“I’m sorry, Mr. Heckling,” I said. “But this is a most important communication. He will need to see it tonight.”
He stared at me as if he could not quite believe what I had said. “It’s late, Governess,” he said. “I’m only fit for sleep.”
“As I said, I apologize for that. But I’m afraid it can’t be helped. This cannot be delayed. I must ask you to bring it to him immediately.”
He exhaled deeply from the very depths of his chest. I could see that he wanted nothing more than to be left in peace in front of his fireplace, his pipe in his mouth, perhaps a tankard of ale next to him, alone with his thoughts, allowing the world to stand judgement before him.
“Aye,” he said finally. “If it matters that much, then I’ll take it. Am I to wait on a response?”
“Just ensure that he reads it there and then,” I said. “I think his response will be quite immediate. Thank you, Heckling.”
“Aye,” he said, his voice still a grumble as he went back indoors to fetch his boots.
I made my way back to the house and tried the front door but, in attempting to push it open, a force greater than my own pushed against me from the other side. I was being denied access. Above my head, I heard a sound as a gargoyle from the roof of the Hall dislodged itself and spiralled downwards and I was forced to leap out of its way as it tumbled to the ground, its enormous weight of stone smashing into a hundred pieces. As the stones flew up, one caught me in the cheek and made me cry out and I pressed a hand against my skin. No blood had been drawn. Had the gargoyle fallen on me I would doubtless have been killed instantly. But I was not dead. Not yet. I waited, leaning back against the wall as more remnants from the roof fell down to the ground below; Harriet Bennet had been correct, it was in an advanced state of disrepair. When the rain of stones stopped, I turned back to the front door, expecting the force inside to keep me out still, but this time it opened quite easily and I rushed inside, gasping aloud, shutting it behind me, and stood there for a moment, fighting to catch my breath. Was I insane? Was this entire effort a madness? I doubted that I would see daylight again but persevered. Either she or I who could live at Gaudlin Hall but not both of us.
Making my way up the staircase, I entered the children’s dressing room, where a wardrobe and dresser on the left-hand wall contained all of Isabella’s clothes and shoes, while another on the right-hand side contained all of Eustace’s. In the corner stood a couple of suitcases and I chose two at random, filling each with clothes belonging to one of the children.
“What are you doing?” asked a voice from behind me and I spun round in fright to find Isabella and Eustace standing there in their nightclothes, roused from their beds, holding a candle between them.
“She’s leaving us,” said Eustace in a tearful voice, leaning into his sister for consolation. “I said she would.”
“What a shame,” replied Isabella. “But she’s done well to last this long, don’t you think?”
“I’m not leaving you, my darling boy,” I said, coming over towards him and taking his face in my hands and kissing it lightly. “I’ll never leave you, either of you, do you understand that?”
“Then why are you packing?”
“She’s not packing her clothes, Eustace,” said Isabella, stepping into the room and looking at what was in the suitcases. “Can’t you see? She’s packing ours.” She frowned for a moment and looked back at me. “But this doesn’t make sense,” she said finally. “Are we being sent away? You know that we can’t leave Gaudlin Hall, don’t you? We’re not allowed to leave. She won’t let us.”
“She being who?” I asked, challenging her directly now.
“Why, Mama of course,” said Isabella with a shrug, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “She can only take care of us here.”
“Your mama is dead,” I cried, taking her by the shoulders and shaking her in my frustration. A shadow of a smile crossed her lips. “You understand that, don’t you, Isabella? She can’t take care of you now. But I can. I’m alive.”
“She won’t like it,” said Isabella, pulling away from me and retreating to the doorway, followed quickly by her brother. “I’ll not go with you, Eliza Caine, no matter what you say. And neither will Eustace. Isn’t that right, Eustace?”
He looked from one of us to the other, uncertain where his loyalties lay. But I had no time for this; after all, I had no intention of taking the children away from Gaudlin Hall. I simply needed it to look as if I was. I needed her to believe that that was my plan.
“Go to bed, both of you,” I said, waving my hand to dismiss them. “I’ll come in to talk to you soon.”
“All right then,” said Isabella, smiling at me. “But it won’t do you any good. We won’t leave.”
They went back to their bedrooms and shut their doors and I stood in the dark hallway, breathing carefully, allowing my body to relax for a moment.
As soon as I did so a pair of cold hands surrounded my throat and I opened my eyes wide in fright as I was pushed to the ground. I could feel a body on top of me, an extraordinary weight, but no physical presence could be seen in the hallway. It was dark, of course, there was just one candle lit on the wall halfway down the corridor, but I knew that it could have been as bright as noon-time on a summer’s day and I would see no one, there would just be me lying on the floor, my face contorting, my hands scrambling in the air as I tried to release myself from the monster’s grip.
I tried to call for help but words would not come and the legs of the body atop my own straddled me, a knee forcing itself into my abdomen and sending a horrible shooting pain through my chest. I thought that it might cut directly through me, split my body in half, and wondered whether this was the moment of my death as the hands closed tighter and tighter round my throat, cutting off my breathing, making the world grow darker and darker.
A great sound above me, a roar of disapproval, and the presence was wrenched from me and I heard a scream, a woman’s scream, as the second spirit pushed her to the wall and then a great tumble as she was thrown over the banisters; the sound of a body falling down the stairs was clearly audible to me, and then silence, total silence.
And with it, that scent of cinnamon in the air. I could resist asking no longer.
“Father?” I cried out. “Father, are you there? Father, can it be you?”
But now all was silence again. It was as if neither spirit was present. I coughed repeatedly, trying to clear my throat, but it was terribly sore, as was my chest. I wondered whether she had ruptured something inside me, whether even now the blood was pouring from some sacred vessel within and preparing to haemorrhage and take my life. But there was nothing I could do about that now. I left the children’s suitcases on the landing and made my way upstairs to my own room.
The walls on my corridor were lined with paintings and as I began to walk they lifted from their hooks, one by one, and crashed to the floor, making me scream and run faster. One flew directly at me, missing me by inches, and I ran ahead, flinging open the door and pulling it closed behind me, trying not to think about how little difference this would make; the presence did not worry about doors, after all. She might be in here already. She might be waiting for me.
But inside the room, all was quiet. I suffered another fit of coughing and, when it passed, sat on the bed, considering what I should do next. I was relying on one thing. That the presence would attack me so violently that the second spirit, my own father, would bring her actions to an end. I did not even know if it was possible. She had been killed once and lingered on; perhaps she could not be killed again. Perhaps she was an immortal now. How did I even know that Father was stronger than her?
A great roar lifted the window from its moorings, throwing it out of the house entirely and sending it crashing from the second floor to the ground below, the sound of the glass breaking into a thousand pieces competing with the noise of the wind and the scream that emerged from my mouth. My room was now exposed to the eleme
nts. I ran to the door, attempting to leave, but was pushed backwards, sandwiched now between two presences, Santina’s ghost before me, my father’s behind. I cried out, trying to wrestle my way free, but they were too strong for me, their strength was not a human strength at all, but being the weakest of the three I somehow managed to slip down between their bodies and make my way to the door, rushing through it and slamming it behind me. Outside, the corridor was a wreck. The paintings were all smashed upon the ground, the carpet had been lifted from the floor and twisted and torn into shreds. The wallpaper was peeling, the rotting damp swell of the stone leaking some type of primordial ooze down the walls behind. She had grown furious, I realized, because of my refusal to die and was preparing to destroy everything. If my plan had been to provoke her to a fury, I had certainly succeeded. I ran to the end of the corridor, opening the door, uncertain where I might go next.
I was faced with the two staircases.
The first led to the roof, an unsafe place for me to venture, the second to Mr. Westerley’s room. I cried out in pity. I should never have gone this way. I should have made my way back downstairs and out to the courtyard. The presence was at her most effective, her most virulent in the house. The further away I was, the safer I would be. I looked back at my bedroom door, from where I could hear a great roar, a scream of fighting, but I sensed that if I passed it again, she would know and I would find myself within the centre of a great complaint from which I might never be released alive. And so I turned round, made a sudden decision, and climbed the staircase, pulling open the door at the top and quickly slamming it shut behind me.
Chapter Twenty-three
THE ROOM HERE was quiet, save for the sound of Mr. Westerley’s gasping breath. I pressed my ear to the door and held it there for a few moments, willing myself not to cry, waiting for my own breath to be restored to me and then, taking all my courage together, I turned round and looked at the body that lay in the bed.
He was a pitiful sight. A horrendous shell of a human being. His arms lay atop the sheets but his hands were pulpy things, several of his fingers missing entirely, others little more than stumps attached to his hands. His face was a confusion. Mostly bald, the skull was misshapen, a mound of bruising that would never heal, pulling the left side of his head in a curious direction that my eyes could not fully focus on. The eye on one side was missing; a dark red and black hole gaped out in its place. On the other side of his face, his right eye was curiously intact, the sharp blue pupil staring directly at me, fully alert, the surrounding eyelashes and lids the only part of his remaining face that looked human. His nose had been broken in many places. His teeth were no more. His lips and chin melded together; it was impossible to tell where the natural redness of the former connected to the unnatural scarlet of the latter. A part of his jaw was missing entirely and I could see enamel and bone. And yet despite the horror I could feel nothing but sympathy for him. His wife’s cruellest act, it seemed to me, had been allowing him to survive in this way.
A horrendous cry emerged from his mouth and I put a hand to my own, hating to hear such pain expressed. He groaned again, it was like the dying roar of a wounded animal, and I thought he was trying to say something. The words came but his vocal cords had been damaged so badly that they were almost impossible to decipher.
“I’m sorry,” I said, stepping towards him, taking his hand in my own. I didn’t care what it looked or felt like; this man needed the touch of another human. “I’m so sorry, James.” I used his Christian name despite the difference in our rank; in that room at least, I felt that we were equals.
His groan sounded more defined now and I could tell that he was struggling with every fibre of his being to make himself understood. His head lifted slightly from the pillow and the sound emerged once again. I sank my head lower to his face, trying to hear.
“Kill me,” he said with a great effort, the exertion leading him to bubble and foam at the lips as he gasped and struggled for air. I pulled back, shaking my head.
“I can’t,” I said, horrified by the prospect. “I can’t do it.”
A trickle of blood emerged from his mouth and made passage along his cheek and I stared, horrified, uncertain what to do as one hand lifted and, with great difficulty, he beckoned me forward.
“The only way,” he gasped. “Break the connection.” And I understood at last. He had brought her to Gaudlin Hall. He had married her, given her children here. And she had meant to kill him but somehow he had survived. He was as close to a corpse as it was possible to be but he continued to breathe. And she continued to exist in time with it. They could both live or they could both die.
I cried aloud, lifting my hands to heaven in desperation. Why had I been entrusted with this act? What had I done to deserve it? And yet, despite all my misgivings, I began to look around the room for something that might end the man’s suffering. If I was to be a murderess, then let it be quick and over. I told myself not to think about it. It was a monstrous act, a crime against God and nature itself, but I could not think or I would be persuaded differently. I had to act.
On a chair in the corner of the room, the chair that I imagined Mrs. Livermore sat in while she was nursing him, there lay a pillow. A pillow that was soft against her back and allowed her to rest quietly for a few minutes. It brought her comfort; so let it bring comfort to James Westerley too. I reached for it, picked it up and turned back to him, holding it tightly in both my hands.
His single good eye closed and I could see at that moment the sense of relief that was coursing through his body. It was finally about to end. He would be set free from this living death. I would be his killer and his salvation all at once. Standing beside him, I lifted the pillow, preparing to bring it down upon his face, but the moment my arms began to descend, the door to the room was flung open, ripped completely off its hinges, and a force unlike any I had ever felt before entered the room.
It was as if I was at the centre of a hurricane. Every dust mote, every item in the room that was not pinned to the floor rose and circled me. Even Mr. Westerley’s bed lifted from the floor and rocked as a screaming like the banshee wail of a thousand lost souls filled the room. I stumbled backwards as the wall behind me gave way, the stones ripping from it and flying out into the night beyond, and within a few moments the room at the top of Gaudlin Hall was entirely exposed to the elements. I was staring down at the courtyard below, my feet teetering on the edge even as a hand reached out—oh that hand I knew so well, that same hand that had held my own throughout my childhood, the one that had walked me to and from school a thousand times—and pulled me back in, dragging me to the other side of the room where the second door, the one that Mrs. Livermore used to enter and leave Gaudlin Hall, stood and I pulled it open and threw myself down the stairs.
The steps seemed to go on for ever. I could scarcely believe there were so many of them but somehow I made my way round and round before emerging into the dark night outside the Hall. I was on the ground once again and scarcely able to believe that I yet lived. I ran towards Heckling’s stable but he was gone, of course; by now he would have already arrived at Mr. Raisin’s house, he would have delivered my letter and be on his way back here, his horse trotting along the road, grumbling to himself in irritation at my night-time messages. I flung the door open but then changed my mind. What was the point of entering, after all? Did I mean to hide? That would achieve nothing. I would not be safe there.
I turned back and ran towards the courtyard and was lifted off my feet, finding myself suspended in mid-air before being thrown bodily to the ground from a height of perhaps ten feet. I cried out, my body aching, but before I could pick myself up, the presence collected me in her grasp, lifted me again and flung me down. This time my head crashed against the stone. I felt a wetness on my forehead and put a hand to it; it came away red in the moonlight. I could not survive much more of this. I looked up and was astonished to see the walls beginning to crumble on the third floor of the house. Par
t of the roof had collapsed, and to the left and right of the room in which I had stood stones were pouring down. I could see my own bedroom, the window ripped from its socket. I could make out Mr. Westerley’s bed near the edge of the precipice above as more and more of the stonework began to pull away from the building, each piece setting another one out of place, a domino effect that would in time, I realized, bring the whole edifice down.
The children, I thought.
I was lifted again and prepared my body for its inevitable thrashing against the stones but this time, before I rose too high, I was released from her grasp and dropped without as much pain. I heard Santina scream and my father roar. Their argument took them away from me, back towards the house, and as I stumbled to my feet I heard the sound of horse’s hooves and a carriage approaching and turned to see Heckling and his horse making their way up the drive, the carriage occupied not by just one person as I had expected, but by four. For seated behind Heckling were Mr. Raisin himself and Madge and Alex Toxley.
“Help!” I cried, running towards them, ignoring the pain that seared through my body. “Help me, please!”
“My dear,” cried Madge, emerging first and rushing towards me, the expression on her face making clear how bloody and beaten my face was. If I had been an unattractive woman before, it was, I imagined, as nothing compared to how I looked now. “Eliza!” she shouted. “Oh my God, what has happened to you?”
I stumbled towards her but fell into the embrace of Mr. Raisin, who had descended from his seat and ran towards me, his arms outstretched.
“Eliza,” he cried, pressing my head to his chest, and even in my pain and torment I felt a giddy delight to be held so. “My poor girl. Not again, not again,” he screamed suddenly and I realized that the terrible sight he was viewing reminded him of that awful night when he arrived at Gaudlin Hall to find the dead body of Miss Tomlin and the mutilated body of his friend, James Westerley.