House of Shadows (5 page)

‘It does, as it happens,' I said equally softly.

‘What is it about?'

‘Would you like to come and see?' I offered the invitation and immediately regretted it; now he'd think me fast.

‘I'd love to.' He stood up and held his hand out to me. I let him lead me to the house, wondering how I could tell him that the invitation was simply that – a few minutes to view my latest work. ‘I'd like your opinion,' I said breathlessly. ‘The gallery man suggested an indoor painting on a large canvas. I wasn't sure at first and then—'

He stopped my nervous flow. ‘It's all right,' he said. ‘I'd love to see the painting. I won't stay long. I don't want to . . . What is the word you English use? “Compromise” you, that's it. I wouldn't sully your reputation, not for anything.'

I felt myself blush, and I left the front door open as I went into the house. My studio was at the top of the building. As we passed the blue room all was silent; I guessed Beatrice had gone to bed. I was relieved, for I didn't know what she'd make of me leading a man upstairs in the dead of night, like some wanton hussy.

Tom stood in silence staring at my painting, and even I was amazed and moved by the power in what I had done. The figure of Beatrice seemed to move against the backdrop of hazy light. Behind her, the stove, softly sketched in, threw out a remarkable glow of light, and the ghostly figures merged like real ghosts into the darkness at the rear of the blue room.

Tom took a sharp breath. ‘That's brilliant, Riana.' It was the first time he'd been so familiar. ‘You're really talented.'

I was flushed and happy with his praise. ‘I think it's the house,' I said. ‘Aberglasney has done something to me, given me peace, I don't know what it is.'

He took me in his arms then and kissed me, a real kiss, his mouth lingering on mine. I stood there like a lifeless doll. I'd never been in love. I'd never really kissed any man except my father. I'd played ‘kiss chase' when we were children and when kissing the boys had been more of a laugh than anything, but this was different. It was as if I'd been brought alight; a glow filled me, colouring the world just like the flames from the imagined stove coloured my painting.
My painting
. Had
I
really done that?

I stood in the shelter of Tom's arms, and we both stared at the painting and then at each other.

‘I think I'm falling in love with you, Riana,' he said softly.

‘I hardly dare believe you.'

He sighed heavily. ‘I really mean it, honey.'

I sensed a hesitation in his voice. ‘Then what's wrong?'

‘It can't come to anything.'

He released me, and I stood back away from him. ‘Did you lie to me, Tom? Are you married after all?'

He shook his head, and a shock of hair fell over his forehead. ‘It's not that . . . but you have a bright future here in England, while I . . . Well, I have my life in America and I'll have to go home soon, we both know that.'

His reference to America as ‘home' upset me, but he was right – there was no future for us together. He was a pilot, he had his career to think of,  and I . . . Well, I had Aberglasney. It would take all my strength and ingenuity to bring it back to its former glory.

I wanted the house and I wanted to succeed at my painting. There was no way I could abandon everything and go away with Tom, even if he asked me to – and he hadn't.

I led the way down the stairs and into the vast, half restored kitchen, gestured for Tom to sit down, and then made us both a cup of coffee. I made it hot and strong and black, just as I knew Tom liked it.

‘You are so talented, Riana.' Tom smiled and my heart melted. I wanted to fling myself at him, tell him to love me, make love to me, but young ladies didn't do anything as forward as throw themselves at a man. The war was over; those days when young people grasped at life in case there was no tomorrow had gone. Times had changed now, and women were more circumspect.

I had seen the sad results of abandoned love affairs. Men gone back to their respectable lives after the danger of war was over. Weeping British girls left behind, sometimes with child, when their American and Canadian lovers went home.

‘Drink up,' I said, unintentionally brisk. ‘It's about time I got myself to bed. I've got a long day tomorrow.'

Tom stood. ‘Going to London?'

‘I might,' I prevaricated. ‘I'll have to do a small study of the painting to show the gallery owner, I suppose. I can hardly transport a large canvas all that way without the certainty of a sale.' I led the way to the door. ‘Night, Tom.'

I stood watching his tall figure stride away along the drive towards the barracks, and then I slowly climbed the stairs with tears running down my face, not knowing what I was crying for.

EIGHT

T
he morning sun slanted across the gallery from the big window; the light was why I'd chosen this room for my studio. A sheet hung across the large canvas, and I frowned when I noticed it. I didn't remember putting it there; for all I knew the paint was still tacky.

Carefully, I lifted the cloth and stood back with a cry of dismay. The canvas had been slashed from edge to edge so that a gaping hole hung in the middle of the painting, completely destroying the ghostly mist and the faint image of the dead girls.

I sat on my little stool near the window and stared out at the garden without seeing the cloisters, cleared now of bushes, or the garden, made neat by the Americans, or the clear sky. All I felt was despair and the pain of loss.

I had put my heart into that painting. I could almost say I'd been inspired. I could try to paint it again for I had the little study I'd done, but I knew it would never be the same work; it would never have the same ghostly atmosphere of the original.

I went to look for Tom. It seemed the natural thing to do because Tom would know a little of how I was feeling.

Tom wasn't there, he was flying, and my heart missed a beat. I knew Tom was still a working American airman, but I'd never thought of him facing danger – not now the war was over.

‘It's only a training mission,' his second in command, Carl Jenkins, assured me. Disconsolately, I walked back to the mansion.
I must get to work
, I thought.
I need paintings to make more money if I intend to get my ghost weekends under way
.

I squeezed out the paints on to the palette, but for once I had no idea what to paint. The sunlight streamed into the room, hurting my eyes. I looked at the unused mounds of oil and knew they would dry and harden and be wasted and I couldn't afford to waste anything.

I began to paint, but nothing was going right. In my frustration, I threw down my brush. I wandered out into the garden again and sat in the shadow of the cloisters. I closed my eyes, dazzled by the sunlight that suddenly burst into my little nest beneath the arch. I think I slept, because next thing I knew Tom was sitting at my side.

‘You were looking for me?' His honey-sweet voice washed over me like a balm. He was safely home from flying, and suddenly I wanted to hug him. Instead, I told him about the painting.

‘Show me,' he said. He took my hand and led me upstairs; he knew the house as well as I did. It was shady now in the gallery, the sun slanting away to the west where it would sink behind the hills and illuminate them with brushes of gold.

I lifted the cloth over the canvas and stared in disbelief. The painting was intact, no terrible slashes, no holes in the fabric . . . Was I dreaming?

‘What's this, Riana?' Tom asked. ‘If you're trying to lure me upstairs there's no need for dramas.'

‘The painting was cut to pieces!' I was indignant, chagrin making me blush to the roots of my hair.

‘A trick of the light,' Tom said soothingly, but I could see he didn't believe me. I didn't blame him. I couldn't believe the evidence of my own eyes. Wonderingly, I touched the painting. It was nearly dry.

‘It's one of your best,' Tom said. ‘You were sleeping in the garden there; it must have all been a dream, the cuts in the canvas. A horrible dream, that's all.'

‘No, Tom, I could feel the slashes in the painting. I touched it, it wasn't a dream.'

‘A nightmare then.' Tom smiled. ‘A daytime nightmare, that's all it was, Riana. Who is here to do such a thing? Who would
want
to destroy your work?'

‘Someone who doesn't want the house done up,' I suggested.

‘That would hold water if the painting was really damaged, but it's not, Riana. The whole thing doesn't make any sense.'

I capitulated. ‘I know. Let's go and get a drink. A stiff gin or something.'

We took our drinks out into the garden while I tried to fathom the whole thing out. The work on the easel was mine all right, so the cut-up canvas was a fake. But who would go to all that trouble and why? I wished now I'd looked closer at the destroyed canvas, but I'd been too horrified and baffled to examine it properly.

‘Penny for them? Isn't that what you British folk say?'

I shook my head, not wanting to seem more foolish than I was. ‘My thoughts are just a jumble, Tom. Someone tried to run me off the road when I first came here, and now this. What am I supposed to make of it all – except that someone doesn't want me here?'

‘The ghosts?'

‘Are you mocking me?'

‘Trying to lighten the gloom a bit, Riana. Forget all this. Enjoy the warmth and the drink and, hopefully, the company.'

I looked at him as I sipped my drink. Could he be doing all this to get me out? Was he my enemy, not my friend? But why would he do such a thing? What could he hope to gain?

It was as if he read my thoughts. ‘I wouldn't hurt you for the world, Riana. I hope you know that, honey.'

He took my glass out of my hand and put it on the floor, then he deliberately kissed me. My arms crept around him, my dear safe Tom. He was the one who had rescued me on the roadway; what was I thinking of being suspicious of the only friend I had in the world?

I pulled away just before I became swamped with passion, for I didn't want a lover, not just now. In any case, Tom's life was in America. What was the point in getting involved with him?

‘I'll going indoors now, it's getting dark –' I shivered – ‘and chilly. Goodnight, Tom, and thanks for being a friend.'

He stood up straight away and strode into the darkness. I supposed I'd offended him, but that was just too bad. I could do without an involvement of any kind I had a living to make and a career to forge and a grand scheme to work out. My house would be ready for visitors any day now.

NINE

I
t was the end of July, and it was my opening night in more ways than one. My paintings had gone on display in the London gallery – just a small selection – and my house was open for the first ‘ghost-haunting' night.

The local newspaper reporter had turned up with a camera and with an assistant who impressed me by writing shorthand when she interviewed me. ‘This story will be circulated around the press all over Britain,' the assistant said proudly.

Granger, the chief reporter, pushed his way towards me. ‘You have a good crowd, Miss Evans. About forty, would you say?'

I nodded, pleased and yet alarmed at the crowd of noisy people sitting round the big dining table in the newly refurbished dining room. Still, I didn't have to do all the work myself. I'd brought Rosie and her mother, Mrs Ward – the same Mrs Ward who had spoken up against Mr Edwin at the time of the murder. But she was the only one who would agree to work for me. The rest of the villagers were too superstitious about the ghosts.

Mrs Ward turned out to be a first-class cook, and she and Rosie would serve and wait on table and I had to be very grateful to them both. Supper and breakfast was all a part of the ghost night, and already on this first event I could tell the weekend was going to not only pay for itself but also make me a good profit.

The female guests were to stay in the bedrooms I'd already turned into dormitories. I could fit the sixteen women of various ages in three of the dorms. I expected the men, being men, wouldn't mind roughing it a bit and would prefer to ghost hunt all night rather than sleep. Indeed, even as they filed out of the dining room they looked around as if expecting to see apparitions floating around the house.

I had my sketch book at the ready and unobtrusively began to draw. One gentleman was an old army man, Colonel Fred, and he hugged his bottle of brandy close to him like a baby. He was affable and keen, with shrewd eyes and a sun-wrinkled face, and I liked him on sight.

‘I mean to spend the whole night in the house,' he said. ‘I'll sleep in the hall if I have to.'

‘So will I,' Jim from Aberdeen said firmly. ‘I'm determined to see this ghost of yours.'

‘That won't be necessary,' I said, quickly amending my plan. ‘You men can have the rooms at the back of the house on the ground floor.'

Tom appeared at my side. Startled, I stared at him. ‘I didn't hear you coming in,' I whispered.

‘Perhaps I'm a ghost too!' He put his arm around my shoulders and hugged me, and I laughed at him.

‘You're a bit solid to be a ghost.' I had my arm around his slim waist, and I could feel the rough material of his uniform under my hand. ‘Thank goodness,' I added with a mischievous wink.

‘Hey, don't get fast with me, honey.' He playfully kissed my cheek, and then I noticed the guests were spreading out examining the rooms, some carrying glasses of wine or spirits they'd brought along to the ‘party' themselves. Next time I would include the drinks in the price, I decided. A little ‘cheer' would help things along nicely.

Later, as Tom and I walked in the garden, we could hear the ghost hunters singing some sort of chant which they all seemed to know. I smiled up at Tom. ‘Something's keeping them happy.'