House of Splinters, page 15
He nodded vehemently. ‘Mamma,’ he managed. ‘Stop Mamma.’
His blood chilled. Of all the possible names, he’d least expected to hear that one. ‘Why? What is she doing?’
A fresh burst of tears. Wilfred had never felt as furious with Belinda as he did at this moment. What could possibly be worth upsetting their son this much?
He put his hands on Freddy’s bony shoulders and nodded encouragingly. ‘Tell me.’
‘She – she wants to – to take Hetta to the – the attic,’ Freddy stuttered through his sobs. ‘She can’t.’
So Belinda was really going through with it. He would not have thought his wife capable of such hard-heartedness. ‘She’s taking away a toy you want to play with?’
Poor Freddy looked as if a trapdoor had been opened from under him. ‘I don’t want to play with her! Not any more. Merry told me…’ He shook his head as if it did not matter. ‘But she’ll be so angry! She hates to be shut away.’
Wilfred stroked his son’s hair, unsure how to respond. Freddy had a vivid imagination, but that would have to stop at some point. ‘You know,’ he said kindly, ‘Hetta can seem very real. But she is only a piece of wood. She cannot really feel emotions.’ He paused. ‘Are you sure it is not actually you who will be angry if she is put away?’
‘No, I’ll be scared!’ Freddy cried. ‘I’ll be so, so scared.’
Creaks on the landing. ‘Hey-day, what’s all this? I thought I heard a little fellow screaming fire.’ Wilfred glanced up as Nathan padded into view, the dog welded to side. ‘Is everything all right?’
Freddy did not turn, he kept his entreating eyes fixed upon his father.
‘We’ve had a bit of an upset,’ Wilfred said vaguely.
He did not want to raise the topic of the silent companion with Nathan, who would probably take Belinda’s side. It was Nathan’s fault that she even knew there was a girl murdered at The Bridge in the first place. It only proved how right Wilfred had been to take Anne Bainbridge’s diary out of her hands. He did not have to look far to see where their son got his lurid fancies from.
The dog came snuffling up and licked at the tears on Freddy’s cheeks, but he pushed it away.
‘Oh, dear! This won’t do at all, Freddy,’ Nathan sympathised, his voice light and sing-song for the child. ‘Can I make things any better? I was about to go on a long walk in the woods with Dev. Perhaps you would like to join us? That might cheer you up. You can see how fast he runs to catch rabbits!’
It was a testament to Freddy’s distress that he did not leap at the opportunity. His pale brows just knit together.
Wilfred patted him gently on the back. ‘Actually, I think that’s a capital idea, Fred. Get yourself out of the house with Uncle Nathan and leave me to speak to your mother.’
‘She doesn’t understand,’ Freddy breathed, low enough so that only Wilfred could hear. ‘Hetta wants to be near Lydia. And bad things happen when Hetta doesn’t get what she wants.’
Wilfred nodded and rose to his feet. This was reminding him rather painfully of Tiffany. But Freddy’s inventions, or dreams – whatever you called the phantoms that flitted through the minds of children – were more structured than hers had ever been. Freddy felt his stories viscerally, whereas Tiffany had always retained that dreamy expression, singing and giggling and whispering to herself. He still could not remember her mentioning a Henrietta Maria, or even a Hetta, as Freddy called her, but then he had never paid much heed to what she said. His little sister had been almost ten years his junior – more of a pet than a peer.
Freddy slunk reluctantly towards Nathan. He wrapped an arm around the boy. ‘Let’s find that missing shoe, shall we? Oh, look, Dev’s already got it in his mouth! Bring it here, there’s a clever dog.’
Freddy puffed out a tiny laugh to see the dog fetching his shoe as tamely as if it were a dead grouse. He slipped it back on, dried his eyes. ‘Can I hold his leash?’
‘Of course you can!’
Wilfred waited until they had passed from his sight, their footsteps and the pitter-patter of the dog’s paws fading out. He took a breath, composed himself. If there was one thing he had learned from the whole Roberts fiasco, it was that he should never act when he was in a temper. Showing Belinda his anger now would achieve very little.
The scene he found inside the nursery softened him. His wife stood mopping her eyes with a handkerchief – evidently, she had been crying, too. The door to the schoolroom stood ajar. He could hear the nursemaids in there with Lydia while Mrs Knowles knelt before the silent companion with its basket of roses, carefully disassembling the prop that stood it upright. The painting of Anne Bainbridge and Henrietta Maria was leaning against the wall.
‘Oh, Wilfred,’ Belinda said, ‘I am sorry for all the racket. We have disturbed you.’
‘Disturbed is a fitting word. I am disturbed to see poor Freddy sobbing his heart out.’ He gestured at Mrs Knowles. ‘Come, is all of this really necessary, Bel?’
She raised her handkerchief to catch a new tear. ‘I did not mean to upset him! It breaks my heart… But, yes, I’m afraid it really must be done. I am his mother, I know what is best for him.’
Wilfred frowned. ‘My dear, I think you mean what is best for you.’
She flinched, bunching her handkerchief in her hand. Her eyes remained on Mrs Knowles, who was studiously performing her task and saying nothing. The silent companion creaked as it leant backwards. Such a thin, flimsy piece of wood to cause all this fuss.
‘My dream seemed like a warning,’ Belinda admitted. ‘And besides… it is in poor taste for Freddy to play with a memorial to a dead child.’
‘You are a sailor’s daughter at heart. But on dry land dreams are not premonitions. You were simply thinking about the family history because you saw that portrait, and then you dreamt of it.’
‘But it is strange,’ Belinda persisted. ‘Mrs Knowles does not even know where the painting came from, do you?’
‘No, madam.’ The housekeeper was standing now, the silent companion tucked lengthways under one arm. Only the pile of hair and the sharp green eyes glared out. He could see why Freddy might imagine the girl was angry. There was certainly something unpleasant simmering in that gaze. ‘My husband doesn’t remember putting it up either… But he is getting on in years. It wouldn’t be the first thing he forgot.’
Wilfred realised he’d left poor Knowles standing in the library. He inspected his pocket watch. ‘I am meant to be sorting out the rents with him right now… But I must put this right first. By all means get rid of the portrait, Bel, but Freddy is dead set against having that companion removed. The poor boy practically begged me to stop you. Are you really going to go through with it?’
Her delicate jaw set. ‘I am afraid I have no choice. Take it away, Mrs Knowles.’ The housekeeper glanced at Wilfred as if for confirmation, but Belinda was resolute. ‘Take both the painting and the companion and place them in the attic.’
Wilfred did not attempt to conceal his sigh as Mrs Knowles obeyed her orders. Despite his best efforts, it seemed to be happening again. How long before Belinda grew afraid of her own shadow and locked herself up with Lydia, as she had with Freddy all those years ago?
When the nursery door closed, Belinda sagged against the iron bedstead in relief. ‘I am sorry,’ she repeated. ‘I know it appears extreme. But at least I will not have any more nightmares.’
‘What about Freddy?’ he objected. ‘Our priority should be to stop our son suffering from bad dreams – as he certainly will now.’
‘Oh, do not plague me, Wilfred, I feel guilty enough. Maybe it is silly, but I need to do this for my own peace of mind. I am doing everything I can to prevent myself from growing nervous again. To me it has felt like there is a, a – ’ she lowered her voice ‘ – a ghost in the house. The ghost of that girl. She has been everywhere I go. Hopefully now it will stop.’
Wilfred bit his lip. What he truly wanted to say to Belinda, he could never share. That he knew for a fact ghosts did not come back seeking vengeance. For if they did, he and Nathan would be tormented by Roberts. Yet there had never been any hint that the footman remained in the house.
Belinda was not waiting for his response. She was looking beyond him, frowning at the rocking horse Freddy had ridden with such glee. ‘How long has it been like that?’
‘Whatever is the matter now?’ he asked wearily.
She pushed herself off the bedstead and walked past him to the toy. Placing a hand on the saddle, she bent down to inspect the underside of the horse. ‘Look at this, Wilfred.’
He bent to where she was pointing. The wood bore thick, white scratches, scoured with something sharp, veining all the way down to the top of the horse’s legs.
He cursed under his breath. That damned dog of Nathan’s got into everything. It was just as well he had arranged for Freddy to have a real horse before long; riding this one would give him splinters. ‘Dev must have been pawing at it. This cost me a pretty penny – I’ve a mind to bill Nathan for a replacement.’
Belinda pushed the rocking horse. It squeaked as it swung back and forth, back and forth. ‘Something is not right, Wilfred. Don’t you feel it? A kind of… pressure. Like the air before a storm.’
She could not comprehend the amount of pressure he was under. If she did, she would not be wasting his time with trifles like this. ‘Well, the barometer was low today. Maybe rain is coming,’ he offered blandly.
She nodded, still watching the horse. ‘Yes. I suppose that must be it.’
*
Bonfires burnt off towards the village, even though the sun had not fully set. Freddy sat on the window seat in the card room, watching columns of smoke rise on the horizon.
Belinda’s attempts to teach him whist and faro had failed. He refused to be distracted, remaining as fractious as he’d been that morning. Even the dog was curled up beside her feet, under the games table, knowing any advances would be rebuffed.
It was all her doing. Was she a terrible mother, for taking her son’s toy away?
Belinda piled the cards back into a deck and began to lay them out for solitaire. The rhythmic turning, the very pattern of the game, took her back to her mother’s parlour. Prickles ran up the back of her neck. Had she acted in the same way as Mamma? Upset her child, just to quell her own fears? But she did not see what else she could have done.
‘Why are they burning fires?’ Freddy demanded.
‘People often do, dearest, because it is not St John’s Eve, but St John’s day. It is a holy day in the church calendar.’
‘We should light a fire,’ he said savagely. ‘A big one.’
Belinda placed another card down. A traditional St John’s fire was kindled not only with wood, but bones. She shuddered at the thought. ‘No, it’s too warm tonight, darling. Anyway, Rebecca will be coming to fetch you to bed in a moment.’
‘I don’t want to go to bed!’ The inside of Freddy’s lower lip showed wet and pink as he pouted. Behind him, the sky was bruising darker, the divide between dusk and the smoke on the hills beginning to blur.
‘Why not?’
‘Because you put Hetta in the attic!’ he sparked back. ‘She’ll be moving up there all night. I’ll hear her!’
Belinda’s blood ran cold. She paused, the three of diamonds in her hand. ‘Are you sure her name is Hetta? Could it not be… Henrietta Maria?’ He stared at her. ‘Or perhaps Hetta is short for that?’ What was she doing, what was she saying? Wilfred had been right to scold her. She ought to be comforting Freddy, not encouraging his fears. But she could not stop herself. ‘Freddy, tell me, what does it sound like when Hetta moves?’
He screwed up his face. ‘A scrape. A big, dragging scrape.’
The card shook in her fingers. She laid it flat. Hadn’t she heard that noise the night Freddy walked in his sleep? Just before she’d seen the companions, ranged about his empty bed?
The companions move by themselves. Did Nathan really mean it?
Rebecca knocked on the open door. Belinda nearly leapt from her chair. ‘Sorry, madam! I did not mean to startle you. Shall I take Master Freddy to bed now?’
Freddy slumped dramatically from the window seat and lay down upon the carpet. ‘Noooo!’
Belinda grimaced. ‘He is none too eager, as you can see. Let us give him a moment to collect himself. Perhaps you can close the shutters and light the candles now? It is getting rather dismal in here.’
‘Yes, madam.’
The maid stepped neatly over Freddy and began to pull the shutters. Belinda could not overlook his tantrum so easily. She was responsible for it. She had made her son afraid to go to bed and she needed to put that right.
Her eyes rested upon the open door, showing a slice of the powder-pink music room beyond. Tunes had often soothed Mamma in querulous moments.
‘Freddy, shall I play you a song? Something to make you sleepy?’
He peeped up at her from his position on the floor, curls spilling over his flushed face. She could practically see the cogs turning inside his young mind. Any excuse, any delay. ‘Yes.’
She pushed back her chair and stood. Dev rose with her, giving a yawn and a stretch. ‘Come along, then. The instruments are all next door.’
She’d had little leisure to spend in the music room until now. Since her marriage, Belinda had viewed playing as a winter pursuit, something to amuse herself when the weather prevented excursions. And there was something rather sickly about this chamber with its pink paper and the scalloped ceiling, like a sugar-paste cake that made your teeth ache.
Dev slunk into the room and settled under the pianoforte. It was furred with dust, the ivory keys discoloured. A harp of satinwood and brass stood in the corner. Belinda leant in favour of playing that. The tension in the strings looked adequate, they might not take much tuning.
‘Go and sit on the piano stool and I will play the harp for you. I wonder what Dev will make of it. Do you suppose he’s heard music before?’
‘He won’t mind music.’ Freddy dragged himself up onto the stool and let his short legs dangle over the edge. He pressed a single key. Dev’s ears twitched. ‘See? He’s done everything. He’s a big brave dog. He crossed the ocean on a ship with Uncle Nathan. He helps me protect Lydia.’
Belinda moved over to the harp and settled it against her shoulder. She wished Lydia were here too, her little face opening in astonishment to the new sound. But it was too late in the evening to fetch her; Lydia would be fast asleep.
Pushing up the half-sleeves of her gown, Belinda strummed the strings. The air shimmered with a bright, silvery sound.
In the card room, Rebecca turned her head in the direction of the music.
‘That’s pretty,’ Freddy said. ‘Do a tune.’
Belinda closed her eyes and plucked the strings by memory, playing Haydn’s ‘Rustic Dance’. The melody bore her away from the witches and murdered children of The Bridge, back to ballrooms and ostrich feathers, fluttering fans and ratafia. She never thought she’d miss the crush of a London Season, but she did. When she was there, she had longed for open space and green fields, but no one had warned her that her country estate would come with a ghost.
Snap.
Belinda flinched as the broken string nearly twanged into her face. Her fingers stung.
‘Madam! Are you hurt?’ Rebecca was there, taking the harp from her grasp.
‘I… no.’ Shaken, she checked the tips of her fingers, ran a hand over her cheek. The snapping string had sounded like an explosion in her ear. ‘No, I don’t think so. It was just a nasty shock.’
‘It nearly hit you!’ Freddy squealed.
‘It was silly of me to play on old strings. I ought to have inspected them first. Don’t worry, darling, there is no harm—’ She stopped, frowned. Dev rose and sniffed his way over to the door on the far wall, which led into the drawing-room. ‘Did someone just knock?’
‘No, madam.’
‘I thought…’ Even as she spoke, Dev let out a dissatisfied ‘whuff’ and began nosing at the base of the door.
Freddy swivelled on his stool. ‘Maybe it’s Papa? Come in, Papa!’
The door did not move.
‘There was no knock, madam,’ Rebecca assured her, returning to trimming the candle-wicks. ‘There’s no one out there.’
But Belinda knew what she had heard.
The door taunted her with its stillness. It was like the feeling she’d had in her suite and outside the schoolroom. A presence, waiting. Dev lifted his tail and his head. A growl rolled in his chest. ‘There must be someone,’ she reasoned. ‘Why else would the dog do that?’
Rebecca pressed her thin lips together. ‘Very well, madam, there is only one way to find out.’ Abandoning her task, she moved to the far wall and chivvied Dev out of the way. ‘I do not imagine anyone would stand about waiting for us to—’ Her voice caught as she pulled the door open.
The silent companion of Henrietta Maria stood on the threshold.
For a moment they all stared. Dev’s growl rumbled low, like a distant storm. Then Freddy started to scream.
In a flash he was up, pushing past Rebecca and barrelling out of the open door. His shoulder hit the companion and sent it swooning. Rebecca gave chase. Shakily, Belinda followed, unable to understand what had happened. Every inch of her skin tingled as she stepped over the felled companion. She would not look at its sly face, would not acknowledge that it brought the perfume of roses swirling back with it.
There came a noise from the Great Hall, like the clash of sabres or a mob in the streets. A woman yelled. Dev started to bark.
Belinda dashed out and instinctively recoiled.
The sky was falling: that was her first confused impression. Flashing light, motion, a deafening roar. Then something rattled at her feet, close enough for her to feel the vibrations through the stone flags. Tarnished silver. A naval cutlass.
The display of antique swords was dropping from the wall.
‘Freddy!’ she screamed.
She could only see Nathan, descending the stairs. He pulled back, astonished, as a sword pierced the tread below him.
