Shadows jumped out in front of her as she headed toward Andrew’s room. Maggie’s heart beat faster and faster. She felt safer back in her room. More protected somehow. Out in the hall, she felt as if something could swoop down and grab her.
Maggie forced herself to keep moving. Be sensible. She reached Andrew’s room. She listened from outside the door. If he were sleeping peacefully, she didn’t want to wake him.
No sound.
She hurried to Garret’s door.
No sound there, either.
Maggie let out her breath in a sigh of relief. She turned back to her own room. Perhaps she had imagined the whole thing. Maybe she had dreamed it.
Wait. There it was again. A long, soft wail that seemed to drift down to her from somewhere high above.
Maggie thought about scurrying back to her room and bolting the door behind her. But she couldn’t.
She followed the sound through the dark old house. It led her down the long, wide hallway, to the left tower. She opened the tower door and began to climb the dark, winding stairs.
As she climbed, the crying sound grew louder.
And louder.
Who could it be? What will I find up there? she wondered with mounting dread.
Cook said she and Mary, the maid, slept in rooms off the kitchen.
George Squires’s quarters were out beyond the stables.
So who could be crying? Who?
Chapter
13
Maggie reached a large round landing at the top of the stairs. She faced a wooden door. The mournful cries came from behind it. Maggie reached for the handle—and the crying stopped dead. As if the person had sensed her there.
Maggie froze, listening. Listening for any sound, no matter how tiny.
Then she heard a soft sighing sound behind her. The hair on her arms stood up. Slowly she turned around.
A narrow window looked down on the lawn. The sound seemed to be coming from there now.
Cautiously, Maggie approached the window. It stood slightly open.
Outside, tree branches creaked slowly in the breeze. The wind rustling the leaves made a sighing, crying sound.
Wait a minute, she thought. Was that the sound I heard?
A gust of wind howled across the landing. It blew out Maggie’s candle. Leaving her in total darkness.
Maggie forced herself to stay motionless. Listening hard.
She heard only the leaves. The branches. The wind.
Foolish me, she thought. Frightened by the wind. Acting like a child.
She groped her way across the landing and down the twisting staircase. The large old house remained silent until she was back in bed with the covers drawn up neatly under her chin.
Then the crying sound began all over again. Louder and more insistent than before.
And it didn’t sound like the wind.
♦ ♦ ♦
“And this room is where we keep the silver and such,” explained Andrew the next morning. After breakfast he insisted on giving Maggie a tour of the estate. Garret had refused to come along, although Maggie invited him three separate times.
Maybe it’s just as well, she thought. Maybe I need to get to know Andrew and Garret separately for now. But she did want to get to know Garret. She thought he needed a friend even more than Andrew did.
“Come on!” Andrew cried. He raced into a room lined with paintings. He stopped in front of a portrait of a beautiful woman with long blond tresses framing a thin, sad face. Another portrait of the boys’ mother, Maggie thought. Again she felt uncomfortable as she gazed at the woman.
“This is the gallery,” Andrew told her casually. She thought his big blue eyes looked shiny, as if moist with tears.
“Andrew? Is this your mother?” she asked gently, stepping close to the painting the little boy had been studying.
Andrew nodded slowly.
“She was very beautiful,” Maggie said softly.
Andrew looked away.
“Andrew—” Maggie tried to find the right words. “I am sorry about your mother. You must feel free to speak about her if you like.”
The little boy bit his lip. Maggie could tell he struggled not to cry.
Feeling a wave of tenderness and pity, Maggie threw her arms around the child. He let himself be hugged for a moment, then slipped free from her grasp.
“I think the paintings in this room are very fine,” he said loudly.
It wrenched Maggie’s heart watching the little boy try to be so brave. He lost his mother. His father is nowhere to be found. And three governesses left him.
All he has left is Garret. And Garret is so troubled. So angry.
Andrew has me now, Maggie reminded herself. They both have me!
“There are paintings of almost everyone in the Malbourne family on these walls,” Andrew continued, interrupting her thoughts. He spun in circles in the center of the room, his arms open wide.
“Careful,” Maggie said, catching him as he tottered slightly. “You’re dizzy.”
“This is my grandfather,” Andrew said, pointing to a portrait in an elaborate frame. “I think he looks scary. Do you agree?”
“Very. Here, I can make the same face.” Maggie tightened her lips into a straight line, lowered her eyebrows, and stared down her nose at him.
Andrew giggled. “And this is my father, Harrison Malbourne the second.”
Maggie stopped short. There stood Harrison Malbourne, her employer. So we meet at last, she thought. Even if it was only a painting!
The man gazed at her with eyes as blue and clear as those of his younger son. Dark hair. A strong jaw. A cleft chin. Handsome did not begin to describe him.
But his face held a troubled expression. And his hair had a streak of white—unusual for one so young. Why does Tanglewood have such an effect on people? she wondered. Why is everyone so unhappy in this place?
She forced herself to look away. “Well, Andrew, what is next?”
He took her hand and led her to the billiard room. Then outside to see the stables and the horses.
After feeding each horse a carrot, Andrew continued his tour with a walk around the grounds. “Charcoal!” he yelled suddenly. He ran down the sloping lawn so fast that he almost fell. “Charcoal!”
When Maggie reached him, she found Andrew kneeling, gently petting a large gray cat.
“This is Charcoal,” Andrew told her. “He likes to be stroked under his chin. See?”
She knelt beside him.
“Yes. He’s a beauty,” Maggie answered.
“Go ahead. You can pet him. He is a very friendly cat.”
Maggie stroked the cat’s gray fur from head to tail. He arched his back and his purring grew even louder.
“Cook feeds him,” Andrew explained. “He lives in the yard. He belonged to Miss Nealon.”
Maggie felt herself stiffen at the mention of one of the former governesses.
“She must have been sorry to leave such a wonderful cat behind,” Maggie remarked. She kept her tone casual, but she watched Andrew carefully. “Perhaps she’ll be able to come back and visit someday. I bet Charcoal would like that.”
Andrew stared up at Maggie, his blue eyes serious. “Miss Nealon can never, ever come back,” he said.
“Why not?” Maggie asked.
Andrew picked up Charcoal and buried his face in the cat’s fur.
“Why not, Andrew?” Maggie asked again. She wrapped her arms around herself, feeling a chill run through her.
“She . . . she’s too far away. Africa, I think. Yes, she’s a missionary lady in Africa now,” Andrew said in a rush. He put Charcoal down and jumped to his feet. Then he dashed away.
“Come see my favorite place of all,” he called back to Maggie. She hurried after him. Her long skirt made it difficult for her to keep up.
Andrew stopped in front of a row of high green hedges. A gap in the hedges appeared almost like a doorway. “Come on,” he urged. He darted through the gap.
M
aggie followed him. The hedges grew so high she could not see over them, and the place was darker and cooler than the lawn.
The hedges rustled—and Andrew disappeared. “Andrew! Wait!”
Maggie felt a sting of panic. Do not leave me! she wanted to cry out.
But she was the governess. He was the boy! “I shall catch you!” she cried, trying to pretend she was only playing. “I shall catch you!”
Maggie ran after him—and found another doorway between the hedges. She dashed through—then came to an abrupt halt. Andrew was nowhere in sight. A choice of two doors awaited her.
A bird gave a shrill cry. Then Maggie heard a soft rustle in the hedges. She listened hard. Which direction did the sound come from? Which way did Andrew go?
Maggie took a deep breath and chose the door to the left. Andrew jumped out in front of her and laughed when she squealed.
Then he ran on ahead. Ducking left, then right. Several times Maggie found herself alone at a dead end. But then Andrew would appear behind her, laughing, and start the chase again. Deeper and deeper.
Until at last they reached the maze’s very center.
Andrew fell to the ground, laughing happily and kicking his shoes against the grass.
“Andrew! Your suit.”
He sat up, panting and grinning. “Sometimes when Garret is in one of his tempers, I come and hide here,” Andrew confessed.
“You mean like yesterday?” Maggie asked.
Andrew threw his head back and stared up at the sky without answering.
Can Garret get into a worse temper than yesterday? Maggie wondered. She shuddered at the thought.
“This is called a topiary maze,” Andrew explained, changing the subject. “My great grandfather built it.” He stood and they set out down the paths again.
They came out of the maze on the other side of the lawn. And as they made their way around the estate, Maggie noticed an old stone well. So quaint and inviting. She started toward it.
Then she realized that Andrew no longer trotted beside her.
She stopped, and turned back.
Andrew stared at the well. His face pale.
“What is it?” Maggie asked. “What is wrong?”
“It is nothing,” he called to her. But his voice shook. “I am just a little cold. Perhaps I could go inside now?”
“Of course.” As Maggie led the boy inside, she caught a flash of motion in a high window.
Garret. Scowling down on them from the window of his room.
♦ ♦ ♦
When are you coming back? Maggie thought as she stared at the portrait of Harrison Malbourne. We need you here. I need you. I need someone to tell me the truth about Tanglewood. I need someone to advise me on how to handle Garret.
During her first week at Tanglewood she had often found herself gazing at the painting. I must find out more about him, she suddenly decided. I must.
An awful thought popped into her mind. It was her afternoon off. What if she were to sneak inside his room?
Maggie walked casually down the hall. Each of her footsteps sounded like thunder to her ears. But no one appeared to demand where she was going or what she was doing. She reached the closed door to Mr. Malbourne’s bedroom.
She hesitated. She didn’t need to feel her stomach flipping over to know this was wrong. But she felt drawn to go inside.
If someone caught her inside this room, what excuse could she possibly give for trespassing? Maggie did not stop to decide. She turned the knob. Unlocked. She slipped inside and quietly shut the door behind her.
Bookshelves covered two walls of the bedroom. Beautiful volumes with leather spines filled each shelf. Maggie ran her finger along a row of books. Such an educated man he must be to read all these—
She stopped short.
On the wall, over the bed, hung a heavy musket.
An heirloom, she quickly decided. Mr. Malbourne could not be a violent man. Not the Mr. Malbourne in the picture.
Maggie turned her attention to a small gold-topped desk, piled high with editions of the New York Herald Tribune. Maggie paged through several papers, immediately drawn by the familiar names. Broadway. Fifth Avenue. Memories of the world she had left behind came rushing back.
She saw herself singing “The Children in the Wood” with her father and her sister around the fire. Attending lectures at the Lyceum. Performing charity work.
Maggie shook her head. She did not have time for newspapers—or memories—right now. She glanced around the room. Moved to the tall wooden chiffonier. She opened a few drawers, feeling very guilty. Going into his room was one thing, opening drawers was another.
But she didn’t stop exploring. She picked up the tiny jewelled music box that sat on top of the bureau. She lifted the lid and smiled as a sweet and tinkling tune began to play. The box was empty.
Maggie closed the lid. She carefully set the box back down, trying to place it exactly where it had been. As she did so, something inside the box rattled slightly.
Strange! She thought the box was empty . . .
She turned the music box upside down and ran her fingers over the bottom. Then she pushed on the side panels. The last panel she tried suddenly slid away, revealing a tiny wooden drawer with a bit of blue ribbon for a handle.
She carefully opened the drawer with two fingers.
Inside lay a silver key.
Clearly Mr. Malbourne does not want anyone to use this, Maggie thought. He would probably be furious if he knew she had found his secret hiding place.
“What are you doing with that?”
Maggie spun around. Garret stood behind her, eyes blazing.
“I said, what are you doing with that?” he demanded. “And what are you doing in my father’s room? You have no right to be in here. I could have you fired, do you hear me?”
When did he come in? Maggie had not heard a sound.
“I—I wandered in here by mistake,” Maggie stammered, wishing she had prepared a better excuse. She quickly shut the music box’s secret drawer. Then she hurried past Garret. “Come, let us both go outside and—”
Garret did not follow her.
When she turned back to face him, he crossed his arms. “Do not ever touch my father’s things again,” he told her sternly. “It makes my mother angry, do you hear? Very angry.”
Maggie felt the blood drain from her face. She could not have heard him correctly.
“What did you say?”
“I said it makes my mother very angry!” he cried.
“But, Garret,” Maggie said gently, “your mother is dead.”
Chapter
14
“Do not say that!” Garret screamed. “Never say that! Mother can hear you! She can hear everything!”
Garret rushed at her and pummeled her with his small fists.
She caught his arms, trying to hold him, calm him. “Garret, please, be reasonable—”
“You must know she is in the house!” Garret screamed. “Do you not hear her crying every night?”
Crying?
Maggie felt as if a dagger of ice had sliced down her spine.
“You have heard her!” Garret accused. “I can tell by the look on your face. So you know. She wants out of the tower! Now let—me—go!”
“No, Garret, wait! It is the wind that makes that howling sound in the tower.” Maggie tried to hold him, but the boy broke free from her arms and raced away down the hall.
♦ ♦ ♦
That night, Maggie heard the low wails again.
Just as she heard them every night since she had arrived at Tanglewood.
Garret’s words ran through her head again and again.
Maggie lay in bed, shaking. Could it be true? Could the crying voice belong to Garret and Andrew’s dead mother?
No. I do not believe in ghosts, Maggie told herself.
And that was true. In the daylight. Around Cook or Andrew. But alone in her room, the sounds chilled her. Sometimes they sounded so piercing sh
e felt as if the crying were inside her own brain.
Maggie flung off the bedcovers and began to pace around her little room.
Of course it is not Mrs. Malbourne that I hear, she told herself, punching her thigh with her fist. Garret is a troubled little boy who makes up stories.
You know he wants to frighten you. This is his newest attempt.
But the crying went on and on.
And it didn’t sound like the wind. It never had . . . although she let herself believe it.
Maggie stopped her pacing. “If not the wind, there is another explanation. A natural explanation,” she whispered.
She would search and search until she found out what was making that awful sound. She would find out once and for all.
She threw on her robe and climbed the winding staircase.
Once again, the crying seemed to grow louder as she reached the top of the dark landing.
“Who is here?” Maggie demanded. “Answer me!”
A billowing white cloud rose in front of the tower room door.
Chapter
15
Maggie stumbled backward. Her heart hesitated in her chest, then began beating hard and fast.
“Andrew!”
He stood there barefoot in his long white nightshirt. Tears streaming down his face.
“What are you doing here? Why aren’t you in bed?”
He nodded at the closed door. “This was my mother’s sickroom,” he explained through his tears. He sniffled hard. “I like to come here sometimes, and sit by the door. My father forbids it. Please do not tell on me, Miss Thomas. Please. I—beg you.”
Maggie felt as if she might shout with relief at her own foolishness. So this was who she heard crying every night! Poor Andrew. Crying for his lost mother.
“Of course I will not tell,” she whispered, gently stroking Andrew’s soft, curly locks. “Come, Andrew. It is well past time you were in bed.”
She picked him up. He lay his head heavily on her shoulder. “I like to talk to her sometimes,” Andrew said. “She likes to know what is going on in the house. I told her all about you, Miss Thomas.”