“Hmm, that she did.”
"What’s become of them?”
“Drowned, ma’am.”
“What, all of them?”
He shook his head slowly.
“No, not all. I kept two. Was you wanting one, miss?”
“Not for myself. I thought Miss Charlotte might like one for company.”
“They’re not lapdogs, miss. I keep them for working dogs. They’re hardly suitable for a young lady.”
“What breed? I think Anthony said they were lurchers.”
“No, ma’am. Springer spaniels. Nothing fancy about them, mind you. Not much pedigree to speak of.” Antonia turned to me, smiling.
“You won't mind if they don’t have pedigree, will you, Charlotte?”
“I . . . No, of. . . of course not,” I stammered. I had never had a dog, never owned a pet of any description. All my fears seemed to have been eclipsed by this sudden, delicious surprise. As Antonia had intended they should be.
“Let’s see them, Hutton. We don’t want to keep Miss Charlotte waiting.”
He led the way to a low shed near a rubbish heap filled with shards of garden crockery. As we approached, high-pitched barking broke out from inside the shed. Hutton opened a narrow door, stopped, and went inside. Moments later he came out holding two spaniel pups, one under each arm. They were both well grown.
“This is the bitch,” he said, indicating the animal wriggling under his left arm. “And this here’s the dog.” “Well, Charlotte, it looks as though you have a choice.”
But my mind was already made up. The male had a black flash on his forehead, and appealing eyes that were already fixed on me. I reached out to take him. “May I?”
Hutton said nothing. He let me take the dog, as though it had been no more than a sack of potatoes. He was unshaved, and, close up, I could tell he was unwashed.
The pup squirmed for a moment, then reached up to my face with his wet nose and began to nuzzle me. I laughed out loud, pulling my face away. His warm fur smelled dark and exciting.
“How old is he?” I asked.
"A year,” muttered Hutton. “More or less.”
“What will you call him?” asked Antonia.
“Perhaps he already has a name.”
Hutton shook his head.
“No need for a name. Not as yet. Call him what you want.”
“Then I shall call him Jasper.”
Antonia looked at me in surprise.
“Jasper? Wherever did you get such a name?”
“My friend Alice had a cat called Jasper.”
“It’s an excellent name. I’ll get Hepple to fix up a corner for him in the house. He can sleep in the kitchen. But you’ll have to get him house-trained.”
“He’s trained already, Miss Antonia. I’d rather not have to clean the shed out after him.”
“Well done, Hutton. And thank you.” She turned to me. “Say thank you, Charlotte.”
I thanked Hutton. He disappeared into the little hut with the other dog, then reemerged holding a length of rope attached to a shorter piece.
“You can use this till you get a collar and lead for him,” he said. “He’s used to it.”
He slipped the collar around Jasper’s neck with a movement that I found surprisingly deft.
“He was never intended for a pet,” he said. “But he’ll do well enough if you look after him and don’t pamper him. When he’s a bit older, bring him to me for training.”
He paused and straightened.
“Now, if you don’t mind, Miss Antonia, I’ve got work to do. This storm has made a fine mess of things.”
He stomped off, leaving us with Jasper.
“Well,” said Antonia, “what will you do with your new friend? Shall we take him back to the house?”
I shook my head.
"If you don’t mind, Antonia, I’d like to take him for a walk.”
She looked at me doubtfully for a moment, then nodded.
“Why, of course, he’ll be in need of exercise after being kept cooped up in that old shed. I won’t come with you. There are some matters I have to attend to back at the house.”
She kissed me on both cheeks and left. I noticed that someone was watching her from an upstairs window as she made her way back.
Jasper knew at once what was up. After running circles around me, he suddenly tried to break away, pulling on his makeshift lead. I made a loop in it and slipped it around my wrist. He was not strong, but I was unaccustomed to animals and found him hard to control at first. We walked through the gardens at a snail’s pace: everywhere we found new scents and new sights for Jasper to investigate.
In time, I learned to pull on the lead to get him moving, and before an hour had passed we had become firm friends. Antonia’s choice of distraction for me had been inspired. Jasper could be engrossed in anything: a root, a leaf, an old bird’s nest lying on the ground. The smallest object could become his world for minutes at a time. In the woods, he was almost uncontrollable. There were animal smells, the spoor of rabbits and squirrels, the trails of badgers. In his enthusiasm, I forgot to be preoccupied with my own fears.
The afternoon sun grew hot enough to lift a mist from the damp ground. I paid little attention to this at first, for the mist was nothing more than a fine, hazy film between the leaves. But as time went by it grew more dense in places. We had strayed close to the river, and here larger patches of thick mist had accumulated on the banks and somewhat farther back. I had little fear of losing my way, though I was concerned not to wander too far from the path, however attractive some parts of the undergrowth might be to Jasper.
Then, without warning, after a particularly involved chase around the backs of some rhododendron bushes, I realized that I was indeed lost. I was not unduly worried, for I knew that as long as I found a path and stayed on it, I would eventually find my way to a part I knew. Antonia had taught me that during our first walks through the grounds. Jasper was tiring by now, and our progress was made much easier.
My confidence began to ebb when, after some twenty minutes, I found myself still in unfamiliar territory. It was growing chilly and damp, and I could sense that the sun was sinking low. I felt the first prickings of fear then, realizing that if I did not find my way to a familiar path soon, I might very well be stranded by sunset in the middle of the woods. For some reason, it now mattered greatly to me that there were no birds anywhere. Why did they stay away? Was it merely a freak of nature, or something more sinister? Uncomfortable fears began to crowd in on me. Somehow they communicated themselves to Jasper, for he grew quite subdued. I pressed on, desperately seeking some sign that I was within striking distance of the house.
My relief was enormous when, turning a corner, I caught sight of the folly, its outline much obscured by a tangle of winter foliage and folding mist. For all that I disliked the place, I knew that it would lead me to safety, and I hurried to get nearer, in search of a vantage point from which I could discern my way.
I must have been within about thirty yards of the temple when I first became aware that Jasper was dragging on his lead. The little dog was pulling back, as though reluctant to follow me. Somewhat accustomed to his ways by now, I merely pulled harder on my end, getting him some way farther toward the folly. We were almost clear of the woods now, just a short expanse of grass and low undergrowth separating us from the ruin, when Jasper’s reluctance grew more frantic. He began to whimper, then simply refused to go an inch farther. When I turned to look at him, I felt my heart turn cold, for his eyes were distended with fear, his ears lay flat against his head, and every hair on his body was standing on end.
“What is it, Jasper? What is it? What do you see?”
He just moaned, the most pitiful moans imaginable, and continued to pull hard against the rope. I was certain he could see or hear something. My every impulse was to turn tail and run with Jasper until we were out of sight of the folly. But this urge was tempered by the fear I had that if I did so, I might become irreparably lost.
Jasper was lying flat now, whimpering and burying his snout between his front paws. And then, suddenly, he started to snarl and tried to back away. A moment later he fell utterly silent. And in the silence I heard something. I could barely make it out at first, so soft it was, but as I listened I began to realize that it was the low sound of voices singing. Soft voices. Children’s voices. And the singing, faint as it was, was coming unmistakably from inside the folly.
They did not sing for very long. A few moments, half a minute at the most, then silence, a silence that completely filled the woods. The singing reawakened in me the emotions of the morning, those feelings of desolation and abandonment that had assailed me in the empty room. I hunkered down alongside Jasper, stroking him, whispering words of encouragement while all the time I kept my eyes fixed on the folly, on the shifting outline of its ivy-covered walls. Only the mist moved. I wanted to leave, to run breathless from that terrible spot, but something held me transfixed.
Suddenly I heard the sound of a door opening then slamming shut. It was followed by the unmistakable rattle of a key turning in a heavy lock. A moment later I saw a figure leaving the folly. It was my cousin Antonia.
She stood on the steps for a moment, then turned her head as someone else appeared behind her. I caught my breath. It was Anthony. He came up to her, kissed her softly on the neck, then on the mouth. Not softly, not at all softly, but with a violence and—I understand it now—a passion that left me stunned. I had never seen a man and woman embrace like that, I was bewildered by the eagerness with which they kissed, bewildered and, in a way I could not understand, a party to it all. I could feel their need for one another even at that distance, even in my ignorance of what it really meant. They kissed for a long time, then parted slowly and at last walked away, hand in hand, until they were swallowed up by the mist.
I remained crouching there, my hand on Jasper’s neck, confused, tearful, as frightened by my cousins’ behavior as by the singing that had preceded it. There were no more sounds anywhere, but all around me the shadows were growing, and I knew it was time to leave, it was not hard for me to find my own way back, now that I had my bearings. Jasper became his old self again the moment we got a little distance from the folly, though he was too tired to run around much, it was nearly dark when we got back to the house. Mrs. Johnson had prepared a basket and food bowl for Jasper in the scullery. He was unsure of them at first, but within minutes had eaten and then rolled himself into a ball and fallen fast asleep. I envied him the ease with which he could throw off his fears.
“Miss Antonia wants to see you upstairs, miss.” Mrs. Johnson looked at me strangely, as though trying to guess what I was thinking. Had she caught sight of me spying on her that morning?
“I’ll go up shortly.”
“She’s been expecting you back for tea this long time, miss.”
That was hardly the truth, and I guessed Mrs. Johnson knew it. I nodded and left, after saying good-bye to Jasper.
Antonia was in the drawing room with the tea things spread out in front of her.
“The tea’s stone cold, Charlotte. Where on earth have you been?”
"We got lost in the woods,” I said. “It’s misty outside. Jasper went all over the place and I had to follow him.”
She glanced at me sharply.
“You’ll have to train him better than that, I’ll get a proper lead sent up from Morpeth. Now you must be hungry. I’ll have Mrs. Johnson bring some fresh water.” “That’s all right, Antonia. I’m a little tired after my walk. If you don’t mind, I’d like to go to my room to rest.” “Very well. But remember that dinner will be at the usual time. It’s just the two of us this evening.”
A fire was burning in my room, as it always was at this time of day. I sat in my usual chair, staring at the flames. Nothing could conceal from me that my cousins shared a dark secret, but its nature and extent I could not begin to guess.
I felt a draft at my side. The curtains had not been drawn, but it was dark outside now, so I decided to close them. As I pulled the left-hand curtain across, I noticed something on the floor, just at the foot of the window, almost out of sight. Picking it up, I saw that it was a small book bound in red leather and covered in dust. In a flash, I realized that it must have fallen from the narrow space inside the shutters when I opened them the night before. I finished drawing the curtain, then went back to my chair with the book.
With my handkerchief, I wiped most of the dust away. There was no title on the cover or spine. When I opened the little volume, I saw why: it was only a notebook, though rather an expensive one. Most of its pages were covered in a fine, elegant hand. Flicking through them, my eye fell on one line:
I lock my door at night now, but the footsteps never cease, and I still hear whispers where there should be no whispers.
With a shaking hand, I closed the book. It was as though the writer had been here with me on that night when I had listened to footsteps outside my own door, this very door. For no explicable reason, I got up and turned the key in the lock, as I was growing accustomed to doing much later, when I retired to sleep. I had realized what it was I held in my hand: a journal. A journal, if I guessed right, that had been kept by someone who had lived in this very room.
For a long time I just sat there, unable to move, scarcely able to think. The journal frightened me. For some reason, it had linked itself in my mind with the weeping I had heard in the night. If someone else had slept here and written down their recollections, perhaps I would find that they, too, had heard the sobbing. If so,
I would know that it had not been a figment of my imagination.
At last I plucked up enough courage to begin reading.
I have moved to the west wing at last. Mother says I am quite grown up now, and must have a room of my own. It is such a pretty room, with the loveliest blue paper all covered in roses. I can see most of the garden from my window. It is a little bleak just now, with winter setting in, but in the summer I shall have such a gorgeous view. I’ll ask Hutton to plant some rosebushes just outside, where I will be able to see them first thing every morning.
I was in such a tizzy yesterday, getting everything ready for the big move. It was so exciting, thinking of being in a proper grown-up room instead of that old nursery. I got to hate the nursery so much. The best thing about this room is that I have a wardrobe of my own to keep my dresses in.
We went to Morpeth last week to have a fitting at Madame Doubtfire's. She's the funniest old thing: she wears a red wig and the most awful rouge on her cheeks. Mother thinks her rather common, but she is the best dressmaker for miles and miles, so everybody puts up with her. I am so looking forward to my treasures. They'll be ready before Christmas, or so she says.
I’ve decided to keep a proper diary. From now on I intend to have a thoroughly interesting life. It can be so dull here. There are scarcely any visitors. And I do miss Signorina Rocca, even if she was a hard old stick at times. Mother gives me my lessons herself now, but her mind isn't on it half the time. She says I’m to have a new governess after Christmas, but it won't be easy getting anybody decent to come and live out here. I wish we were nearer Morpeth. It’s so cut off here in the country.
November 4, 1892.I must make sure I put the date on these entries. The diary was a present from Uncle Anthony, who says I should use it to organize my thoughts.