House of Shadows (3 page)

The sun came out, and I relaxed and secretly watched Tom – his foot deftly double-declutching the gears, his strong hands steering the car – and I felt happy and safe. I was quite sorry when at last the jeep stopped outside the library in Swansea.

I found myself longing to kiss Tom on the cheek, but familiarities that had been acceptable during the war were not acceptable now. I jumped out of the jeep, waved an airy hand and quickly walked up the steps into the solemn silence of the library.

FOUR

I
was engrossed in my painting of the mansion when I felt a touch on my arm. I had a thrill of excitement and a smile grew on my face, as I thought it must be Tom. Distantly, I'd heard the sounds of shouted orders and the heavy roll of vehicles, and I'd wondered if the troops were moving out. The thought somehow disturbed me.

I turned slowly, my paintbrush arched in my hand . . . the garden around me was empty. I was frightened and shivery for a moment, but then I shrugged. I must have imagined it.

I gazed up at the sun, and a cloud seemed to obscure my vision. I felt my hand move into the paint and on to the canvas in swift, sure strokes. It was like a dream. I painted swiftly, my brush strokes sure, and yet my mind seemed blank, as if I were asleep. And then Tom was there, shaking me.

‘Riana, are you all right? Speak to me, honey, speak to me, it's Tom. Are you dreaming? I wanted to tell you I'm going to stay here for a few weeks, although most of my troops are pulling out.'

I came awake and blinked at Tom, seeing the concern in his face. He touched my cheek briefly, and I remembered he'd called me ‘honey', but then didn't Americans call everyone honey?

‘You were in a dream,' he said, drawing me to a garden bench warmed by the sun. I sat beside him, and he held my hand. I didn't draw away. I felt strange, as though I
had
been asleep.

‘Is that what an artist does when they paint?' His voice was gently teasing. ‘Have I disturbed some creative mood?'

‘No, not at all.' I shook my head. I looked at him and he was so familiar somehow, so warm, so concerned. ‘I don't know what came over me. It was as if I'd fallen asleep or something.' I didn't mention the touch on my arm; I must have been too occupied with my work.

‘Come to my hut and have a nice hot cup of coffee,' Tom said. ‘I've got the pot on the stove.' He smiled as I hesitated. ‘I promise not to ravish you.'

‘I'm not coming for coffee then,' I said and laughed. Now, what on earth had possessed me to say such a thing? ‘I'm joking, of course,' I added hastily.

‘Of course.'

I'd never been as far at the huts before. They stood on the perimeter of the gardens, the grass cut now by the soldiers. Great mounds of dug-over earth formed a sort of street between the buildings.

Tom took me into his office, which was in the same makeshift sort of transient building the other huts were.

‘No special luxury for the officers then?' I made an effort to laugh. ‘Rough it like the privates – is that what Americans believe in?'

‘I'm afraid not. We were billeted in the house until it was claimed back. We're not here for long now. As you can see, most of the men have moved out. There are only two left: Flight Officer Dave Smith and Airman Carl Jenkins. They'll stay until I am ready to leave.'

‘And when will that be?' I was aware my voice was shaking. I sat in one of the comfortable armchairs in the room and watched Tom pour coffee into enamel mugs.

‘I can't be sure. The three of us will pack up any leftover documents, any stray personal belongings, that sort of thing. We'll probably continue to fly on a few missions, but you could say our work here is almost done.'

I tried to think practically. ‘And when will the huts be taken away?'

Tom shrugged. ‘Don't know that either, sorry. Why? Are they a nuisance to you?'

‘I want to begin on the gardens. Would you like to come and see the cloisters? I've made a start there myself.'

‘Drink your coffee first and talk to me. Tell me about yourself, Riana Evans, I want to know all about you.'

I felt a warm glow. ‘I'd like to know about you too, Tom,' I said, trying not to sound wistful, ‘but soon you'll be going away, remember?'

‘Go on,' he said, ‘you begin.'

‘I'm an only child. My mum is very old and lives in a nursing home now.' I was sad thinking of my mother; she didn't even know me now. ‘My father died in the war. He was a doctor. A bomb hit the hospital where he was working and that was it.' I felt tears blur my eyes.

‘I was an art student. I loved it all: the big room, the paints, the linseed oil, the seats we used, each with an easel attached – we students called them donkeys. I loved it all. The war changed everything for me, Tom, did you know that?'

‘Go on,' he said gently. ‘What made you want Aberglasney?'

‘I don't really know.' I was thoughtful. ‘When I saw the house it felt like coming home. I sold up the family house; it's never been the same without my mother. With the money from the sale of the house, my savings, and the little money I made from my paintings, I had enough to buy me Aberglasney.'

I wondered why I was telling him all my business. I looked up at him. ‘I will make a go of it, you know.'

‘I believe you.' Tom touched my hand briefly. ‘I've seen your work, remember. You're very good, very original. I'm not surprised folk want to buy from such a gifted artist.'

He moved about the small room. He was slim, lithe and very handsome in his officer's uniform. He turned and looked at me, and I wanted him so badly I felt almost ill.

I got up abruptly. ‘Come and see the start I've made on the gardens,' I said softly.

Tom followed me from the hut and across the stretch of overgrown gardens to where the cloisters stood out from the surrounding greenery.

‘See the arches?' I said. ‘Aren't they graceful? They were built in Jacobean times. Isn't that incredible? And there's a walkway above them from where you can see the rest of the grounds.' I walked towards the cloisters and impotently tried to push aside a strong leafed bush. ‘These are too difficult for me to cut,' I said, ‘but one day I'll be able to afford a gardener, or at least a handyman, and then the arches will be cleared.'

Tom smiled and took my hand. ‘I'm quite handy.' He looked down into my eyes; he was very tall.

‘I couldn't impose.' He was kissing my hand again. I resisted the urge to rest my hand on his cheek. I wished he would call me honey again because I loved the way he said it, soft and warm and golden like honey itself.

The next morning I heard a noise in the garden, and when I went out I saw that Tom was there with the men left behind from the exodus and they were cutting a swathe through the bushes covering the cloisters.

‘Gosh, you've been busy.' I knew I sounded full of admiration, and it was genuine.

‘Surprising what a good team of men can do in a few hours.' He winked at me, and I felt a warm silly glow as I watched his strong, bare arms wield the saw.

‘You left your painting out all night,' he remarked. ‘Lucky it didn't rain, though I think the morning dew has affected the oils a little bit.'

I put my hand over my mouth to stifle the not-too-­ladylike expletive I'd been about to give voice to. ‘I'd best go and see.'

I hurried through the grass to where I'd left my easel, and at first the painting looked jumbled. In among the windows I could see figures, young girls in mob caps and ribbon-trimmed linen gowns. Behind them was an older figure wearing a blouse with overblown sleeves, such as Beatrice wore. Carefully, I counted the figures: five girls and an older woman. Ghosts?

‘Don't be stupid,' I said to myself out loud. I sat down on a tree stump and closed my eyes, but when I opened them the painting was just the same: the figures were still there. I remembered then how vague I'd been for a time when I was painting. It was almost as though I'd drifted off to sleep or gone into a trance. I must have been daydreaming, drawing unconsciously, I decided.

The sun was hot above my head. I looked up at the windows of my house, my beloved mansion. The windows were blank. No one was there, no shadows, no strange lights.

I felt a touch on my arm and was almost afraid to turn round, but this time Tom was bending over me. ‘Daydreaming again?' he asked.

‘Yes, that's exactly what I've been doing.' I smiled. ‘Daydreaming.'

FIVE

I
sold my painting, including ghosts, to a London gallery, and as I walked out into the war-torn streets of the big city I felt a glow of achievement. This was the first time I'd had a painting taken by anyone other than a provincial gallery.

The owner, Mr Readings, had a buyer who liked old mansions and also liked the idea of hauntings, and the painting was just what he was looking for.

It was Aberglasney, it was bringing me luck. No, it was bringing out my real creativity, I told myself sensibly. Everyone made their
own
luck. As for the ghosts, they existed only in my imagination.

As I was in London, I took the opportunity to go to the library and look through the old newspapers. The mystery had made the London papers, and I found several articles on Aberglasney, on the deaths of the five maids who slept in the blue room. Most stories took the line that the girls were murdered; only one cast doubt on the story, citing the evidence as ‘circumstantial', lacking in substance, and without a shred of proof to verify the police findings. It made no difference in the end. Beatrice's husband had been blamed for the deaths and had killed himself before he could be charged – all on the evidence of Mrs Ward.

I wanted to know more about this Mrs Ward – upholder of the truth, a paragon of virtue – was anyone that holy and good? I knew there would be very little about her in London, though. My search would have to be carried out in the little village where my house was built. Eventually, I grew tired of the big city and caught a train home.

To my surprise, Tom was waiting for me at Swansea Station. He smiled, and I felt a sharp tug at my heart. I smiled back at him, and he took my hand and led me to the staff car, equipped with a driver.

‘Congratulations!' he said as he helped me into the car.

‘How did you know I sold a painting?' I settled myself against the warm leather with a sigh of content. Tom sat close to me as the car pulled away along High Street.

‘What makes you think I'm talking about a painting?' He was teasing.

‘Come on, tell me.'

‘I've bought it,' he said softly. ‘A piece of you.'

I didn't know what to say. I studied his face, wondering exactly what he meant. He was such a handsome man, a lovely man. Did he like me, desire me, what? I didn't dare ask. In his flying jacket and thick boots, he seemed very official.

I was very aware of his arm close to mine. ‘How could you afford to buy my painting? It was very expensive, judging by the money I received from the gallery owner.'

‘As an officer in the United States Army Air Forces, I'm well paid. I have no wife, no family to keep, and I wanted the picture.' He touched my hair briefly. ‘I saw your painting before it went away to be sold, remember?'

I looked down at my hands, aware of the intimacy of the car. We were close together, and for the first time in my life I felt desire for a man, real desire that burned in me. What was wrong with me? I hardly knew Tom, he was from America, and soon he would return home and I would be alone again. Best not to become too involved. In any case, I had Aberglasney to think about and, of course, the ghosts.

‘Thank you for buying my painting,' I said primly and moved slightly away from him. ‘The money will be a great help.'

‘What's wrong?' Tom asked. ‘Didn't you want me to have the painting?'

He seemed to look right into my head. I shrugged.

‘I know the gallery wants more of them,' he said. ‘I spoke to the owner. I'd like more myself, but the one I already have is wonderful.'

‘I'm flattered you like it, but I didn't know you had any interest in the mansion except as a stopover while you did your service in the forces.'

‘Some of my folks are from this area.' Tom's voice was cool. ‘I'm interested in finding out about them, but if I'm presuming too much, intruding into your life, I can only apologize.'

‘No, no.' I sounded weak. I shut up and sank back into the seat. It seemed
I
was presuming too much; Tom wasn't interested in me, just in his Welsh heritage. He only wanted the painting because it was a bit of background for him. I'd been flattering myself that he liked me.

‘What's wrong, honey?' His gentle voice penetrated my thoughts. ‘You've gone away from me. Now you're somewhere I can't reach.'

‘It's nothing. I was just wondering where your family were from.'

‘Around here somewhere,' he said. ‘I asked to be posted here when I knew I was coming abroad on service.' He sighed. ‘I love this old house. It seems familiar to me now, as if I've always known it.' I could hear the smile in his voice when he spoke again. ‘We officers were billeted here before you bought the house.'

‘And Beatrice, was she here too?'

‘Beatrice? No one was here – except the ghosts, of course.'

‘You believe in ghosts?' I was surprised and it showed.

‘Oh yes, I believe in ghosts . . . if it's only the ghosts from our past. Ghosts of people we've loved, lived with or never known. A bit of our past is always with us in the colour of our hair, the way we walk, or the turn of the head or the way we talk. Oh yes, the past lives on in all of us, so yes, we live with the ghosts of memory every day.'

‘I didn't quite mean anything so profound by my painting, so why did I paint those figures in when I didn't actually see them?'