Soon Uncle appeared, a bit breathless from running up the stairs.
"Nellie tells me you wish to dine with us," he said. "Dr. Fielding advised you to rest, but if you feel strong enough, you jolly well shall join us!"
With a smile, Uncle wrapped James in a blanket and carried him downstairs. As he settled him in a comfortable chair, Aunt shot her brother a disapproving look but said nothing. Without speaking to any of us, she sat quietly, cutting her mutton into small bites, chewing slowly, and pausing now and then for a sip of water.
All around her, Uncle, James, and I talked and laughed and discussed the days that lay ahead. We did not mention the roof. We did not speak Sophia's name.
When Mrs. Dawson came to clear the table, she was humming an old song about wild mountain thyme and blooming heather. She gave us all a cheerful smile and patted James on his head.
"It's right glad I am to see you here, my boy," she said, "eating your dinner and enjoying yourself. It's as if a dark cloud has lifted and the days ahead will be bright and sunny and you'll play like the lamb you are."
James ducked his head and looked embarrassed, but I had a feeling he was glad of the happiness in Mrs. Dawson's voice. Glad to be at the table instead of in his lonely room. Glad his sister was gone.
From that night on, James's health improved quickly. Although Dr. Fielding was delighted, he couldn't explain it medically. But he was happy to attribute it to his skill.
Unfortunately, Aunt continued to compare me unfavorably to Sophia, refusing to listen to anyone else's opinion of her niece. She also considered me a bad influence on James.
"He was no trouble while he was sick," she pointed out with a frequency that quickly became monotonous. "A perfect little angel, he was, before that girl took an interest in him."
Early that spring, Aunt took it into her head to move to Eastbourne, where she shared a residence with a cousin even more disagreeable than she was—or so Mrs. Dawson claimed. No one missed her. Indeed, we were all glad she was gone.
As he'd promised, Uncle hired a governess for James and me. Miss Amelia was young and pretty and good natured. She made our lessons entertaining, and I found myself enjoying subjects I'd previously disliked. Even mathematics lost its terror.
As winter waned and the days grew longer and warmer, Miss Amelia encouraged James and me to spend more time out-of-doors. Impressed with our drawing skills, she urged us to try what she called plein air exercises.
"Find a tree, a building, a view," she told us, "and sit outside and sketch."
At first we were satisfied to draw the garden, the terrace, the fine old oaks lining the drive, and the distant hills. There seemed no end of interesting views to capture. Old stone walls, outbuildings, Spratt at work with hoe or shovel, Cat sleeping in the sun.
One afternoon, I was hard at work drawing the cat's ears, a very difficult thing to get right. Suddenly James sighed in exasperation and threw his pencil down.
"I'm tired of drawing that cat," he said.
"Draw something else then," I suggested. I was vexed with the cat myself. He kept changing his position, which meant everything I'd drawn before was wrong, including his dratted ears.
James looked around and frowned. "I don't see anything I want to draw."
"We could go for a walk," I said. "Maybe we'll find something new."
Gathering our pencils and sketchpads, we headed for the fields beyond the stone wall. A narrow public walkway led over a hill.
"I've been this way before," I told James.
"When?"
"I walked up the drive the day I came to Crutchfield Hall, so it couldn't have been then." I looked around, beginning to remember. "There was snow on the ground, and I was cold. The wind blew in my face. I was running."
"Were you alone?" James asked, suddenly serious.
I shook my head, remembering everything. "I was with Sophia. She took me to the churchyard to see her headstone. It was the day she made you climb out on the roof. Her death-day."
"Poor Sophia," James whispered. "She's been gone all this time, and we haven't visited her grave once."
"Do you think we should?" Truthfully, I wasn't at all certain I wanted to be that near Sophia. Suppose we disturbed her somehow? Suppose she came back?
He looked at me. "She's all alone there."
Reluctantly, I followed James up the hill, through the gate, and down the road to the village. It was a weekday, so not many people were about. A woman hung laundry in her yard. A small child pulled an even smaller child in a wagon. A horse trotted by hauling a carriage at a good clip. I glimpsed a bonneted head inside. A dog sleeping in the middle of the road got up and moved slowly out of the horse's way.
Under an almost cloudless sky, the old stone church dozed in the shade of trees. How different it had looked on that snowy day last winter, the stones dark and imposing, the trees bare, the wind howling. Now the headstones rose from freshly cut grass, tilting this way and that, some mossy with age, others newer. A flock of crows strutted among the stones, pecking in the grass. From the church roof, a line of wood pigeons watched us. Their melancholy voices blended well with the setting.
Hand in hand, James and I walked along gravel paths looking for Sophia's grave. Then we saw it. Her tilted stone cast a shadow across the grass.
In a low voice, James read his sister's inscription aloud. When he spoke her name, I braced myself, fearing she might rise up before us.
She did not appear. The wood pigeons cooed, a crow called and another answered, a breeze rustled the leaves over our heads, but Sophia remained silent.
"Do you know what today is?" James asked.
I thought for a moment. "It's the twenty-seventh of July," I whispered. "Half a year since we last saw her."
James held my hand tighter. "Do you think she'll come back again?"
"I hope not," I said, but I couldn't hide the uncertainty in my voice.
"Perhaps her spirit isn't here anymore," James said. "Perhaps she's with Mama and Papa." He looked at me as if for confirmation.
I nodded, hoping it was true.
"Maybe she's not angry now," James said softly. "Maybe she's not jealous. Maybe she knows now that she can't change her fate."
I nodded again, still hoping it was true, still not sure. Sophia was not the sort who would accept what could not be changed.
"I miss her sometimes," James said. "She wasn't always mean, you know. She could be quite nice when she wanted to be."
"I'm glad to hear that." I stared at the gravestone, warmed by the afternoon sun. It was almost impossible to picture Sophia lying peacefully six feet below us, tucked into her grave as snugly as a child is tucked into bed. All that anger, all that energy—where had it gone?
For a moment, the grass over Sophia moved as if something deep down below stirred in its sleep. With a flash of terror, I remembered what she'd told me about crawling from her grave six months after her death. I backed away, almost tripping on a tree root. Six months, I thought. Six months today.
Unaware of my distress, James contemplated Sophia's headstone. "Can we sit here for a while?" he asked. "I have a mind to draw a picture of my sister's grave."
I wanted to say no. I did not like graveyards, especially this one, but he'd already sat down and spread his art supplies on the grass.
While James sketched, I resisted the urge to seize his arm and pull him away. Perhaps I was being overly cautious, but I did not dare risk disturbing Sophia. Anything might rouse her—the scritch-scratch of James's pencil, the sad calls of the pigeons, the wind in the grass, even the soft sound of my breath or the solemn beat of my heart.
"James," I whispered. "We should go home. Uncle will wonder where we've gone."
He looked at me and smiled. "All right. I've finished my drawing."
As James gathered his things, I glanced at his picture. He'd drawn not only the tombstone, but his sister as well, standing in its shadow, blending in with the trees behind her. I couldn't be sure if she was smi
ling or frowning.
"Why is Sophia in the picture?" I asked him.
"She's not," he said.
I held the picture up and pointed to the indistinct image. "Who's this, then?"
James stared at what he'd drawn and shook his head. "I didn't put her there—I swear I didn't." He began to cry. "I was just sketching the trees. That's all. How did she get in my picture? Who drew her?"
I put my arms around him and stared over his head at Sophia's grave. Once again the grass stirred. A wind rose and rustled the leaves. For a moment, I thought I heard someone laughing at us.
Dropping the picture, I took James's hand. He looked at me, his face pale with fear. "Is she coming back?" he whispered.
I stared at the shadowy place under the tree, not sure whether she was there or not. "Even if she does come back," I said, "she can't hurt us. What's done is done. No matter how often she tries to change her fate, she will fail."
James tightened his grip on my hand. "It's very sad," he whispered. "I feel sorry for her."
"Better to feel sorry than frightened." Turning back to the shadowy place under the tree, I said loudly, "We are stronger than you are, Sophia. You cannot harm us, you cannot frighten us, you cannot make us obey you anymore."
"Leave us alone!" James cried. "Please, please, Sophia, rest in peace."
The wind rustled the leaves and blew through the grass on Sophia's grave. Its sound was as low and sad as the pigeons calling to one another on the church roof.
Wordlessly, James and I left the churchyard. Over our heads, the sky was a clear blue dome, and the road lay before us, dappled with sunshine and shadow. When we got home, Mrs. Dawson would have tea and cake ready for us. Later, we'd take our books outside and read in the garden or play croquet with Miss Amelia.
I looked over my shoulder. The old church spire rose above the trees. I could no longer see the graves, but I knew they were there, dozing in the sunlight, tilting this way and that, some cradled in tree roots, some almost hidden in tangles of weeds and wildflowers. I hoped Sophia had heard what we'd said and would remain where we'd left her, at peace among the dead.
Mary Downing Hahn, The Ghost of Crutchfield Hall
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