Twenty-eight
THE JOURNAL OF LADY AGNES, FEBRUARY
12, 1883 I woke up yesterday morning with the answer to what I must do clear and bright in my mind’s eye. But it is so very hard!
These past weeks have been dreadful. S. has been very ill. If only he had been able to go to Oxford in January, as he had planned—the new people and ideas he would have encountered there might have shaken him from his obsession. There is no hope of that now. He has fallen into a series of fits and fevers that make any such attempt impossible. His parents are in despair and have summoned a well-known physician from London to treat his melancholy.
Martha told me that the servants at the Hall are whispering about the terrible scenes that take place over there; how S. fights the doctor and destroys his instruments and raves like a lunatic until he has to be restrained by his father and the serving men. They imagine that the fever he suffered in Morocco is burning in him again, but I know what is really eating at him, body and soul. I know it is me whom he seeks in his delirium, and the precious “gift” he thinks I could give him if I chose.
I have to get away from here, out of his reach. I must.
Like many desperate wretches before me, I have decided to run away to London, where it is so easy to hide. It will tear my heart to leave Wyldcliffe, but more than anything it hurts me to think of the pain I will cause my parents. They will never know why I have to do it.
I have written a letter for them saying that I want freedom and a new life, and that it will be useless to search for me. I wrote that they must pretend to the gossiping world that I have gone abroad to stay with my aunt Marchmont in Paris. When I said good night to them just now, I told them that I love them. Will they believe that when they have read my letter in the morning? There is nothing else that I can do, though, and no other choices left to me.
Tomorrow I will get up before even the maids are about, and take what little money I have and a small bundle of clothes. I have bribed the local carter, Daniel Jones, to meet me at the end of the lane and take me to the nearest railway station, and then I shall make the journey to the great city, dressed in some plain clothes I have secretly bought in the village.
Poor Papa had promised to take me to London on the railway this summer. How he would have enjoyed showing me the changing landscape as we sped toward the city. Now I shall be traveling alone. But I am sixteen, quite capable of sitting on a train for a few hours.
It is no use to pretend that I am not crying. My father has always been so kind to me, and even Mama, now that I know I must never see her again, is dearer to me than I thought possible. I see now that she only ever wanted my happiness, and if she could imagine no greater happiness than sitting in an elegant drawing room, that was not her fault.
I cannot write any more. My new life starts here. After tomorrow, it will be as though Lady Agnes Templeton does not exist. It is the end of everything.
And it is a beginning.
Twenty-nine
I
t was a new beginning.
I left the infirmary and clattered down the marble stairs, hungry for breakfast, clutching my flower in its little pot. At the bottom step I turned carelessly into the corridor and ran straight into the High Mistress.
“Oh! I’m so sorry!”
Some of the rich black earth from the pot had spilled onto Mrs. Hartle’s light silk sleeve. She calmly brushed it away, then stopped me by laying her hand on my arm. It gave me a strange sensation, like being touched by something dead.
“It is against the school rules to run on the stairs and in the corridors. You should know that by now.”
“Sorry,” I mumbled again.
“And what’s this?” Her dark eyes rested on the plant. It looked so fragile and easily crushed next to her powerful presence. “Ah, Campanula rotundifolia.” I must have looked confused, because she explained with a flicker of contempt, “In English, the common harebell. One of our native plants. It grows on the moors.”
“Helen gave it to me. I’m going to plant it in the old kitchen garden.”
“Helen?” she repeated with a faint arch of her eyebrow. “How very nice. Only you must remember that it’s very difficult for a wildflower to survive once it is uprooted. I think you’ll find that her gift to you won’t live very long.”
My skin crawled as her fingers dug deeper into my arm. Then the High Mistress seemed to lose interest in me, and swept down the corridor toward her study. I watched her go. I wouldn’t like to see her really angry, I decided. I made my way to the dining room, taking good care not to run.
I slipped into a seat opposite Sarah, eager to tell her my news. An instant later someone shoved me in the back. Celeste was standing over me.
“Well, look who it is—our friend Evie, back from the dead. I thought that lacrosse ball had finished you off? Such a disappointment.” She sashayed away, and Miss Scratton called everyone to attention for prayers.
“Why does she hate me so much?” I asked Sarah as we ate our breakfast.
“Oh, Celeste’s always been a bit of a drama queen. She adored Laura, and she’s somehow gotten it into her head that you’re taking Laura’s place. It’s totally unfair, of course, but I guess she’s just still really upset. Try not to let her get to you.” Sarah lowered her voice. “Have you written to your dad yet?”
“I don’t need to,” I said excitedly. “I’ve remembered the name of the place where Frankie’s family lived. It was called Uppercliffe Farm. I’m sure that was it—Uppercliffe.”
To my surprise, Sarah’s face fell.
“I don’t think we’ll find much information there. I’ve ridden past Uppercliffe loads of times. It’s in ruins. But we could still go and look,” she added quickly, seeing my disappointment.
“Okay. When?”
“Let’s go out that way for a ride on Sunday afternoon. We’ll have to ask Miss Scratton’s permission first. You can’t afford to get another demerit, so we’ll have to do it all by the rules. I’m sure she’ll say yes, though. She’s knows I’ve been riding for years, and she lets me go out on my own sometimes.”
“I can’t ride at all!” The only time I’d been on horseback was with Sebastian, and then I had been able to cling to him. This would be different.
“I’ll teach you. We’ve got a few days to practice. I’ll ride Starlight, and you can ride Bonny. She’s such an angel, all you have to do is sit there and not fall off.”
But I could just see myself falling off. I could see myself lying twisted on the moors, my eyes staring sightlessly at the gray, gray sky, just as she had, long ago. BE COOL OR YOU DIE. I pushed the thought away.
“Okay,” I said with an effort. “I’ll do my best.”
Miss Scratton made a sign, and the rows of girls began to file out. I looked around for Helen. She was still sitting on the other side of the room, crumbling a piece of bread and gazing into space. I walked over to her.
“Thanks for the flower, Helen; it was really nice of you.” Without meaning to, I was using the voice people keep for the sick. The voice the nurses used when they spoke to Frankie. I tried again. “Sarah says I can plant it in her part of the walled garden.”
“Things shouldn’t be walled up,” she murmured. Oh, Lord, I thought, she really is completely loopy. Then she looked up at me and gave me a rare, sweet smile. I saw for the first time how beautiful she was, with her white-gold hair and her delicate face. “I’m glad you like it, Evie. It’s my favorite flower. And I’m really sorry about the demerit. I just wanted to stop you from going out at night.”
“Why?”
She looked around nervously, then whispered, “Strange things happen at Wyldcliffe. Be careful.”
I needed to know more.
“Helen, I thought I saw something strange over at Fairfax Hall. I know you were sick that day, but I saw someone just like you, with your color hair and everything. Was it…Could it have been you?”
Her expression changed, as though a shadow had fal
len on her. Mrs. Hartle had walked into the room and was giving a message to Miss Scratton. Helen jumped up. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“But—”
“Leave me alone!”
It looked as though we weren’t going to be friends after all.
Thirty
THE JOURNAL OF LADY AGNES, MARCH
2, 1883 I have left all my friends behind. My parents, Martha, the village people—they are all lost to me. I would give anything to be able to wake from this dark dream of a city and walk again over the moors, with the harebells in bloom and him at my side….
But I must not think like that. My life is here now. This is my home.
I have found a cheap place to stay, and even some work. I am paid to sew fine linen for rich women, together with a dozen other girls crowded into a shabby room over a shop in Covent Garden. We work late into the night to complete the orders, and our overseer, Mr. Carley, is very harsh. I feel ashamed that I once wore such clothes without questioning how they had been produced, or at what cost. At least in my new life I earn my living honestly. I hope I can keep this job; otherwise I will very quickly run out of money. I have never had to think about money before. There is so much that I have to learn.
One of the other workers, a thin, dark girl called Polly, has been especially good to me, showing me around and helping me when she can. I think she has taken some kind of fancy to me because I can read and have promised to teach her. At first the other girls doubted my story and eyed me suspiciously, but they are beginning to accept me. I have told them that I am nineteen and an orphan, and that I was employed by a grand family as a governess, but was turned away without a reference after the master took too keen an interest in me. It is a poor and common enough tale, but they seem to find it believable, romantic even. They sigh and hope that I will be miraculously discovered by my parents, who will, according to them, be a rich lord and lady, ready to whisk me away in their carriage. If only they knew the truth.
But I must not think of the past. I must not look back. My only comfort is the girl with red hair who haunts my dreams like another self. Last night I saw her again, walking by the restless sea. I know that my destiny is somehow connected with hers. Apart from her, I must forget everything that once linked me to Wyldcliffe.
Thirty-one
I
didn’t really know why, but it seemed important to find some link between me and Wyldcliffe, and I was excited about going to Uppercliffe Farm. The days passed quickly as I planned the outing with Sarah and practiced my riding. Underneath, despite these distractions, I was aching for Sebastian. Please forgive me; please get in touch, I prayed every night, and every morning I eagerly scanned the letters set out in the hall. He didn’t write.
I had to get over it and forget him. But a voice inside me cried, I can’t…. I won’t.
That Sunday morning seemed the longest I had ever experienced. The late, leisurely breakfast. The walk to church, with the clouds threatening rain. The gloomy hymns, the long prayers, the reading from the Gospel…. And men loved darkness rather than light because their deeds were evil…. And then the cold walk back to school, before we were finally free.
I went up to the dorm and pulled on a pair of jeans and some riding boots I had borrowed from Sarah. An old sweatshirt hid Frankie’s necklace from sight. I was glad that I was still wearing it on my ribbon, especially today, when I was going to see where Frankie’s family had once lived. As I changed my clothes I wondered if she ever thought about me, and my heart stabbed with pain. I missed so much about her. How she always woke me in the morning with a big mug of tea and a bigger smile. How she loved the sea and the stars and her simple cottage flowers. How she made me feel important for all those years, just by loving me. I’m doing this for you too, I tried to tell her as I hurried down the marble steps.
When I got to the stables, Celeste and Sophie were there already, all done up in immaculate jodhpurs and tweed jackets. A teenage boy I had never seen before was holding the reins of their long-legged horses. He had corn-colored hair and quiet brown eyes. I guessed he must be a local boy helping out in the stables for the weekend.
“Thanks, Josh,” said Celeste, swinging easily into the saddle. She and Sophie clattered off. I hoped we wouldn’t come across them on the moors. The boy gave me a quick smile, then turned away, busy with the other horses.
“Hey, Evie,” Sarah called, leading Bonny and Starlight across the cobblestones. I scrambled up onto Bonny’s broad back, and soon we were riding down the lane outside the school gates. I breathed out and tried to trust the steady jog-trot of the strong little pony. I mustn’t fall off. I mustn’t end up like Agnes….
“We turn off here,” said Sarah. “There’s a path that leads to Uppercliffe. It’s quite high up on the moors. Apparently there was a hamlet there once, just the farm and a few cottages. But the people moved away years ago. Perhaps they couldn’t make enough money from the land.”
A bird—I didn’t know what kind—cried mournfully, and the wind sighed over the bare hills. It must have been such a hard, lonely life in the old days, I thought. No wonder they had given up and moved away. We jogged along, and the sound of the wind seemed to be heavy with voices from the past….
“I’ve found something else out about Agnes,” said Sarah as she rode next to me. “I went to the library after supper last night to get a book for my French class, and I bumped into Miss Scratton. I thought she might know something, being a history teacher and all that. I told her that we were interested in finding out stuff about local history and had looked at that book about the school.”
“So what did she say?”
“She said that Reverend Flowerdew wasn’t exactly a reliable historian, and that it wasn’t totally clear that Agnes had died in a riding accident. That was the official story that people like Flowerdew repeated, and that the family acknowledged. Agnes was found dead on the grounds, supposedly thrown from her horse, but the talk among the servants was that she had been killed by some kind of intruder at Wyldcliffe.”
“You mean…murdered? That’s so horrible.”
“It’s only a possibility, according to Miss Scratton.”
“What else did Miss Scratton say?” I asked as we rode slowly side by side.
“She said the servants’ stories about an attack were dismissed as gossip. The official coroner supported the riding accident theory.”
“But why would there be two contradictory versions of her death?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps the servants simply got it wrong. Miss Scratton said Agnes was really popular with the ordinary people. Her old nurse even had a kind of seizure when she heard that Agnes was dead. I suppose it would only take a couple of hysterical young maids to get carried away when the news broke and then the rumors would be all over a little place like Wyldcliffe. Perhaps the authorities and her parents just came forward later and told the truth—that it was an accident.”
I hoped so. The idea that someone would deliberately kill a slim girl with starry eyes and bright hair was too awful. But these things happened, had always happened. Strange things happen at Wyldcliffe…. That cursed place.
No, it couldn’t be true. Impossible.
“Do you really believe in ghosts, Sarah?” I said abruptly.
“Yes,” she answered. “Yes, I think I do. I can’t believe that the energy that makes a person’s identity can just be destroyed and disappear into nothingness. I think that part of us lives on after death, whether you call it the spirit or the soul or whatever. So if our spirits do go on after death, isn’t it possible that some spirits might get lost, or stuck between worlds, like a penny that has been dropped down a crack?”
“Is that what you think happened to Agnes?”
Sarah shrugged. “Don’t they say that someone who has experienced something very traumatic—such as being murdered—could leave a kind of electrical energy behind them? A sort of shadow or a footprint? And people who are sensitive might be able to pi
ck that up.”
“You mean like a radio signal, but it’s the actual person you receive, instead of music?” I was half joking, but Sarah didn’t laugh.
“Yeah, I think so. Besides,” she added, “I’m still loyal to my Romany ancestors. The Romany people have always held that life for the dead continues, and that the dead can return to haunt the living.”
“The dead can return,” I repeated. My heart began to race, and I changed the subject. “Let’s get going, or it will be dark before we get to Uppercliffe.”
“Okay, then. Ready?”
We had reached a broad path across the heath, and Sarah cantered away smoothly. I tried to copy her. Bonny obediently pricked up her ears and set off after Starlight. At first I thought I would fall off; then I settled into the rhythm and clung on grimly as we sped across the moors.
Sarah had told me everything she had found out. I hadn’t been equally honest with her. I’d also done some research, but I’d kept the results to myself.
Without telling her, I had sneaked into the little telephone room at school and looked up the name James in the directory. There had been two entries, and I had called them both. No, they didn’t have a Sebastian James there. No, they didn’t know of anyone of that name in the Wyldcliffe area. No—getting impatient now—they couldn’t think of how I could contact him. But not finding his number didn’t mean anything, I told myself. His family was probably unlisted; that was all. I imagined them living in a big house with a high wall around it, keeping everyone away. Just as Sebastian had wanted to keep me away from the rest of his life.
Sarah pulled Starlight up to a walk. “There it is,” she said. “Uppercliffe Farm.”
Lying in a dip in the moor were the tumbled remains of a farmhouse, hardly bigger than a cottage. Weeds grew in the wide cracks in the walls.
“What do you think happened to it?” I asked.
“I guess when the family abandoned the farm other people came and took some of the stones to repair their own cottages. It looks sad, doesn’t it?”