She smiled at me. “Miss Caine,” she said quietly, “I grant you that I do not come out of this adventure without a stain on my character. It was wrong of me to advertise the position under false pretences. I knew that it sounded as if I was master of Gaudlin Hall and not a mere governess. And I realize that if I were a braver soul, then I should have waited for you to arrive and warned you of the things that were taking place there. But I couldn’t take that chance, you see. I couldn’t risk your turning on your heels and boarding the train back to London. It was cowardly of me, of course. I know that very well. But, you see, I had to get away. But the one thing that I wouldn’t do, the one act that I could not bring myself to commit, was walking away from those children and leaving them to that spirit. Leaving them without a protector. Until I knew that you were coming, I could not leave.” She hesitated and shook her head. “No, that’s not entirely accurate,” she said, reconsidering this. “I couldn’t leave Eustace without a protector. Isabella, I don’t think she needs anyone to look after her. She can take care of herself.”
I stood up, pacing slowly around the classroom. A wall chart listed the Kings and Queens of England, from the Battle of Hastings to Victoria, and it distracted me for a moment, bringing me back to happier times. How I wished that I was simply waiting for my small girls to run back in after their lunch break, tired and yawning, ready for their afternoon’s exercises.
“And you, Miss Caine,” said Miss Bennet after a long silence. “You have suffered badly?” I nodded and told her briefly about the various incidents that had taken place since my residence at the Hall began. “At least you have survived,” she said.
“So far,” I replied.
“But you’re here,” she said, smiling and coming over to me, taking both my hands in hers. “You’re here, after all. You got away. Like me. Perhaps the spirit is losing her power.”
I shook my head and pulled my hands away. “I think you misunderstand me,” I said. “I may have survived, so far, but I have not got away, as you put it. I am only here for the afternoon in London. I told you already that I return to Norfolk by the afternoon train.”
“You’re going back to Gaudlin Hall?”
“But of course I am,” I said. “Where else would I go? I have no other home.”
“Go anywhere,” she shouted, throwing her hands in the air, months of tension pouring out of her now in frustration. “Go anywhere at all. Go back to the school you used to teach in. Go to Cornwall or Edinburgh or Cardiff or London. Go to France or Italy. Travel into the heart of Russia, if you must, or live with those unfortunate women on the streets of the capital. But get away from that terrible place. If you have any sense, Miss Caine, get as far away from Gaudlin Hall as you possibly can.”
I stared at her, shocked by her selfishness. “And then who,” I asked her in an even tone, trying to control my growing temper, “who would take care of the children?”
“She would.”
I shook my head. “I will not leave them to her,” I said.
She shrugged. “Then she will come for you. Like she came for the others.” She looked away, her tone suggesting that this much was both obvious and unavoidable. “She’ll come; you’ll die.”
Her words were like a knife through me. “But why?” I asked, as much of myself as anyone else. “Why does she mean us harm? I seek nothing but to help those children. To take care of them. And what of the other presence? The old man? You have not spoken of him. What part does he play in this?”
Miss Bennet frowned and looked back at me, shaking her head as if she had not heard me correctly. “I beg your pardon?” she said.
“The other spirit,” I said. “There are two of them, are there not? He prevented me from being pushed out the window on one occasion—I could feel his hands on me. Eustace has seen him, has spoken to him. He said that he was there to take care of me.”
Miss Bennet wrapped her arms around herself and I could see that she had grown more frightened by what I said. “I’m sorry, Miss Caine. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You never felt him?”
“No,” she said. “Not once. Only the destructive spirit. Only her.”
“Perhaps he was there and you never felt him? Perhaps he prevented those stones from falling on you, for example.”
She considered this for a moment but shook her head. “I would have known,” she said in a confident voice. “I am certain that I would have. I would have known if there was another. And there wasn’t. I would swear to it.”
I nodded. I had no choice but to believe her; she had no reason to lie. The bell rang and I could see the boys in the playground bringing their games to an end, gathering their lunch cans and making their way towards the doors.
“I should go,” I said. “I suppose I must thank you, Miss Bennet, for your candour. You have confirmed a number of things for me. And, strange as it might sound, it is something of a relief to me to know that another has gone through what I am going through. It prevents me from thinking that I am going mad.”
“But you are going mad,” said Miss Bennet evenly. “You must be if you decide to go back there. Only a madwoman would return to that place.”
“Then I am a madwoman,” I replied. “And so be it. But the children will not leave while their father remains in the house, I know that much for certain. They never speak of him, they never acknowledge his presence. But they are comforted to know that he is there. And I will never leave them alone to that malevolent spirit.”
I reached for the door handle and heard her voice behind me, sorrowful now, regretful.
“You must think me a terrible woman,” she said. “To have deserted them like I did.”
I turned back to her and shook my head. “You did as your nature dictated,” I said, smiling at her. “And I must do as my own nature dictates too. Goodbye, Miss Bennet.”
“Goodbye, Miss Caine,” she said. “And good luck.”
It was late when I returned to Gaudlin Hall. The train had been delayed in London and then delayed a second time just outside Manningtree. It had been an uncomfortable journey. A middle-aged man in the carriage, seated opposite me, had begun an unwelcome flirtation, an experience which was entirely new to me and which, at another time, I might have rather enjoyed, but I could not enjoy it then and was forced to move to a different seat, where I had the misfortune to find myself next to an elderly lady who wanted nothing more than to regale me with stories of how cruel her daughter and son-in-law were to her, how they prevented her from seeing her grandchildren, and how neither of them were any better than they ought to be anyway and that they would find no place in her will.
Madge Toxley had brought the children home to their own beds and seemed relieved to see me, summoning her carriage immediately and making her way back down the driveway with extraordinary haste. As I ascended the staircase at Gaudlin Hall I prayed that I would be permitted to sleep through the night, to recover my energies for the following day, and be prepared to face whatever trauma might come next. I stopped on the landing before heading up to my own floor and was surprised to hear voices coming from Eustace’s room. I glanced at the clock next to me; it was past midnight and far too late for either of the children to still be awake. I made my way down the corridor and stopped outside his room, pressing an ear to the door. It was difficult to make out what they were saying but after a moment my hearing adjusted and I could make out Eustace speaking in a quiet tone.
“But what if she doesn’t come back?” he was asking.
“She will,” came the reply, not Isabella’s voice as I expected, but something older, something more mature, something masculine.
“I don’t want her to leave us like the others did,” said Eustace.
“She won’t,” said the second person, at which point I opened the door and stepped inside. There was no light in the room save for Eustace’s candle which sat next to his bed on the table, illuminating him. His pale skin looked white as snow against his nig
htshirt. I looked around. He was entirely alone.
“Who were you talking to?” I asked, marching towards him, seizing him by the shoulders and raising my voice. “Who were you talking to, Eustace?”
He issued a short gasp of fright but, despite how much I loved him, I had had enough and was unwilling to release him from my grasp. “Who were you talking to?” I shouted, and now he relented.
“The old man,” he said.
I could have wept in frustration. “But there is no old man,” I cried, releasing him and turning round in a full circle before looking back at the boy. “There’s no one else here.”
“He’s behind you,” said Eustace and I spun round once again, my heart racing, but no, there was no one there.
“Why can’t I see him?” I cried. “Why can’t I see him too?”
“He’s gone outside now,” said Eustace quietly, sinking under the sheets. “But he’s still in the house. He says he won’t leave no matter how much she wants him to. He won’t go where he’s supposed to go, not while you’re still here.”
Chapter Twenty
“A GHOST?” ASKED Reverend Deacons, smiling at me, his expression such that he thought perhaps I was making fun of him.
“I know it sounds ridiculous,” I said. “But I’m convinced of it.”
He shook his head and indicated a pew on the left-hand side of the church, the Westerley family pew, the one where the children and I sat every Sunday. There was a brass plaque pinned to the corner, inscribed with the name of a Westerley antecedent, the dates of his birth and death. Seventeenth century. They went back that far at least then. “My dear girl,” said the vicar, sitting at a small remove from me. “The idea is fanciful.”
“Why must it be? What is it Shakespeare says, Reverend? There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”
“Shakespeare was in the business of entertaining an audience,” he replied. “Shakespeare was nothing more than a simple writer. Yes, in one of his plays, a ghost might appear on the ramparts, naming his killer, demanding vengeance. Or attending a feast to haunt his own murderer. But these things exist to titillate and send a shiver down the spines of the paying crowd. In real life, Miss Caine, I’m afraid that ghosts are very much overrated. They are the stuff of fictions and of whimsical minds.”
“It’s not so long ago that men of your ilk believed in witches and superstition,” I pointed out.
“Medieval times,” he said, waving a hand in the air to dismiss the notion. “This is 1867. The Church has come a long way since then.”
“Women were held underwater on suspicion of being witches,” I stated bitterly. “If they drowned, they were proven innocent but had lost their lives to the accusation. If they survived, then their guilt was proven and they were burned at the stake. Either way, they were killed. Women, of course. Not men. No one questioned such beliefs in those days. And now you call me fanciful. You do not see the irony?”
“Miss Caine, the modern Church cannot be held responsible for the superstitions of the past.”
I sighed. It had probably been a poor decision on my part to come here but I was at my wits’ end and had wondered whether a vicar might come to my assistance. In truth, I had never been a particularly religious person. I had observed, of course, and attended services on Sundays. But to my shame, I had always been one of those lost souls whose mind wandered a little during the homily and who paid scant attention during the reading of the lesson. What did it say of me that now, in a moment of such crisis, I turned to the Church for help? And what did it say of the Church that, when I sought consolation, it could do nothing but laugh in my face?
“We know so little of the world,” I continued, determined not to allow myself to be treated like an hysterical woman. “We know not how we got here or where we will go after we leave. How can we be so convinced that there is no such thing as lost souls, half alive and half dead? How can you be so certain that it is a nonsense?”
“This is a product of living at Gaudlin Hall,” he replied, shaking his head. “Your mind is open to delusion due to the unhappy history of that place.”
“And what do you know of Gaudlin Hall?” I asked. “When did you last set foot there?”
“Your tone is combative, Miss Caine,” he replied and I could sense that he was trying hard to keep the anger out of his. “Unnecessarily so, if I might say so. Perhaps you’re not aware of this but I have visited Mr. Westerley.” I raised an eyebrow in surprise and he nodded, sensing my scepticism. “It’s quite true, I assure you,” he continued. “Soon after he was brought back to the Hall. And on one or two occasions since then. The poor man is in such a terrible state that it’s upsetting to see him at all. But perhaps you’ve seen him too?”
“I have,” I admitted.
“Then isn’t it possible, Miss Caine, that laying eyes on such an unfortunate specimen of humanity, and knowing the story of how he ended up in that position, has played with your imagination somewhat?”
“I don’t believe so,” I replied, unwilling to be patronized. “After all, if you see him as regularly as you say, and I have only laid eyes on him once, then why would I suffer these unhappy delusions when you do not?”
“Miss Caine, is it necessary for me to say?”
“It is.”
He sighed. “I fear you will rebuke me for this, but is it not true to say that your sensibilities, as a woman—”
“Stop, please!” I insisted, raising my voice so that it echoed around the aisles. I closed my eyes for a moment, telling myself to control my temper, not to allow him to aggravate me so badly. “Do not say that I am more susceptible because of my sex.”
“Then I will not say it,” replied Reverend Deacons. “But you might find more answers in that suggestion than you like.”
I wondered whether I should simply stand up and leave. What had brought me there anyway? It was a nonsense, all of it. This building, that altar, this ridiculous man with his vestments and sanctimonious airs. The living the parish afforded him while others starved. More fool me for thinking that he might ever offer me some solace. I gathered myself together, preparing to make a dignified departure, when a further thought occurred to me.
“I have a question,” I said. “Not to do with the events at Gaudlin Hall. Perhaps you can provide me with an answer?”
“I can try.”
“You believe in an afterlife, Father?” I asked him. “In the rewards of heaven and the damnation of hell?”
“Of course,” he replied without hesitation, looking shocked that I would even dare to question his creed.
“You believe in these things without any proof whatsoever of the existence of either?”
“My dear girl, that is where faith comes in.”
“Of course,” I said. “But if you believe in these two forms of the afterlife, then why are you so opposed to considering a third?”
He frowned. “What do you mean by a third?” he asked. “What third exactly?”
“A third place,” I explained. “A place where the souls of the dead can linger before being admitted to heaven or condemned to hell.”
“You refer to purgatory, Miss Caine.”
“A fourth place then,” I said, almost laughing at the absurdity of the vast number of places where a soul could be located. “You believe in three but not four. A place where souls remain part of this world, still observing us and at times interacting with us. Hurting us or protecting us. Why should such a plane of existence seem so ridiculous to you when the others—heaven, hell and purgatory—do not?”
“Because there is no mention of such a place in the Bible,” he said patiently, speaking to me as if I was a child, which caused me to throw my hands in the air in frustration.
“The Bible is written by men,” I declared. “It has gone through so many changes, so many linguistic translations over the centuries that it adapts and re-creates itself in the form of the time in which the reader engages with it. Only a fool believ
es that the words of the Bible are the words delivered by Christ.”
“Miss Caine, you are approaching blasphemy,” he said, sitting back in the pew now and looking scandalized. I could see his hand trembling slightly as he spoke. I suspected that he was unaccustomed to being challenged so provocatively by anyone, let alone by a woman. His position, like so many of his ilk, was one of uncontested and unearned respect. “And if you continue to speak in this vein, I will not listen.”
“I apologize,” I said, not wishing to infuriate him or bring the roof of the church down on my head; there was enough possibility of that at Gaudlin Hall without it happening here too. “I don’t mean to upset you. Truly I don’t. But you must admit that there is so much that we don’t know about the universe that it is entirely possible, indeed it is likely, it is more than likely, that there are mysteries whose revelation would surprise us. Shock us, even. Cause us to doubt the very foundations upon which we base our faith in this world.”
He considered this, removed his spectacles and wiped them with his handkerchief before replacing them on his nose. “I am not a highly educated man, Miss Caine,” he said after a lengthy pause. “I am a simple vicar. I have no aspirations towards a bishopric, nor do I expect that one would ever be offered to me. I seek no other earthly position than being a pastor to my flock. I read, of course. I have an enquiring mind. And I admit that over the course of my life, there have been times when I have had … questions about the nature and meaning of existence. I would not be human if I did not. The nature of spiritual belief is one of the eternal questions about the universe. But I reject your hypothesis on the grounds that it removes God from the equation. God chooses when we should enter this world and when we should leave it. He does not make half-decisions and leave souls lingering in crisis. He is decisive. He is no Hamlet, if you wish to speak in Shakespearean terms. Those would be the actions of a cruel and merciless Lord, not the loving one we read of in the Bible.”
“You don’t think God can be cruel and merciless?” I asked, trying not to laugh and provoke him even further. “Is your reading of the Bible so superficial that you do not recognize barbarity on every page?”