The Whispers of Wilderwood Hall (16 page)

As soon as the car stops and the engine dies, the driver's-side door creaks open, and I see Mum running, hurling herself into RJ's open arms. And then RJ spots Weezy, who's standing there, shuffling awkwardly. But she crumbles the second he waves her over to him, and soon they're lost in a hug too.

A three-way hug, I notice, as RJ kisses the tops of both Mum's and Weezy's heads. From where I'm standing, it looks like my ice-princess stepsister might be thawing… I know I should go and say hello. But before I can make a move, I see that the passenger door of the car has opened too. Who is it? I wonder to myself. Did one of the other band members come back with RJ? Or his personal assistant, perhaps?

I look, I squint, and I see that it's a boy. In fact, it's Cam…

Cam?!

Ripples.

Waves.

Confusion.

The feelings all crash and rush inside me as I head out into the corridor and listen to the jumble of voices and footsteps thundering up the back stairs.
RJ's
leading the way, appearing tall and rangy in front of me in his skinny jeans, black T-shirt, dark grey suit jacket and stripy scarf.

“Well, hello, hello, Ellis!” he says, beaming at me and holding out the wide arc of his arms. “How's my little London lady doing in the wilds of Wilderwood?”

I'm all ready to be brittle with him, not to fall for his famous-musician charm. But before I know it, RJ has rushed over and lifted me clean off the floor, and I can't help but give a surprised shriek of delight. It's actually nice to feel small sometimes, or for the first time in for ever, really.

And then my smile fades as I glance over RJ's shoulder and catch sight of the expression on Weezy's face. From that shocked, death-ray glare I can tell that even if she's starting to warm a little to Mum,
I'm
still the enemy, as far as she's concerned… The damage might be done, but I instantly wriggle myself free from RJ's hug and step back.

“So,” he says, letting me go. “I can't wait for you to show me around this place. Are you up for being my tour guide, Miss Harper?”

“Uh, sure,” I say, feeling flattered but flustered by RJ's attention. “Where do you want to start?”

I'm
thrown by how kindly and friendly he seems, and how unexpectedly pleased I am to see him.

How stupid am I being? Am I
that
desperate for attention at the moment that I can happily push aside worries of the secret conversations he and Mum have been having lately?

“Hold on; not just yet, love,” RJ interrupts my thoughts. “Give's a while. I've just got to get a couple of important things sorted first.”

And so I press the stop button on my enthusiasm, feeling it quickly drain away. Of
course
there's stuff that's more important than me. I think I'm pretty much always bottom of everyone's list of important stuff, even Mum's at the moment. For her, RJ, the Shiny New Project and Weezy rank at one, two and three, with me trailing in fourth – and last – position.

“And one of those is an overdue heart-to-heart with
this
gorgeous girl,” says RJ, turning to Weezy, who beams back at him. “But before
that
, I really need to look at what you've got there, Cam…”

For a second or two, I'd forgotten all about Mr Fraser's son. But there he is, right behind Mum. He's holding a newspaper, I notice. Is that what he's come to show us?

“
This is the living room. Let's go in here,” says Mum, ushering everyone into the room – including Cam.

As I follow him inside, I sneak a sideways peek at him. How did he end up getting a lift from RJ, I wonder? And does he even realize who RJ actually
is
? Probably not, or he'd be looking more shell-shocked, I think.

“So come on, let's see it properly,” says RJ, frowning as he plonks himself down on the sofa.

“You can spread it out here,” Mum tells Cam, and points to the low coffee table. Cam tries to do what he's told, rustling his way through the pages as he looks for something specific.

“What's going on?” I ask as I perch on the arm of the sofa.

“We're not exactly alone here at Wilderwood,
that's
what,” says Weezy.

My jaw drops. She's not … she can't be talking about Flora, can she?

“Don't be scared, Ellis,” Mum jumps in quickly, spotting the shocked look on my face. “RJ spotted Cam with his bike, not far from ours. He'd had a puncture and –”

“– and I stopped to help,” RJ continues. “But
it
turned out he was cycling
here
, to show your mum
this
.”

Cam's finally managed to open the newspaper where he wants it.

And there, in the Entertainment section, are some words in a heavy, black, unmissable font.

RJ Johnstone's Scottish Love Nest.
Under the heading are several photos that have clearly been taken right here, in the grounds of Wilderwood Hall.

Waves roll in as I stare at an image of me and Mum on the terrace, the morning after we moved in, me hunched and tired after my endless sleep. And here's another, of Mum on the phone, pacing the terrace. The third – and largest – is of her sitting on the terrace clutching a mug, looking forlorn.
Marriage not all it's cracked up to be, Mrs Johnstone
? says the jokey caption underneath.

Another, a small inset in the corner, was taken just yesterday, I realize. It's of Mum and Weezy looking like they're arguing by the ivy-tangled fountain. The stable block – and a figure that's me – is in the background. So the paparazzi have been busy again, though this time they've been stealthier than it was possible to be on the noisy speedboat on the Thames…

“
I can't believe this! Where were these taken from?” Weezy asks angrily.

Maybe I've been feeling a little pushed out of this family, but at least I can be useful in this instance.

“I think I know. Here, I'll show you,” I say.

Pushing myself off the arm of the sofa, I walk out into the corridor. Everyone follows behind me – Pied Piper style – as I go through the panelled linking door, across the first floor landing of the main house and into the corner bedroom; the original nursery, as only
I
know it, and where Weezy has loosely set up camp, to everyone else.

“I think the photographer has to have been over there somewhere, to get those angles. Maybe hiding behind those trees and bushes by the far wall… ?”

“Yeah!” Cam chips in. “When I spoke to you yesterday, Ellis, there was a flash from that direction. It must've been sunlight catching on the lens.”

I'm glad to be helpful, but part of me is withering with disappointment. Each time I saw those fleeting glimmers of lights, it
hadn't
been a tiny portal into the past like I'd hoped. Instead it was just some cash-hungry photographer, snooping around.

“
So this bloke's just walked right in, because the gates are wedged open,” says Mum, gazing at the entrance to the grounds.

“You need to get my dad to fix them so they lock,” Cam suggests. “Maybe get an intercom with a video screen. Dad fitted one of those for that TV chef that's got a place near here.
And
that comedian bloke with the beard…”

So
that's
why Cam didn't look particularly fazed by getting a lift here by the lead singer of White Star Line. I get the feeling he and his dad and possibly everyone around Glenmill knew all along who the new owner of Wilderwood was, and weren't that bothered, not if they're used to famous faces already.

“Gates or not, it's not on. This is private property,” says RJ. “And it's crazy, really; I'm not famous enough to deserve this attention. It's especially not fair on you, honey.”

RJ tenderly stokes Mum's scrunched-up blonde hair, and she circles her arms around his waist.

“Maybe he's out there right now, watching us!” says Weezy, shoving her slipping glasses back up on to her nose.

“Could be. Which is why I'm going out there – see if I can catch him, or scare him away,” RJ announces.

“
No you are not! That'll just make the situation loads worse!” says Mum, clinging on tight to RJ's waist. “Can you imagine if the photographer got a picture of you coming for him? The newspapers would LOVE that, wouldn't they?”

As the ranting and raving and discussion continues around me at full volume, I notice everyone's voices are beginning to fade. A new sound is slowly building. It's because my hands are resting on the windowsill, which felt warm to the touch a second ago, thanks to the afternoon sun seeping into the wood. But now it's cooling fast, and the fizz and crackles of some
different
voice is seeping into the palms of my hands, prickling up my fingers and forearms like sparkles of frost.

“
Stupid … stupid … stupid…
” the voice buzzes, till I sense the change.

I spin around and see Mum, RJ, Weezy and Cam, freeze-framed in the moment and fading from me. And the musty, dusty corner room as I know it fades too, replaced instead by the warmth and colour of the old nursery, busy with bookshelves, toys, a small tin bath, a globe and a blackboard on an easel.

And then there's a wooden rocking horse – complete with an impressive mane and tail of real
horsehair
– which sits by the small roaring fire.

Some kind of catastrophe has just occurred.

“You stupid girl!” a woman is shouting at Flora.

“Catriona, I—”

“I leave you to look after young Master Archibald for two minutes, just
two minutes
, and you let him do
this
?”

The woman doing the shouting is short and plump and might be pretty if she didn't look so flustered and furious. I try and think who she must be … Catriona; is she the nursemaid?

“He – he must have taken the poker when I was dusting the ashes from the fireplace,” Flora insists, tears brimming in her eyes. “He was so very quiet I did not see him take it or see what he was doing!”

It's hard to hear what either Flora or Catriona is saying due to the wailing of the small boy who is currently brandishing a fire poker in his hand. And now I can clearly see what he's done; there are uneven scorch lines all down the side of the expensive-looking rocking horse.

“She said I could! She said I could!” the boy screams, pointing an accusing finger at Flora.

“No, no, I did not!” Flora gasps in horror, lifting her apron to hide her face in shock at this awful
accusation.
“How can such a little boy tell such a lie?”

“Never mind that – what am I to tell his papa when he sees this damage?” says Catriona, her face crimson with rage and worry. “The master might try to dock my wages for this, you stupid—”

“What on
earth
is going on here?”

With a swish of heavy cloth and a tap of smart black boots, Miss Matilda the governess swoops into the room, drifting her floral scent after her. The gold rim of the cameo brooch at her neck glints in the flickering light of the nursery fire.

Straight away she sees the nursemaid opening and shutting her mouth like a panicked goldfish; Archibald clutching the heavy, hot poker; the vandalized rocking horse; and a trembling and distraught Flora. Without letting anyone babble, accuse or talk, Miss Matilda takes the situation in hand.

“Master Archibald, put that poker back in its place this instant. Catriona, please wash the coal dust off his hands immediately. Flora, can you please ask the housekeeper if she has some wood polish or oil that might help restore or disguise these marks.”

Flora, glad of the escape, bobs politely, and – grabbing her half-filled coal scuttle – makes a
speedy
exit from the room. I hurry after her, weaving carefully past the nursemaid, the governess and the boy, though of course I could probably just as easily rush right through them for all the effect my twenty-first-century self would have on them.

Once out on the landing, with its pretty honeysuckle wallpaper and rich long rugs, I see Flora at the door of the housemaid's closet, holding it open for me. Out of habit, and forgetting that she alone can see me, I glance one way and another before slipping into the glorified cupboard with my friend.

Flora clunks the scuttle wearily down on the floor beside tall empty water jugs. Shelves line the walls, holding scrubbing brushes and cleaning rags and bottles and tins that must be cleaning products, I suppose. Two low, rectangular white sinks stand side by side in front of a small window, and it's against one of these deep sinks that Flora rests herself.

“You see how it is. They
all
have it in for me, Ellis!” she rails, her eyes wide, her expression desperate. “From Mrs Strachan down to the young master. If it's not Jim the stable lad claiming he saw me trip Minnie in church, it's Jean claiming
the
dead mouse in her bed was
my
work. Last week the master's dog died, and the gardener claimed he saw me put rat poison in the bowl of slops that was left for the dog at the back door! For saying such a thing, I wish I worked directly in the kitchen and could slip rat poison in the
gardener's
dinner…”

Flora's sudden spark of black humour gives me hope that she can keep her spirits up in this drab and difficult environment. But I hold back the smile, in case she thinks I'm laughing at her.

“Is there really no one at all that is ever kind to you?” I ask instead.

“There is not a kind person in this whole fine building, upstairs or down,” Flora says with a heavy sigh. “
Everyone
in this house constantly finds fault with me, or blames me for things that are broken or lost, or simply thinks the worst of me. There is not one person in this entire place I can call my friend.”