Authors: Alison Stuart
“How was London?” Helen asked, deflecting her mother-in-law away from what she feared Evelyn saw as another black mark against her.
“Marvelous,” Evelyn said. “We took in a show and did a little shopping. I found a lovely dress for Alice.”
“That’s very kind,” Helen said.
“And your dear sister?” Paul enquired.
A slight flush stained Evelyn’s cheeks. “Better for my company,” she said. “Now I must get changed. I have letters to write.”
“Before you go,” Helen said, rising to her feet. “I wondered if you could tell me about Suzanna Morrow?”
Evelyn stopped with her hand on the door to the stairs and turned. “Suzanna? The scandalous Suzanna?” She indicated the two regency era portraits on the wall. “That’s her portrait and, of course, her husband, Robert Morrow.”
Even as Helen turned to look at the now familiar likenesses, a cold breath blew lightly on the back of her neck and the whispering started. Her fingers closed on the slender volume hidden in pocket of her cardigan
“Why was she called scandalous Suzanna?” Helen asked
“Ran off with another man, they say,” Evelyn said. “Oh dear, it was quite a family disgrace. Her name was not to be mentioned in the hearing of my parents-in-law. Her husband, Robert,” Evelyn cocked her head and looked at the painting of Robert, “was badly wounded in the Peninsula campaign. He never recovered from Suzanna’s desertion and died a few years later. If you’re really interested, there is a brief family history in here somewhere.” Evelyn shivered. “I don’t know why you work in here, Paul, it’s always cold. You really should light a fire.”
Helen glanced at the fire that had been burning cheerfully only a few minutes previously. Now the coals showed no glimmer of ember.
With an impatient sigh, Evelyn crossed to the bookcase and scanned the shelves, pulling out a dusty leather bound folio with the family crest on the cover. She carried it over to the table and ignored Paul’s frown of disapproval as she moved several of his clay tablets to make room for it.
She opened the folio, spreading out a detailed family tree written in neat copper plate with the coat of arms carefully drawn and colored in the right-hand corner.
Helen traced her finger over the family crest, a silver chevron cut across a turquoise shield with three black birds emblazoned on it.
“What does
Nec Cuplas Nec Metuas
mean?” she asked.
“Neither covet nor fear,” Paul replied.
“And the blackbirds?”
“Heraldic martlets,” Evelyn said with the faintest curl of her lip.
Helen refrained from showing any further ignorance by asking what sort of bird a martlet was and turned to the details of the formidable family tree. It began, as far as she could see, in the thirteenth century and ended with the birth of Evelyn’s husband, George, and Paul’s father, Edward.
Evelyn looked up at the portraits and then back to the family tree. “Here they are, Robert married Suzanna Thompson in 1807.” She frowned. “He died in 1814. Of course, there is no date of death noted for Suzanna. She was reputed to have fled to the colonies and had no further contact with the family. There’s a brief history here as well.” Evelyn closed the family tree and flicked through the book.
She read aloud:
“
As the second Baronet’s health began to fade, it was thought necessary to find a suitable bride for his eldest son, Robert. On leave from service in the 27th Regiment of Foot, serving in Spain, he was introduced and proposed to Suzanna Thompson. Lady Cecilia Morrow wrote to her sister, ‘On first appearance Miss Thompson gives the impression of being a biddable girl of good breeding and well-versed in household skills but I detect in her a spirit of rebelliousness brought on no doubt, by the absurd notion of her father’s that she should be, in his words, properly educated. Too much education does not become a woman. However Robert seems enamored of her and she of him and the wedding date is set...’
“
The couple were permitted only a few weeks together before Robert returned to his regiment in Spain. Happily in that time Suzanna conceived a child and their son, George, was born the following spring to much rejoicing in the family. Robert returned on leave at Christmas and this time the couple enjoyed a few months in each other’s company before duty once more called Robert back to Spain. Their daughter Adele was born later that year.
“
Robert sustained a serious wound at the siege of Badajoz in April 1812 and was sent home to recuperate. Some months later, his wife, after nursing him through his illness, left the family home and was not seen or heard from again. It was generally believed that she had absconded with another man and that she and her paramour removed themselves from respectable society to some far-flung corner of the empire to start up life anew under assumed names and in the unhappy knowledge of the perfidy that they had committed. Her husband was inconsolable at her loss and some fourteen months after his wife’s disappearance he died in a tragic shooting accident.
”
Helen held her breath. “A tragic shooting accident?” she asked through stiff lips.
“I believe it was in this room,” Evelyn said, with obvious relish. “Cleaning a gun. There are those who say he took his own life, but of course that would be too much of a disgrace and he would not have been buried in consecrated ground.”
The scene in the library came back to Helen with a frightening clarity. She saw the blood dripping off the table and the wide staring eyes of the man turned toward the door. She looked up at Robert’s portrait, knowing now, without a shadow of a doubt, that the dead man had been Robert Morrow. She had seen, or been shown, his death at his own hand.
She glanced across at Paul, but he had turned away while Evelyn read the story and stood at the window with his back to them, lighting a cigarette.
Evelyn closed the folio and straightened. “That’s enough of the family scandal. Do you have any more questions, Helen?”
Helen, her eyes still on Paul’s straight back, shook her head.
Evelyn smiled. “I’ve treated myself to a new dress for the party at Wellmore tonight. It will do us all good to get away from this dreary room. Will you be coming, Paul?”
Paul gave a non-committal grunt.
Evelyn considered her nephew and her lips compressed before she turned to Helen. “Is there anything you need, Helen?”
“If it’s all right with you, Lady Morrow, I will catch the bus into Birmingham this afternoon. I am in desperate need of some new stockings and I would love to see a hairdresser.”
“A hairdresser?” Evelyn looked perplexed. “Whatever for?”
Helen tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “I thought I would do something a little different with my hair for the party.”
Evelyn sighed. “I used to have the most wonderful French maid,” she said. “Michelle could work miracles with my hair.”
Paul turned and walked to the door, opening it.
“If you’ll excuse me, ladies, I have work to do. If you two want to discuss parties and hairstyles, please do so elsewhere.”
“Helen, if you want to catch Sam before he puts the car away you could ask him to drive you into town,” Evelyn said.
Helen glanced at Paul.
He waved a hand at the door. “Go. Thank you for your help this morning.”
Helen felt the weight of the little book in her pocket. Suzanna’s diary would have to wait.
* * * *
In the late afternoon, Paul abandoned the library and adjourned to his own rooms. He sat at a table by the window, a pencil in his mouth and his right hand curled around a glass of whiskey, looking at a sheet of paper on which he had scribbled some notes for his translation of
The Iliad.
“I knocked but you didn’t answer”
Paul started, nearly knocking over the whiskey. Helen stood with her hand on the door handle.
“Come in,” he said. “Sorry, I was a bit preoccupied. When did you get back?”
“About half an hour ago. I brought the cigarettes you asked Sam to get,” she said.
“Thanks, leave them on that table.” He waved a hand in the direction of the small table. Helen set the packet down and crossed over to the window to join him.
“What are you working on?” she asked.
Paul set his glass down and removed the pencil from his mouth.
“Homer. It makes a diverting change from storehouse inventories.”
He looked up at her and for a moment, he wondered if this was the same woman he had seen in the library that morning. Her hair–Helen had cut her hair.
“Good grief, what have you done to yourself?”
“I had my hair cut. What do you think?”
“What do I think?” Paul stared at her bemused. It had been a long, long time since a woman had asked for his opinion on her appearance. A dangerous mine field.
He felt a brief twinge of regret as he remembered the night he had encountered Helen, the slight figure in a blue silk dressing gown with her long, honey-blond hair cascading down her back trapped in a sliver of moonlight. She had looked like a goddess of old.
He brought himself up with a start.
“For whatever my opinion is worth, it suits you,” he said, hoping that was the right answer. It did give her face a sort of elfin charm. “Toss me the cigarettes will you?”
He saw a flash of disappointment in her eyes at his non-committal answer, but she threw him the packet and he caught it in his right hand with the practiced skill of a cricketer. To distract himself, he opened the pack, tapping out a cigarette and offered it to her.
“Do you?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I don’t smoke. You wouldn’t–” Helen still hovered by the door, “–you wouldn’t reconsider coming tonight?”
Paul studied her face for a moment. The short hair made her gray eyes larger, her face more vulnerable. He thought of the gathering awaiting her at Wellmore. Letting her go alone would be like throwing a Christian to the lions.
He turned back to the table without answering and reached for the glass. As he looked up, he felt the familiar cold rush of air.
Not now
, he willed the specter at the window. He glanced at Helen who stood with her hand on the door catch, apparently transfixed. Their eyes met.
“You can see him” she cried. “You know I’m not mad.”
As she spoke, the apparition faded.
Paul took a moment to answer.
“No,” he said at last. “I don’t think you’re mad. I never thought you were mad.”
He picked up the cigarette from the ashtray and turned to look at her. He gestured at the window as if the specter still stood there.
“Allow me to introduce you to...”
“Robert Morrow,” she said. “When I saw his portrait this morning I knew who he was. How long have you been seeing him?
Paul shook his head. “He has been my almost constant companion since the day I came back to Holdston after the war.” He’d learned to live with his ancestor’s shadow just as he’d learned to live with his injuries.
“Does Evelyn know you see him?”
He stared at her and gave a snort of derisive laughter. “Do you think I’m going to tell Evelyn I’m seeing ghosts? She already thinks I’m–” he frowned as he grappled for the right word, “–unstable. I know she tells her friends in hushed tones that she thinks I suffer from shell shock.” His mouth tightened at the bitter words and he looked away.
“I know men with shell shock,” Helen said. “You’re nothing like them.”
He turned back to look at her, surprised at the vehemence in her voice.
“Thank you,” he acknowledged, “but apparently I still see things that aren’t there. That could be viewed a number of different ways, not least of which is my tainted Irish blood.”
“But they are there,” Helen insisted. “The other night. In the library. You saw him?”
Paul picked up his glass of whiskey. Slowly he looked up at her. “Yes,” he admitted with a quirk of his lips. “That was a charming little scene.”
“I think...I think Suzanna is here too.”
That revelation surprised him. “Suzanna?”
“I haven’t seen her but I know when she’s around. She has a scent, like Lily of the Valley. It’s as if she has been trying to attract my attention, moving things and whispering.” Helen frowned. “She doesn’t frighten me, except for the time she grabbed my hand, if that was her. That night outside Evelyn’s door? There was real viciousness in that grasp.”
“Helen, they’re shadows of the past. Don’t try and read anything into their appearances.”
Helen gave a self-conscious laugh. “Sarah Pollard said I should acknowledge them.”
“You can try striking up conversations if you wish but don’t expect me to.”
“But you do. I heard you this morning when I came into the library. You were talking to someone. Was it Robert?”
“I don’t make it my habit to hold conversations with my ancestors,” Paul said.
“There’s another thing,” she continued. “I found Suzanna’s journal.”
She pulled a small green, leather book from her cardigan pocket. “It was hidden in a book in my bedroom.”
He held out his hand and she handed him the book.
“Take a seat, Helen and let’s see what Suzanna has to say.”