. “We—”
“You didn’t come back last night!” Lucille shouted. She grabbed the pan and slammed it on the wooden surface of the worktable.
Edith was startled. “I… we…”
“You were supposed to come back last night,” Lucille insisted.
“We spent the night at the depot,” Edith explained.
Lucille blinked at her. Then she began to scrape the food, which was ruined, onto plates. “You slept there?”
Her distress was bewildering. She could not be surprised that Thomas had at last asserted his husbandly privilege, and yet it seemed almost as if Lucille thought she should have been consulted on the matter.
“Yes, we did. What’s wrong with that, Lucille? He’s my husband.”
But she would not be placated. “I am serious. Is this all a joke to you? All solved with a smile? I was worried sick!”
“Worried—”
“You two out in the storm!” Lucille cried.
Of course. Like Edith herself, Lucille was no stranger to tragedy. Her parents were both dead. She knew that bad things could and did happen to people she cared about. Until one was scathed in that way, one did not understand such fear. Edith did.
“I didn’t know if you’d had an accident. I was all alone. All alone. And I cannot be alone…”
The house creaked. Clay oozed from the cracks between the wall and the ceiling. And Edith thought she might know another reason Lucille was so upset—Lucille had been alone in the house after that monstrous apparition had menaced her. Perhaps she, too, had sensed something. Maybe even seen something. She was overwrought.
Edith wanted Thomas to observe the state his sister was in. We need to leave this house. All of us.
“The house,” Lucille repeated, as if she had read Edith’s thoughts. “It’s sinking. It gets worse every time. We must do something to stop it.”
No. We must give up on it, Edith thought. This horrible place cannot be redeemed.
A sudden, sharp bout of dizziness grabbed hold of her. The kitchen tilted, stretched, and blurred… and Lucille’s face along with it.
“I need to sit down,” she said. “I’m not well.” Her forehead beaded with perspiration and she couldn’t make her eyes focus. It was as if the entire house was rippling in and out of existence, losing track of itself, forgetting to remain solid.
What am I thinking? she wondered. I’m not making any sense.
“I’ll make you some tea. It’ll be ready in no time.”
Lucille sounded more composed. She bustled about while Edith’s stomach churned. Her gaze fell on Lucille’s ring of keys, which, of course, should have been passed on to her. Lucille had fought so jealously to keep it. Perhaps she was feeling supplanted.
She noted a name engraved upon one of the keys: ENOLA. The same as the trunk in the pit. There was a mystery. Had there been an Enola Sharpe, perhaps? A relative? And a letter addressed to E. Sharpe had been handed over to her, Edith Sharpe, at the depot. She took out her letters and shuffled them to find the one from Milan. There was no first name, only the first initial. Could there be several E. Sharpes in their family? If so, it struck her a little odd that no one had mentioned it.
While Lucille filled the teapot, Edith furtively slipped the key off the ring, then returned the set to the table. Then she passed the letter to the bottom of her stack, so that she could work on her puzzle all by herself.
Another wave of dizziness hit her, and the room spun. Edith’s stomach fell. She had been so happy away in the village with Thomas that she had minimized just how awful it was here. She could feel the clay-soaked walls closing in; she couldn’t imagine taking a bath in that tub, ever again.
As Lucille put the now-filled pot on the stove, she saw Edith’s letters and scrutinized the topmost one. “Is that from America?”
Edith nodded weakly and Lucille boldly picked it up and read the envelope.
“From your solicitor,” she said, and sounded pleased. “You should read them. Rest a bit. I’ll make you some tea. It’ll take care of everything.”
Her smile was forced, and Edith wondered if Lucille would ever truly like her. But she could not think of that now. She was sick, so very sick,
and as bitter as the firethorn tea was, the prospect of drinking something to ease her symptoms was very appealing indeed.
However, the prospect of returning to her bedroom was not. Still, what choice did she have? As Lucille had said, this was her home.
At least for now.
* * *
It watched.
In the green-tiled bathroom of Allerdale Hall, the red rubber ball rolled beneath the claw-footed tub and the little dog whined and pranced, trying to cram itself beneath the tub’s curved bottom. The ball remained tantalizingly out of reach. It cocked its head, staring at it with all the longing of child gazing at a toyshop window at Christmas.
The pup sat back on its haunches and barked wildly, ecstatically.
And the ball rolled out from under the tub.
Then the ball flew through the air out of the bathroom. The animal skittered on the wood and clattered after it, barking. It followed the ball into the bedroom and was about to dash under the bed to retrieve it when it slid to a stop. It put its ears back, showed its teeth, and began to growl.
Back in the bathroom, a spider dropped down from the ceiling toward the tub. It touched down on the lip of porcelain, then bounced upward to its center. It began to weave its web like an old maid at her spinning wheel. From out of the drain, a sluggish fly emerged, buzzing haphazardly, and began to spiral toward the web. Flies were summertime pests; they were not to be found in snowy climes. The hungry spider kept weaving, one eye on the prize, working feverishly to complete its snare in time to catch the fly. In the next room, the dog whined and its sick mistress got sicker.
The fly that should be dead and the dog that should be dead in the house that should be dead, and the bride, who would be dead soon.
It watched approvingly, appreciating the complexities—and fragilities—of life.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
ALAN WALKED INTO the hotel lobby and felt ghosts around him. This was the hotel where Ferguson had delivered the news of her father’s death to Edith, possibly with Cushing’s murderer at her side. He envisioned his poor darling plummeting from the elation of love to the desolation of loss in a few short moments. He couldn’t imagine how that had felt. He also wondered what she had been doing alone in a hotel with Sir Thomas. Annie, her maid, had stated that her mistress had received a large sheaf of typewritten papers at home bright and early in the morning, and soon after had left in a rush. Annie had found a letter with beautiful handwriting among the pages and had been dying to read it. The only problem was that Annie did not know how to read.