House of Shadows (11 page)

‘But folk will still know. They'll talk about us,' Mrs Ward said quietly.

‘Rosie will have to have the baby,' I said firmly. ‘She's too far advanced in her pregnancy to abort the child now. I'll talk to Tom. He'll think of something, I'm sure.'

I hadn't spoken to Tom for some days, but I'd wanted an excuse to try to patch things up between us – and this might be it.

However, when I went to see him, Tom was cold and distant. ‘If you've come to make a scene, remember I've just lost a good pilot and a good man.'

I wanted to retort that if Carl Jenkins was such a good man, why did he have an affair with a young innocent girl when he had a wife at home? However, I sat down in his office and just took a deep breath instead.

‘I've had to write a letter home telling Carl's wife that her husband has been killed.' He spoke defensively, wearily.

‘I only wanted to ask your advice,' I said.

His lines of strain softened. ‘I'm sorry. I know you're trying to help the girl, and I've been hard on you as well as her. What can I do?'

I shrugged helplessly. ‘I don't know.'

He poured us a drink from the bottle in his drawer and sat down again, reaching for my hand as I sat down next to him. It felt comfortable and comforting to have his fingers touching mine, however lightly.

‘I wondered if the baby could go to America to be cared for . . . by his own sort,' I finished lamely, knowing I sounded patronizing.

‘Black-skinned folk, you mean.' Tom withdrew his hand.

‘Yes.' I lifted my chin defensively. ‘You can imagine what sort of life the child would have here among a white community, a very insular village community at that.'

Tom sighed. ‘I do understand. Perhaps I can arrange something when the child is old enough to travel –' he looked up hopefully – ‘unless Rosie wants to go too?'

‘I don't think she does. In any case, her mother wouldn't allow it.'

‘Her mother can't run her life for ever.'

‘I know, but Rosie is young, impressionable . . . Goodness knows what would happen to her if she went away with a baby and tried to manage without her mum.'

‘How's the painting going?' He seemed to soften his voice just slightly.

I smiled up at him, longing for him to take me in his arms although he did nothing of the sort. ‘Fine. My last exhibition was a great success.'

‘I imagine so. After all, you stayed the night in London with your agent . . . or whatever he is.' There was now an edge to Tom's voice that I didn't like very much.

I didn't see why I should explain myself to him but I did anyway. ‘That's right. Mr Readings had a lady friend who ran a guest house. I stayed there for the night because it was late and—'

‘And your Mr Readings stayed there too, I presume.'

‘He did, as a matter of fact.' I tried to gloss over the awkwardness between us. ‘He was very pleased at the sales we achieved. Of course, I have to pay him for exhibiting and framing and all that sort of thing, so the profits are virtually halved.'

‘Perhaps you have another arrangement – other than money, I mean.'

I took in his meaning, and the hurt made me stand up and step away from him. So that's what he thought of me and my work! That I sold my body in exchange for Mr Readings rustling up a few rich customers, who were then persuaded to buy my paintings. I felt like hitting Tom. He was maligning me and my work as an artist. ‘Thanks a million,' I said sarcastically and walked away.

Fuming, I went into the house and walked upstairs to my studio. I heard footsteps running up the stairs behind me, and Rosie came into the room.

‘What's happening miss?' She was breathless.

‘Air Commander Maybury has agreed to send the baby to America to be brought up by a black family,' I said. ‘Now please, Rosie, go away. I have to work if I'm to pay your wages.' I know I sounded sharp, but Tom's harsh and unjustified accusations had wounded me.

I mixed some paints and began to paint: angry colours, bright colours, red and yellow edged with white, the house on fire, flames leaping out of the old roof. And then I painted a faint figure on the roof and covered it with a few layers of a mixture of greyed down and white. She was almost invisible in a cloud of smoke. I don't know why I painted it. As far as I knew the house had never been on fire, but then no one said art should represent real events. And yet I shivered, hoping I wasn't tempting fate.

It was almost dark by the time I'd stopped work and, exhausted, I left the studio. When I went downstairs to the kitchen it was empty. Mrs Ward must have finished for the night, and she and Rosie had gone home. A tray of cold meat and pickle was left covered on a tray on the kitchen table, and an upturned cup was placed in the matching saucer, ready for me to make myself a cup of tea.

The house was silent, not even the creaking and groaning of the old boards disturbed the silence. I shivered, feeling very alone, but a cup of hot tea and some food soon put me in a better mood.

After, I wandered round the house looking for Beatrice. There was no sign of her; she was on one of her mysterious ‘trips'. I never knew when she would be here or away, and I felt a momentary irritation. It wouldn't be much trouble for her to tell me her plans. It was rude to just vanish!

And then, as if my thoughts had touched her, she was there outside her door. It hadn't opened or closed, she was just there. I drew back, startled. Was she a ghost or a figment of my overworked, overwrought imagination?

‘What's wrong, dear? You look as if you've seen a ghost.' She was so matter-of-fact that I laughed in relief. I was tired, there were shadows on the landing and I was imagining things – foolish things like ghosts.

‘You startled me, Beatrice,' I said. ‘For a moment there, I thought I was seeing things.'

‘Come and sit in my room, dear, you look worried. We can talk, if you like. I'm a very good listener.'

I thought of my nice cup of tea waiting for me in the kitchen. I'd made a fresh pot before I'd gone wandering. ‘No thanks, Beatrice,' I said. ‘I've got some paperwork to do.'

‘Well, I'll say goodbye then, dear.' She spoke softly. ‘I'm going away tonight to visit some of my people, and I'll see you in a few weeks' time.'

‘Beatrice, I've got a ghost-haunting weekend in a few weeks. I want my guests to see you. They are convinced you are not of this world!'

‘Are any of us, dear?' Beatrice said and went into her room, closing the door quietly behind her.

I quickly returned to the cheerfulness of the kitchen and sat near the warmth of the open fire. I had a gas stove in there but I loved the coal fire, and now I crouched near it with my cup of tea in my hands.

I must have dozed, because when I opened my eyes my cup was placed neatly on the floor between my feet and from outside I heard the sound of horse's hooves against the drive. I hurried to the front door and looked out in time to see an old-fashioned hansom carriage pulling away. Even as I watched, bewildered, the whole thing slowly vanished, and I was left gaping at the arch that led away from the house.

Was I going mad? Was I working too hard concentrating on ghostly images – imagining the house on fire, haunted? Next I would believe the five young maids were
really
haunting Aberglasney.

I hurried back to the kitchen and poured myself a sherry and sat shivering, afraid even to fetch more coal. I jumped when there was a gentle tapping on the back door. It came again more insistently, and then Tom's voice called out to me.

‘Riana, are you in there? Will you let me talk to you? I want to apologize.'

Eagerly, I opened the back door. ‘Come in, Tom. Want a cup of tea?' I was so pleased to see a real live human that I couldn't even keep my voice cool.

‘You look so pale. What's wrong, Riana?' Tom sat at the table, his big bulk reassuringly solid.

‘I'm being silly, Tom, but I thought I saw a hansom cab pulling away from the house.' The words were out before I could prevent them.

Tom smiled. ‘I'm afraid that's my fault.'

‘How do you mean?' I was unable to keep the tremble out of my voice.

Tom took my hand. ‘I'm sorry, Riana. I was silly not to ask old Frank from the village to wait till morning to show it to you. I thought it would help the ghost weekend look more authentic to have an old carriage outside.' He looked rather sheepish. ‘It's by way of an apology. I was wrong to accuse you of staying the night and . . . Well, you know. I apologize.'

I smiled forgivingly, although I was still hurt so I chose to ignore his apology. ‘Thanks for the carriage – and how silly of me. I actually believed in ghosts for a while.' I spoke lightly. ‘Anyway, come and see my latest painting.' I didn't know why I'd said it, I should have sent him packing after his accusations about my morals, but he followed me upstairs and my heart warmed that he was at least friendly to me again.

He stood before the canvas and regarded it, head on one side. I watched him, my heart in my throat. It was strange how much I wanted his approval.

‘It's one of your best,' he said at last. ‘It's powerful and colourful. The light of the flames is glowing off the canvas, and yet you've managed to put that ghostly image on the roof. It's really wonderful.'

I wanted to hug him. Even now, after my recent successes, I still felt anxious about my work, as if I was a fraud who would one day be caught out.

‘Will you have a cup of tea with me, Tom?' I was almost humble, and when Tom put his arm around my shoulders and smiled down at me I wanted to throw myself at him and kiss him and beg him to make love to me. Of course, I did no such thing. I shrugged off his arm and went downstairs, worried that he would think me fast.

We had a cup of tea in companionable silence. I felt better than I'd done for days because Tom was here with me and we weren't quarrelling.

I poured both of us more tea, and Tom spoke at last. ‘Tell me about the sale in London,' he said.

‘Everything sold,' I said meekly. ‘Thanks to Mr Readings.'

‘And you stayed in a guest house overnight?'

‘That's right. The guest house belongs to Mr Readings' . . . er . . . lady friend,' I added anxiously.

Tom smiled. ‘I'm really sorry I implied anything else.'

‘So am I.' I spoke a little tartly.

‘
Really
sorry. Now, to change the subject, I've made arrangements for Rosie's little child to go to a good family in America.' He didn't look at me. ‘It's the best I can do. Airman Jenkins might have been misguided, but he wasn't a bad man. Still, you can be assured the baby will be very well looked after by a good professional childless couple who want a baby very badly.'

‘Thank goodness that's settled.' I heaved a sigh of relief. I would be able to tell Rosie in the morning that all was arranged.

‘How many months before the child will be born?'

‘About two, I think. She doesn't really know herself. She didn't realize there
was
a baby coming until she was well on.' I looked at Tom with half-closed eyes. ‘That's how innocent she was.'

‘OK, I get the message, Riana. I shouldn't have put the blame on Rosie, I realized that from the start, but I was defending one of my men. You can understand that, surely.'

‘Yes, Tom, but you were very hard on Rosie and—' He held up his hand and I stopped speaking.

‘Let's just leave it there before we start to argue about it again,' Tom said. ‘What about another cup of tea? Or better still a glass of wine or something. You could put on your coat, and we could sit under the cloisters like we did in the summer.'

It was good to sit in the darkness with Tom, huddled against the warmth of his shoulder, knowing we were friends again. I risked a question. ‘You didn't really think I'd spent the night with Mr Readings, did you?' My throat was dry, and if I expected Tom to make more and profuse apologies I was mistaken. He made a joke of it.

‘Well, I've heard about you artist types! Your flamboyant careless lifestyles and all that.'

I smacked his cheek playfully, and Tom caught my hand and kissed it. It was an erotic gesture, his warm mouth in the palm of my hand, his tongue darting against my skin. I felt myself grow warm and I drew away, startled by my own feelings.

‘I think I'm falling in love with you, Miss Evans,' Tom breathed against my cheek.

Enough was enough. I was moved and thrilled, and yet I had the uneasy feeling Tom was still joking with me. I stood up, putting the cold air between us. ‘How do I know you haven't got a wife at home like poor Carl Jenkins?'

‘How indeed?' Tom touched his forelock. ‘But I've told you the truth; there is no wife. Goodnight, Miss Evans, dear Miss Evans, and sweet dreams.' And then he was striding away down my now neat garden towards the barracks.

SIXTEEN

T
he latest ghost weekend was well under way, and the house was fuller than it had ever been. It was October, and although it was only autumn it felt like deep winter had set in, and fires roared the rooms we used most. As for upstairs, I'd installed electric fires in the bedrooms, not wanting to take the chance of noxious fumes bringing death and destruction to my house. Luckily, the walls were thick stone and the heat seemed contained.

Wine was being drunk, and hearty, cheerful voices could be heard all over the house, but I was lonely. I'd heard that the few remaining Americans were finally packing up to leave Aberglasney, and Tom had not yet spoken to me about it.

As it neared midnight, I extinguished the lights. My guests held torches, as well as candles and box cameras and other equipment designed to detect the presence of spirits, and we all fell silent.

‘The blue room is the area of the haunting,' I said in a hushed whisper that carried sibilantly around the silent guests. The colonel as always was at my side, and Mr Bleesdale had finally come along, accompanied by a peroxided young woman with large bosoms who led the crowd towards the stairs.