Lucy drained her wine glass and leaned back in her seat.
It was remarkable how a full stomach had given her a goodly
dose of courage. It had uplifted her mood, and she hoped the same sort of
pleasant contentment had washed over everyone else as well.
At the orphanage the children had beamed after dining on
bread and cheese. A quarter glass of milk and water had them burping
luxuriously, while a sliver of cake had them kissing their arch enemies in
delight.
Here an entire meal fit for a poor king had not even begun
to digest in aristocratic stomachs, and yet the faces around her looked
discontent.
Lucy shook her head in wonderment. The Sedley family were a
strange lot. Everyone apart from Lord Adair looked just as juiceless and bitter
as they had done before they began the meal.
"Are you joining us, Miss Trotter? I think Miss Sedley
proposed a game of loo," Lord Adair asked.
Lucy looked up guiltily. She had been trying to stuff an
orange into her reticule which was already swollen with bits of cake, bread and
cheese.
Lady Sedley answered for her. "I think Miss Trotter
would like to retire. The children wake early and Miss Trotter is by their side
from the moment they open their eyes."
Lucy smiled wanly. It was the children who bounced on her
bed and tried to prise her lids open every morning. But this one time, she
chose to oblige Lady Sedley and decided to retire early. She was feeling rather
content after all the wonderful food she had eaten.
"Do come and see the kittens in the morning, Miss
Trotter. Bring the children," Peter said quietly as she passed by.
Lucy pretended not to hear him.
Peter had converted an old orangery at the back of the manor
into an animal sanctuary. She liked animals well enough, but the stories the
children told her about the kind of pets Peter had kept in the past made her
dread the thought of stepping into what sounded like a tropical jungle where at
any moment something large and fearsome would jump out at her and eat her up.
She muttered something intelligible in reply and quickly
skated past him.
No one else noticed her bob a general goodnight and slip out
of the room.
A single flickering candle burned on a small table casting
meagre light on the staircase that led towards the kitchen.
It was in a thoughtful mood that she made her way down the
winding wooden stairway. Her shadow loomed large on the wall and she traced it
as it walked. She wondered what Lady Sedley would do about the servants now
that Lord Adair had decided to stay at Rudhall.
The servants were few for such a large mansion. Lucy often
found herself fetching candles, warming pan and hot water from the kitchens
instead of asking one of the servants to do it. She even carried water for her
basin and assisted the scullery maid with carrying buckets when she had to
bathe.
She grinned. It was a pickle for Lady Sedley. Lord Adair
seemed like the kind of man who was used to luxury and would expect to find
excellent service wherever he went.
She recalled his disdain for the beautiful green silk robe
that he had worn.
A giggle escaped her.
If the robe had bothered him, then what would he think of
the musty, flea ridden mattress in the single functioning guest room? Lord
Sedley had shut down most of the other rooms years ago in order to save costs,
and due to lack of repairs most of them were unusable.
How was Lady Sedley going to impress her esteemed guest?
She was so lost in her thoughts that she blinked in surprise
to find the kitchen door before her.
She touched the thick wood fondly.
If upstairs she had received coldness, then here at least
she was welcome.
Every evening after the children had been put to bed and the
family finished their dinner, Lucy joined the servants for a cup of tea and a
bit of gossip. It had become a sort of a calming, enjoyable ritual.
Today they would have a lot to talk to about—the balloon,
Lord Adair, the theft and the murder!
With a thrill, she pushed open the kitchen door.
The cook paused briefly in the middle of stirring the stew.
She was a stout woman with a stern, commanding face. She avoided Lucy's eyes
and quickly picked up a candle and placed it on the table. She went back to
ladling stew into bowls for the servants.
Rose, the kitchen maid, slammed a cup of tepid tea next to
the candle. She did not shy away from Lucy's gaze but glared at her like an
angry cyclops.
Lucy answered the glare with a placating smile.
It didn't work. If anything it made Rose even more furious.
Lucy hurriedly sat down on the rickety chair and pulled the
tea towards herself. She took a sip, careful to keep her face neutral. She
wondered if she had interrupted an argument.
"Poor Lord Sedley," she said, hoping a bit of
gossip would defuse the tension. "Terrible how he died."
Rose took a step towards her. The cook's hand shot out and
stopped her. The cook ever so slightly shook her head while the scullery maid
started scrubbing the floor more vigorously.
Suspicion was thick in the air.
"Is Lord Adair married?" Lucy tried again.
The handsome valet lounging near the backdoor replied
curtly, "No, but it is rumoured that he was in love once. The girl was
poisoned. It was the only time he failed to find a killer."
The serving girl made a sympathetic click with her tongue.
Even the cook's hands slowed in their task as her ears strained towards the
conversation.
Hodgson entered the room and joined Lucy at the table. He
glared at the cook and the kitchen maid. "She hasn't done it, and even if
she had, the old man deserved it," he announced. "Stop eyeing her
like frightened rabbits."
The cook scowled. "You have reason to be cheerful. You
will get a nice amount in the will to retire." She banged a bowl of stew
in front of him sending the contents splattering all over the table. "What
will happen to us? Lady Sedley will sell this house and move to Bath. Who will
hire us?"
"She shouldn't 'ave killed 'im," Rose said, eyeing
Lucy with a mixture of fear and dislike.
"We don't know who has done it now, do we? We cannot be
too careful," the valet drawled.
Hodgson pulled out a fine cigar and lit it. "They are
saying upstairs that it is Aunt Sedley's ghost."
The valet choked on his ale.
Hodgson chuckled and turned to Lucy. "Do you recall
that time you went to call Lady Sedley down for tea and you found—"
The valet pushed open the backdoor. "I am not listening
to this," he growled before storming out of the room.
Lucy blushed and nodded. She had found the valet in bed with
Lady Sedley. It was the day Lady Sedley decided that she detested Lucy and
since then tried her best to throw her out.
The butler grinned. "Yes, well, the ghost of Aunt
Sedley appeared the day after our handsome valet friend was hired. It keeps the
family from becoming too adventurous and trying to discover the source of all
the mysterious moans and groans."
Lucy turned a brighter shade of red and dug her thumbnail
into the cold candle wax making small indentations. She quickly changed the
subject. "Shouldn’t Lord Adair be addressed as Lord Lockwood seeing as how
he is the Marquis of Lockwood?"
Hodgson's beady eyes almost disappeared as he squinted
trying to remember some long forgotten memory. "I vaguely recall a scandal
where his father had vanished some years ago. Lord Adair chooses to believe he
is alive while the rest of England believes the elder Lockwood is dead. They
treat him as they would a marquis but don’t dare call him Lord Lockwood for
fear of offending him."
"I see," Lucy said. "So he will not take the
title until he is certain his father is dead. And his father has been gone for
how many years?"
"Almost ten years, miss."
Lucy whistled. "So he is a loon."
"Aren't we all?" Hodgson asked philosophically.
Lucy shrugged. "I suppose." She drained her cup of
tea and wiped the drop that had spilled on her chin. "Strange. I wouldn't
have thought the ton would have stood for this sort of thing. I mean, how can
they allow Lord Adair the luxury to choose when he takes the title? And what if
he never does?"
Hodgson shrugged. "He is the only man in England not
answerable to the ton. He makes his own rules, and most of the time England
follows him."
Lucy thoughtfully pressed a fingertip on a bit of dust on
the table and flicked it away. "I heard he wore a different shoe on each
foot once. It became all the rage that season."
Hodgson grinned. "I recall that summer. Men were
hobbling all over England wearing one heeled boot on one foot and a flat shoe
on the other."
"And when he announced that he liked the scent of roses
… English, French and Spanish girls started dousing themselves with the oil of
the said flower. It caused a shortage of roses for two whole seasons."
Lucy smiled. She didn’t add that she, too, had attempted to make the rose oil.
Her efforts had been a disaster. The petals stolen from Mrs Bury's garden had
rotted and created a dreadful stink instead of a beautifully perfumed oil.
Rose slammed the burned part of the bread in the middle of
the table, putting an end to the pleasant conversation.
The butler sobered and said quietly, "They will most
likely blame you, Miss Trotter." He jerked his chin at the cook's back.
"The servants will stick up for each other and the family will stand
together. You are an outsider and have been here only three months. Apart from
that, you have stumbled upon too many secrets. It was Lord Sedley who had
insisted that you stay. He said he enjoyed looking at a pretty face, but when
you thwarted his advances …." The butler shook his head. "Be careful,
my dear, is all I can say."
"Lord Adair will uncover the truth," Lucy said
weakly.
The butler eyed her silently, too soft-hearted to take her
last hope away.
Lucy picked up the candle and, without waiting for the
warming pan, departed for her room.
She crept into her cold bed and extracted a piece of cake
from her reticule. It was in a sorry state but still delicious.
She bit into it and chewed thoughtfully. She had awakened that
morning with a song on her lips and a bounce in her step.
Her life had been dull, plodding along like an old cow, but
happy and peaceful.
She had prayed for excitement. She had wanted things to
happen—the world to spin—and for her to float down the rushing tide of life.
"I am a fool, an idiot, a blasted nincompoop,"
Lucy growled whacking her head with a pillow, "wanting excitement, the world
to spin …Stupid, stupid, stupid."
She was floating down a rushing tide all right just as she
had desired, but instead of gliding down on her back while sunnily watching
trees and birds go by, she was wet, cold and flopping about.
The river was tossing her up and down, the water creeping
into her ears. She was splashing around trying to keep afloat. A passing fish
was delightedly slapping her tired arms with its tail fin—
She blinked back to the present.
"Halfwit, halfwit, halfwit." She resumed beating
her head against the pillow.
Everyone in the house was accusing her of crimes she had not
committed. Lord Adair would stand by his kind, the servants would glue
themselves together, and she would end up lurking alone in the corner trying to
merge with the wallpaper.
They would recall her presence eventually when the time came
to name the culprit.
She closed the reticule and put it away. She adjusted her
head on the pillow and stared at the orange she had left for the scullery maid
near the cold, empty grate.
She was alone, an outsider and dispensable. Hence, it was
only natural that she would be blamed for the murder and the theft.
A hint of panic unfurled in her stomach.
She had to do something to save her bacon. She wouldn't let
them lead her to the gallows passively.
She would fight, she told herself fiercely.
The next moment she deflated. Her days of employment were
numbered, and she had yet to be paid for her three months of work. If by some
miracle she was saved from the gallows, then what? Where was she to go?
She sighed and turned on her side trying to get warm.
The back of her hand fell on a smooth, hard surface.
She sat up and reached for the tinder box. The click-click
of someone striking the tinder box always made her feel a touch uneasy. Still,
she had learned to ignore her discomfort.
She lit the candle after only a brief hesitation.
A small parcel sat on her bed wrapped up with a bit of
twine.
She unwrapped it and found a crudely painted, round wooden
blob-like thing. A small note accompanied it which said,
Dear Miss Trotter,
I hope you like the brooch that Pat and I made for you. I
hope you had a good birthday. And I hope we can have a holiday tomorrow because
you have drunk lots of wine today and have a headache when you wake up.
Love,
Miss Hepsy Gardiner
Nursery,
Second floor,
Rudhall Manor,
Blackwell
.
Lucy clutched the wooden brooch to her heart. She had
forgotten that it was her birthday. She closed her eyes and plunged headlong
into a deep blue weedy pond of self-pity.
"Pathetic state of affairs," she muttered as she
drifted off to sleep, "truly pathetic."
Lucy's head let out a soft, gentle snore as it slipped off
the pillow, and her trim legs wrapped themselves around the warm quilt more
comfortably. Her palm was tucked under a flushed pink cheek while her full lips
formed a sweet little pout.
The bed was larger than the tiny cot she had been used to at
the orphanage. Hence, over the last three months, she had developed an admirable
way of using up the extra space by emulating a greedy boneless cat sunning
itself on a rooftop.
She would begin by laying down flat on her back, move her
feet thirty degrees to the right, tilt her head approximately ten degrees in
the same direction and stretch all her limbs out as much as possible.
But as the moon climbed higher in the sky, her limbs would
relax and contract around her just as they had done now.
She slept deeply and diagonally, confident that after such
an eventful day, the dark night had brought her peace for the moment. She had
plucked all her worries out of her bosom and kept them on the side table.
Surely nothing more could go wrong.
The grandfather clock in the hallway struck three, and a
chill snaked its way into Lucy's room and loomed large over her bed.
The pink in Lucy's cheeks faded slowly, turning white tinged
with blue. The warm quilt covering her shoulders turned icy, making her shiver
in her sleep and curl up into a foetal position.
Next, a breeze trickled into the room. A soft, gentle and
eerie breeze that rustled the drapes hanging around the window.
The unlit wood in the fireplace turned colder.
Soon the quilt started sliding down her shoulders.
Lucy pulled it back up with a grumble and turned over.
The quilt once again wriggled out of her grip, scuttled down
her body and pooled at her feet, where it sat like the present King of England,
doing nothing whatsoever.
Next, it was the pillow's turn to behave oddly … It twitched
… and then … it twitched again.
The twitching pillow acted like a flame and the cold eerie
breeze became the moth as it abandoned the curtains. The breeze rushed towards
the pillow and the pillow twitched even harder.
They met near the centre of the large bed and leaped into
each other's arms like two long lost lovers reuniting for the first time.
The breeze was overwhelmed with love, so much so that it
decided to wriggle inside the pillow cover in order to be as close to the goose
feather stuffing as possible.
The pillow shuddered and blushed, and the breeze giggled as
it playfully began expanding and deflating inside the cover.
The feathery bit of the pillow twitched passionately while
the covers rose up and fell down, rose up and fell down, rose up and fell
down….
"Wake up, Miss Trotter. This game is becoming
boring."
The voice penetrated Lucy's sleepy ears and she came awake.
At once, she felt the cold. She shivered and reached for the quilt.
"Ah, you are awake."
Lucy stilled.
"Your heart will now beat faster, your hair will stand
on one end, and you must already be feeling the chill."
Lucy turned towards the voice. Her mouth fell open in horror
and her hair really did stand straight up.
Every single strand on her body was now facing the ceiling.
Standing before her was a tall, middle-aged woman illuminated
by a fat beam of moonlight streaming in through the window. An old-fashioned
cream and gold ball gown hung loosely from her bony shoulders while a towering
powdered wig sprang majestically from her small, pointed head. Butterflies,
ribbons and pearls adorned the wig, and a gold pin glittered on her corset.
Lucy gulped. The fact that a strange woman was in her room
was odd, but what was odder still was the fact that the woman was shimmering
and moving like a reflection in gently rippling river. Her sharp, narrow
features were awfully hard to focus on.
She was also hovering four feet above the ground.
"You won't be able to scream," the woman said,
sitting down in mid-air and primly crossing her ankles, "because you are
too frightened. You see, what you are feeling are the classic symptoms produced
in a human being when in close vicinity of a ghost."
"Who ar-rre you?" Lucy stammered. She had decided
she was dreaming. Only a dream could explain such things.
"Ah, so you can hear me. Wonderful. And as for who I
am, didn't I just say you were feeling things that one feels when in the
presence of a ghost? Girls can be so witless," she said eyeing Lucy like
she was a rotten lemon.
"You are a ghost?" Lucy was feeling slightly
braver. This was a curious sort of dream.
"Yes, I am a spirit, a ghost, once a human, and now a
dead sort of thing," the woman replied as if this entire conversation was
very dull and every moment was making her more and more impatient. "There
is a debate, though, going on in the ghostly realm where women are demanding
that females ghosts be honourably called ghostee, ghostie or ghosty … They
sound the same but are spelled differently. You see the females in the human
realm are often called girls, ladies, women … You get my drift?"
Lucy nodded.
"So, then, why are all ghosts called ghosts and all
spirits known as simply spirits and not spirities or spiritoos and so on and so
forth? Some female ghosts are pleased that everyone is treated equally in the
afterlife, but some are uncomfortable with the sudden change."
Lucy nodded again. "What's it like being dead?"
she asked and pulled the quilt farther up her shoulders.
The quilt slid back down.
She yanked it back up.
It slipped through her fingers and began shrinking away from
her shoulders.
She gripped the edge firmly and held it near her neck.
The unruly quilt decided to recede from her toes this time.
It climbed higher and higher until her legs were left bare and cold.
Annoyed, she forcefully tucked the quilt under her ankles
and clutched the top bit with her fingers and held it still until the thick
yellow cloth became exhausted and lay limp like any well behaved quilt ideally
should.
"It's like being alive except you can't breathe or
eat," the ghost replied taking off her wig and scratching her head.
"Why are you here?"
"Because I want to be."
"No, I mean here in my room."
"Oh." The ghost floated closer. Lucy shrank back.
"I am glad you reminded me. Well, you see, I am offended. My feelings have
been hurt as I have been unjustly accused of murdering Roo Roo. Why would I
murder my own dear beloved brother? I need you to find the killer and prove my
innocence—"
"Wait a moment," Lucy said. "Who is Roo
Roo?"
"Why, Robert is Roo Roo. My brother." The ghost
clucked impatiently. "Lord Robert Archibald Cuthbert Sedley, who died a
few hours ago. I did implore him to haunt the castle with me, but he was always
the adventurous sort." She chuckled fondly. "Wanted to see what else
was on offer. The silly dear."
"You are Aunt Sedley?" Lucy asked, her eyes
widening. "You really exist? You truly moan and groan at all hours of the
night? It wasn't just a tale made up after the valet's arrival?"
"Don't be silly. I have been roaming these halls since
my violent and tragic death ten years ago. I didn't feel the need to frighten
anyone, but when that horrible Margaret started being naughty with the handsome
valet, I thought it was time to appear and do what little I could to keep them
apart."
Lucy flattened the frightened hair on her head and asked
bravely, "You didn't kill him, did you?"
"Kill Roo Roo? I would rather off his wife," Aunt
Sedley said miffed. She reached over and poked Lucy in the shoulder. The action
terrified Lucy but didn't hurt her for the finger went right through her
shoulder. "How am I supposed to kill anyone when I can't touch a single
human being?"
Lucy shifted farther away from the fluttering ghost.
"You moved the quilt."
"I didn't move the quilt. The quilt and the pillow
moved on its own. It's in our constitution that no spirit may harm any human being,
but a spirit may frighten to their heart's content."
"I see," Lucy said looking confounded.
"After we are dead, to compensate for the fact that we
cannot eat or drink ever again, we are given certain gifts. Our presence
invokes all sorts of terrifying things. Whenever I walk into the room drapes
rustle, quilts and pillows act oddly, and sometimes the wind howls."
"Oh."
"Now, a man who loves his rum and has been forced to
give it up because he has inconveniently died … well, for him the urge to drink
is strong even after death, and that is difficult. Very difficult. To
compensate for his hardship he is given some added benefits. He can produce
orbs of light to distract himself from dreams of gin and rum, or create trails
of blood. The pictures some of these ghosts draw with the blood … sheer
brilliance."
"So all ghosts are different," Lucy interrupted.
Her eyes had started drooping and she covered a yawn.
Aunt Sedley narrowed her eyes at the yawn. "I will
return at another time for the report."
"Report?"
"Report on your progress. You do recall I asked you to
investigate the murder for me … don't you?"
"Ah, yes." Lucy stifled another yawn.
"I am going now."
"Wait, why me," Lucy asked.
"Why you what?"
"Why did you choose me for the investigation?"
"Because you are the only one who can hear me."
"How did you know that I would be able to hear
you?"
"I didn't know. I disturbed everyone in the manor,
except Lord Adair who looked simply too handsome to be woken, and waited to see
who would hear my voice. You did. You were the only one … so here we are."
"I see," Lucy said. After a moment, she noticed
that the room had started warming again and the quilt had turned hot under her
hands. Her lids immediately felt heavy in the sudden heat and she struggled to
keep them open.
The vision of Aunt Sedley wavered and began disappearing
from the edges.
When three-quarters of the ghost had vanished, Lucy yawned
and waved goodbye.
"I will be back … back … back …." Aunt Sedley's
voice slowly faded away with an echo.
"What an odd dream," Lucy muttered, letting her
head fall back on the pillow which had resumed its natural shape. Her small
hand crept back under her cheek, the pink rushed back into her skin, and her
eyes closed in blissful sleep.