I sat alone in my room watching snow fall from a black sky. I was crippled with thoughts. Antonia did not come to visit me. The snow went on falling; it would be heavy by nightfall. I picked up James Ayrton’s journal and began to read.
12 January 1779. To the Temple last night. Read the Arbatel and the Lemegeton, but nothing came. Heard Something while in the Ascendant, but Voices only, and no Showing. There must be a fault, whether in the Recitation or the Performance I do not know. Will reread Trithemius; perhaps he has the answer.
20 January. Two nights now and nothing has come. Pomponazzi counsels Patience, yet mine is sorely tried. Ail last night calling on Zabaath and Bahonym, but no Answer. Resolved to try again tonight, three times.
15 February. This morning received the Book of Ebn Wahshiya from Amsterdam. It is full of Signs and must be digested thoroughly before using. Danger in confusing the Signs. Voices last night. They are becoming clearer. I have spoken twice with the Blind Man.
17 February. Wore the black Veil last night for the first time. It enhanced the Ritual as Trithemius said it would. I saw Shapes where there had been none previously. I must persevere and keep my courage.
20 February. There were feet outside my door again last night. I sense I am coming close. Think myself near to mastering the Signs of Belbeis and Cophtrim. Another week, then I shall make my attempt. Spent the morning reading in the Red Dragon and the Grimorium Verum. Tomorrow seven times.
28 February. Used the Signs last night for the first time. The Voices quite distinct. Saw Something, but not clear. I trust nothing was confused. Agrippa says there is great danger in it.
5 March. In the Temple all night. Redrew the Circle and used the Signs of King Berhemius. It appeared twice and spoke to me. I made it return the second time with much effort. Must read what Trithemius says about the Ascendant and Descendant.
6 March. Summoned It twice again last night. Would go back only unwillingly and with much coercion. It comes closer each time. I would perform in darkness, were it not that I need the light to read by, to avoid errors. It says It crouches by the door now.
8 March. Saw its Face last night, I must have mixed the Signs. It says It will not go back. I must spend today in the library to find an answer.
9 March. Saw something on the lawn. Very close. I can find nothing in either Pico or Paolini. If I cannot send It back. . . Dear God, if I cannot send It back!
Dinner that night was a torment. Several times, Antonia remarked on how preoccupied I was, how pale I looked.
“You are not feeling better, are you, my dear?”
I shook my head and continued to play with my food. She leaned across and whispered to me, “Perhaps it is your time of the month. You do know to what I am referring?”
I flushed and nodded quickly.
"Yes,” I said, “that’s what it is.”
She did not look wholly convinced, but nonetheless smiled sympathetically. I was lying, of course: my periods had started not long before I left the workhouse, but during my months at the Lincotts’ they had ceased again. I, in my innocence, thought they had ended for good, though I knew they were meant to continue much longer—until I got married and had children, as I then believed.
I excused myself from staying down for coffee after dinner, on the pretext that my headache had returned. Antonia kissed me good night and whispered that I should see her about my "problem” in the morning when she and I would be free to talk openly.
Sometime before, I had established that if one were to take a roundabout route from the drawing room, it was possible to reach the dining room from a different direction and to enter it by another door, one which—so Antonia had told me—had been used in the past for dinner parties but which now remained locked, ever since my cousins had started “keeping themselves to themselves.”
I knew I would be taking a considerable risk, but I had resolved to make my way to the other side of the drawing room door in the hope of overhearing whatever conversation passed between Anthony and Antonia. I now desperately needed to know what they said to one another in my absence: whether they talked about me, whether Caroline’s name was ever mentioned.
To my relief, the main dining room door was still unlocked, as it had been the day Antonia showed me through it. I opened it very slowly, terrified that the least creak of a hinge might alert my cousins. The room was in pitch darkness, but a faint crack of light showed on the far side, through the door to the drawing room. I left my lamp outside in the corridor, lest its light give me away.
All through that night’s meal, I had observed the layout of the room closely in preparation for my work of espionage. I knew that if I kept to the north wall, there would be no obstacles between me and the door for which I was headed. Keeping my back against the wall, I shuffled closer. A murmur of low voices came through the door. I reached it in less than a minute and stood still, calming my breathing and the banging of my heart.
Pressing my ear against the keyhole, I found I could make out virtually everything that was said. My cousins were talking calmly about the work that had to be done to repair the damage caused by the storm. This went on for some five or ten minutes. Then there was a pause while Antonia poured fresh coffee. I heard a rustling of paper and realized that Anthony had opened a newspaper. Once a week he had several sent up from Morpeth, in order, so he said, to keep abreast of both local and national news. My heart sank, for it was possible he would continue to read now in silence and that, in another few minutes, Antonia would bid him good night and head for bed.
A few more minutes passed. The only sounds were the occasional clinking of a cup on a saucer or the crackling of Anthony’s paper. Then I heard Antonia’s voice, startlingly loud in the silence.
“Anthony, please put that paper down. We have to talk.”
There was some loud rustling.
“Talk? What about?”
“You know as well as I do. Charlotte is growing suspicious.”
“She saw Johnson coming out of the room, that’s all.”
“She heard the crying, Anthony. I’ve already told you that.”
There was a sound of throat clearing.
"Yes, you have. But what of it? You reassured her. She thinks it was the wind.”
“I doubt it very much, Anthony. Didn’t you see her tonight?”
“You said yourself it’s her time of the month.”
“Possibly. But she was acting strangely earlier today as well. I think she has already started seeing them.”
“Already?”
“Yes, I think so. A few of them at least. I fear she may have seen Caroline. She wears a crucifix around her neck. God knows where she got it from.”
“Does she know Caroline is dead?”
There was another hesitation. I listened with my heart in my mouth, for now Caroline’s existence and her death had been confirmed to me in almost the same instant. Would one of them let slip what had happened to her?
“Anthony, I think you should look at this. Johnson found it in Charlotte’s room this morning.”
“What is it?”
“Look for yourself.”
A longer pause, then Anthony’s voice, strained.
“A diary? Charlotte’s?”
“No, you idiot. It belonged to Caroline.”
“Good God. Where . . . ?”
“I don’t know. It must have been hidden in the room. Charlotte obviously found it and will by now have read it.”
“Does it. . . ?”
“It says enough. The child is clever. She will put the pieces together.”
“Not all of them, surely?”
“No, Anthony, but enough to make her realize she may be in danger. She’s been asking questions. Johnson says she was asking yesterday about the vicar.”
“The vicar? What on earth for?”
"She said she wanted to have her mother’s remains exhumed and moved to Kirkwhelpington. But I don’t believe that for a moment. The . . . Caroline’s diary mentions Watkins a couple of times.”
“Does it? What’s it say?”
"Here, let me see.”
A longish pause and, just audible, the sound of pages being turned.
“Here we are: He says my life may be in danger if I stay at the hall.’ And she mentions that time he tried to get in here and I had to send him packing.”
“Nevertheless what did Watkins really know? A few tales the old villagers told him.”
“That isn’t the point. He believed Caroline. You can’t have forgotten the fuss he made after her death. All that poking about.”
‘‘He found out nothing.”
“He found out enough. Anthony. All he lacked was evidence that would stand up in a court of law. I think Charlotte may try to get in touch with him. He could cause trouble. Remember that he’s not a parish priest any longer. I’ve heard he has the bishop’s ear; and the bishop’s a meddler.”
“Durham’s a long way from here. And there’s nothing even he can do if we go through with the adoption.” “Anthony, I really believe you should think twice about that. It will only draw attention to her presence here. Once it’s all over with, we don’t want any legalities hanging over our heads. It was bad enough with Caroline.”
“Nevertheless it would serve a purpose. I don’t mean just the advantage of having Charlotte as our child in law. It would materially increase the meaning of the act if she were ours.”
“Like Caroline?”
“Yes, in a sense.”
“Nevertheless it’s best we keep her presence here a secret. That way there will be no questions afterward.” “Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps we can have her adopted privately, dispense with the legalities. Melrose will know the best way to proceed.”
There was a long silence, then Antonia’s voice changed subtly in tone.
“I see them every day now, Anthony. You go riding, you visit Morpeth. Today is the first time I have been away from this place in over a month. Do you have any comprehension what it is like for me while you’re away? They’re growing hungry, Anthony.”
“They promised to stay quiet. . .
“They stay quiet for a while, then they grow hungry. He above all. I don’t think I can stand it much longer. It gets worse every time.”
“We have no choice. If we don’t give them what they want. .
“We could leave.”
“And how far do you think we would get? Do you think distance means anything to them?”
“He was there this morning, Anthony. He has put on the veil.”
"I know. I saw him, too.”
“Sleep with me tonight. Please. I don’t want to be alone if he comes.”
“Very well.” A pause. “How long is it now to the child’s birthday?”
“Three days.”
“Can you bear it for that long?”
“Not if it gets too strong.”
“What about Johnson?”
“She’s showing signs of weakness. I don’t trust her, Anthony. We may have to . . . control her.”
“Can’t we just let her go?”
“You know we can’t. She knows too much. And she can’t hold that blessed tongue of hers.”
“Do you think she’ll try to interfere?”
“Possibly. She was upset by what happened to Caroline. And she still thinks of revenge for her son. You’ll have to make the consequences of interference very clear to her.”
“And the girl? What about her?”
“Yes. She will certainly have to be controlled. If she continues to be frightened.”
“You say she has already heard Caroline? Perhaps even seen her. Well, it will not be long before the others show themselves. We shall have to ensure that all the preparations have been made for her birthday. If anything should go wrong at this stage . . .”
“I’m frightened, Anthony. I don’t know if I can go through with it again.”
“You have to. We both have to. It’s the only way we can get any peace.”
“Peace? We can never have real peace here. They’ll be quiet for a while, and then the hunger will start again.”
“Let’s go to bed, Antonia. There’s no use talking about this anymore. There’s nothing we can do. I’ll keep a closer eye on the girl, I promise.”
“Will it ever end, my love?”
“Not in our lifetimes, no.”
“And after that?”
There was a long pause.
“Perhaps not even then.”
“I saw it last night, Anthony. In the garden. It’s very close.”
“Antonia . . .”
“It’s getting closer all the time now. Caroline saw it. She wrote about it in her diary.”
“Did she . . . Did she know what it was?”
“No. No, how could she?”
“What about Charlotte? Her window looks out in that direction.”
“I don’t know. She’s read the diary. She may be curious.”
“She would soon lose her curiosity if she saw it close at hand.”
“Yes. Oh, God, let’s speak no more of it, Anthony. Take me to bed.”
The far door opened and closed. I was left in darkness and in silence. One thought repeated itself over and over in my mind: I had to leave Barras Hall that night. Otherwise I might never leave it at all.
By now I had learned enough to make me dread the thought of even one more night under that roof. That my cousins meant me harm I no longer doubted. The problem was how to effect my escape. We were a good distance from any other habitation, and I knew I would not get very far on foot. There were no bicycles at Barras Hall, and even if there had been, I could not have ridden one. My only hope was to saddle Petrarch and make my way to Morpeth clinging to his reins.
Once there, it was my intention to seek out Anthony’s solicitor, Mr. Melrose, and ask him to direct me to Endicott. This latter gentleman would, I had no doubt, be willing—in exchange for an adequate fee—to help reunite me with Arthur and see that we were both returned to a place of safety in Newcastle. If my suspicions were right, neither Anthony nor Antonia would dare follow us very far for fear of drawing attention to themselves.
I knew, of course, that Melrose would be puzzled by my appearance in his office. But he could not communicate with my cousins by telephone, and I was sure he would prove sympathetic to the urgency of my need to find Arthur. After all, I wanted nothing more than to see and speak with Endicott, and I was sure the lawyer would not begrudge me his address. Once I was on my way, he could tell Anthony what he pleased: I would be out of his clutches and, I prayed, reunited with my brother.