House of Splinters, page 19
‘It makes a kind of sense to me, to imagine a little girl trapped within this house. After all, what does a bored child do? They torment others, they play tricks. Only this child’s tantrums end in murder.’
Belinda shuddered. Could Hetta hear them, even now? Did their fear amuse her? ‘A child can be appeased,’ she said. ‘She must want something from us. Perhaps she has spent all these years trying to be heard. If we give her what she seeks… she might leave us alone.’
‘A hundred and forty years in the same place,’ Nathan sighed. ‘Personally, I would seek a way out, wouldn’t you? And maybe we are on the point of granting Hetta just that. Once the bones have been examined and buried… if they are her remains… she might find peace at last.’
Belinda rubbed her forehead. She could not gamble her children’s safety on a maybe; she had to be sure. But what could she do? Gather up the silent companions and destroy them? After what had happened with Mrs Knowles, she dare not. It might make matters worse. Apparently, the companions could unlock doors. Dislodge weapons. Who knew what else they could do?
Perhaps she ought not to be asking Nathan. She ought to ask her own son. He knew the companion with the basket of roses was Hetta from the start, and he sensed things, just like Tiffany did. All the strange things Freddy had said and done since they arrived at The Bridge came roaring back to her.
Digging in his nightshirt where the skeleton was buried. Bringing the Hetta companion to the gardens because she wanted company. But Freddy was too quick-witted to trust her. Hetta could not hope to use him as Nathan said she had used Tiffany. He would never jump down a well because she told him to. No. He’d got wise to her, hadn’t he, and stopped playing with her soon after Lydia was born. Because he had figured out what she truly desired.
Freedom from this place. It was what he’d said to the coroner. She’s trying to get out.
She remembered Freddy’s dogged insistence that he must protect Lydia. That thistle, snagged across her own belly. Freddy lining up the soldiers around the crib. It all seemed to hang hand in hand with the vile drawing Sawyer had made.
Belinda stifled a gasp. ‘Dear God.’
‘What is it?’ Nathan demanded.
Hetta wanted to get out of the soil, out of the companions. Into something else.
Belinda turned to her brother-in-law, sick to her very core. ‘Nathan… I think Hetta is trying to get inside my baby.’
CHAPTER 19
Sawyer was reading aloud. Wilfred could always tell for her voice changed in performance; her diction improved and the volume increased, as if she had found a different version of herself inside the book. He ought not to begrudge Nathan amusement on his sickbed, but he did.
Through the door, he made out enough words to recognise the novel as The Expedition of Humphry Clinker. Sawyer tittered at something she read and Nathan responded with a bright laugh. Their merriment grated. How could his brother be so blithe, so oblivious to the havoc he’d wrecked?
He entered without warning. Sawyer rose hurriedly to her feet and closed the book. A breeze flicked at the strands of dark hair escaping her cap. The window stood ajar, letting some of the mustiness of the sickroom escape.
Nathan was just about sitting up in bed with cushions supporting him. His untrimmed beard gave him a lopsided appearance. ‘Ah, Wil! Just the fellow I’ve been longing to speak with.’
Wilfred did not return his smile. He was fighting an urge to throttle his brother where he sat. But Nathan had always been overeager, like a puppy. Even after Roberts died, he hadn’t been able to understand why Wilfred wasn’t delighted with his work. ‘Will you excuse us, Sawyer?’
She nodded and trotted off. At least she had been reading from Tobias Smollett and not Anne Bainbridge’s diary. She was generally a rational woman, he could not imagine her encouraging these ghost stories, but he couldn’t be sure. Divided as her loyalties were between Belinda and Nathan at present, and with staying awake for long hours at night, her good sense might succumb. He would have to take her aside at some point and establish her views.
He sat down heavily in the chair beside Nathan’s bed. ‘You need to stop.’
Nathan frowned, startled. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You know precisely what I mean, Nathan. I need you to stop feeding Belinda this nonsense about ghouls. The poor girl is afraid of her own shadow! You cannot comprehend the damage you are doing to her nerves. She thinks every little thing that happens in this house bears some link to the witch’s diaries. You are making her unwell. Please stop.’
Nathan parted his dry lips as if to defend himself. Then he closed them again, lowering his eyes to the bedclothes. ‘Upon my word, I’m sorry, Wil. The last thing I want to do is harm Belinda. But I have not lied to her. You seem to think I’m weaving stories for my own amusement. I assure you that is not the case.’
‘You believe The Bridge to be haunted?’ He raised his brows sceptically. ‘Have you laudanum dreams?’
‘Damn it, Wil, why can’t you open your mind? Even the old man was convinced there was something odd here. He wrote practically begging me to come home and save you from the evil spirits!’
Wilfred stared at him. Those letters from the holy men: they had not been prompted by religious curiosity as Knowles had suggested. ‘You did not tell me that.’
‘I was going to, before this happened.’ Nathan gestured, frustrated, at his propped-up leg. ‘But, like you, I was sceptical. It was those swords falling that finally convinced me. The old man said this wasn’t a safe house for your children, and he was right. Imagine if I hadn’t been coming down those stairs, right at that moment!’
Wilfred could not bring himself to imagine. Even the thought was agony. ‘And I’m more grateful to you than I can ever say. But Nathan…’ He searched his brother’s face. ‘How can you believe a ghost brought those swords down from the wall? It was simple wear and tear!’
‘Or a curse at work, after your decision to cut down the Hanging Oak.’
‘Bosh! You must not set any store by what our father wrote, the poor fellow was a dotard by the end. And The Bridge is an old lady. Her skin is sagging upon her bones, and she requires much tending, but she is not swimming with malevolent entities.’
Nathan returned his gaze levelly, undaunted. ‘Tiffany would beg to differ. Now that I think back on all she used to say—’
‘You know I loved Tiffany,’ Wilfred interrupted. ‘I would never wish to speak harshly of her, but…’ He steepled his fingers, sighed. ‘She was simple, Nathan. We must admit that fact. You could not take her prattling to heart.’
Nathan’s jaw set. ‘You never did. You didn’t listen to our sister, you could not even remember the name of her imaginary friend. And you are not listening to your wife now. How many people have to say this house is haunted before you truly hear it?’
‘I am listening. I am simply declining to agree.’
Nathan screwed up the sheets in his hands. ‘But… you know, better than anyone, why our family deserves to be punished from beyond the grave. We killed him, Wil,’ he whispered, anguished. ‘Aside from all the rest – the house’s history, the witch and the silent companions – there is that. We killed Roberts. You cannot deny it. Aren’t… aren’t you ever afraid?’
Wilfred was always afraid of divine judgement. That was why he worked so hard to make everything perfect and everyone happy. But Nathan did not want to hear about his moral struggles. He wanted reassurance from his big brother. ‘No. Nothing that has happened here has pointed to Roberts,’ Wilfred said honestly. ‘I will admit there are unpleasant reminders around the place of the girl Henrietta Maria, but he – he is certainly gone.’
Nathan turned his face towards the window, closed his eyes against the touch of the sun upon his skin. After a moment of silence, he said, ‘Listen, if Belinda really is ill, you ought to take her away for a spell. The children too. Poor Freddy has suffered a shock. Get them down to the sea before the weather turns again. Or I hear Bath is lovely this time of year?’
Wilfred groaned. ‘I wish it were in my power. You forget about the harvest – if there is much of a harvest to oversee, this year. The villagers are fractious, they need to be kept in line. And there are other obligations…’
‘You are too conscientious. Leave me as your deputy,’ Nathan urged. ‘You say the villagers hate me, but it is you they’ve acted against in destroying your fences. Maybe they’d welcome a change of management. I do not even have to deal with them directly, do I? I can keep an eye on things from afar. Just for a week or two.’
Wilfred’s eyes slid away from his brother’s. Even if the thing were possible, he wouldn’t be able to bring himself to do it. The mere concept of handing the reins to someone else filled him with panic. It felt like passing Lydia over to the care of a schoolgirl. Especially now Knowles was not fully up to scratch.
‘That’s kind of you, dear chap, but I can’t spare the blunt for a holiday. I really can’t. I bought Freddy his own pony before all this mess began. And then there’s the expense of the funeral for Mrs Knowles, repairing the Great Hall…’
Nathan shook his head. ‘It’s a pity. A damned pity. A change of scenery would do you all the world of good.’
‘We have only been here for a few months. We are not travellers like you, The Bridge is still novel enough for us.’ Wilfred shot him a sly smile. ‘Besides, what kind of man would I be to leave my brother all alone in a haunted house?’
Nathan did not catch at the jest as he expected but looked pained. ‘I am always haunted by what I have done,’ he replied sadly. ‘What can ghosts possibly do to me?’
*
The lamp shook in Belinda’s hand as she walked, showing confused flashes of red flock wallpaper. Sweat slicked her nightgown to her skin. Wilfred had said not to wake him, so she didn’t. But she could not go back to sleep.
The dream had come with vivid colour and clarity, more real than this moonlit corridor seemed to be. She could swear she had seen Lydia lying on her back in the thistle patch, kicking her tiny legs. Every detail had been correct, from the bright wisps of her hair to her upturned nose and the delicate blue web of veins at her temple. Belinda had smelt her baby scent, felt the sun upon her own skin and heard sparrows cheeping. It had almost been pleasant. Until it happened.
A cloud had moved across the sky and dimmed the light. The chill followed instantly. A shadow spread like frost across her child. A shadow in the shape of the Hetta companion.
Lydia had grizzled but Belinda could not reach her, could not brush off the ants that began to swarm over her plump flesh. Only they weren’t insects. Not on closer inspection. What marched like a row of ants was underneath the baby’s skin.
Splinters.
Belinda refused to close her eyes again until she’d established it wasn’t true. Only when she’d inspected every inch of her daughter would her heart slow down. The nursemaids might think her hysterical and Wilfred would certainly be appalled, but she did not care. They had not seen it.
Reality didn’t feel much safer than the dream. Nothing but love for her children would send Belinda through this house in the dark now. The atmosphere was always unsettled, but at night the air felt too thin, not heavy enough to bear the weight of what pushed back from the other side.
As she stumbled down the staircase, she heard a soft tread. The whisper of fabric below. Her throat closed. Could it be Nathan’s dog, wandering around? No; there was a light shuddering in the darkness. Behind it loomed something tall, thin and pale.
‘Mrs Bainbridge?’ She flinched at the voice, so loud in the quiet house. Rebecca. She had not recognised Freddy’s nursemaid in a nightgown and cap. Both of them resembled phantoms. ‘I was just coming to fetch you, madam.’
Belinda drew closer, her lamp gilding Rebecca’s narrow face. The perplexity and alarm she read there made her stomach plummet. ‘I knew something was wrong! Oh, God, is it Lydia? Is she sick?’
‘No, madam. No one is ill. It’s…’ She paused, not so much nervous as confused. ‘It’s Master Freddy. He… well, I think it’s best if you come and see.’
Sick with dread, Belinda followed her into the nursery where the nightlights shone, holding the darkness back. The first thing she saw was the bassinette, swaying gently back and forth, although there was no hand to push it. The yellow curtains cast an aureole over Lydia’s sleeping face. Safe. Relief washed through her.
But Freddy was sitting cross-legged on his bed. His eyes were squeezed shut and he had a finger pressed against his lips. Amy knelt beside him on the floor, murmuring earnestly in a low voice.
It was then that Belinda noticed the golden curls spread over the pillow. Freddy’s hair had been cut and not cut well. It looked as if someone had picked up great hanks of it and sliced at random.
‘What on earth happened?’ she cried.
Amy raised troubled eyes to hers. ‘I don’t know, madam. He won’t talk to me. He was like this when I woke up to feed the baby.’
‘I have told him he’s not in trouble,’ Rebecca added. ‘No one is angry with him. But I don’t understand how he’d do it, without me hearing! Or where he would find scissors in the first place? There aren’t any sharp objects about the nursery, madam, and the door was locked – I’ve locked it each night since you told me he walked in his sleep.’
Amy rose and moved away to make room for Belinda.
‘Darling!’ she cried, sitting beside her son. ‘Darling, what happened? You can tell Mamma. Did you… did you do this yourself?’ Slowly, he shook his cropped head. It certainly looked as though a child had done it. But the execution was too intricate. Freddy could not possibly unlock a door, find a pair of scissors, use them, put them away and then lock the door again, all in his sleep. ‘Then who did?’ she whispered.
Freddy’s chest hitched. ‘I just… I was just trying to protect Lydia,’ he wept. ‘I wanted to keep her safe, and then she…’ He broke down in sobs.
Belinda gathered the boy in her arms, tried not to let him feel how hard she was shaking. Lines from Anne Bainbridge’s diary came bursting into her head. A description of Hetta in the garden with her pruning scissors. By her side I heard the little scissors going snip, snip. Cutting nothing. Cutting air.
Such things should not be possible. But what other explanation did she have?
She shot an anxious look towards Lydia’s crib. Saw the change. There was no air left in the room.
‘Who in God’s name put that there?’ she demanded. The nursemaids turned, baffled. ‘That was not there when I entered the room!’
It seemed to have disappeared in the commotion of the falling swords, but now the Hetta companion was back, propped against the yellow wall, its shadow looming large and triumphant across Belinda’s sleeping baby.
Just like in the dream.
CHAPTER 20
‘He could have done it himself,’ Sawyer argued. ‘He’s nifty in his sleep. He managed to get past me, all through the house and out into the gardens, didn’t he? Any other child would have fallen down the stairs, but not Master Freddy.’ She took a pinch of snuff. ‘And if an adult had cut his hair, they would have done it… better.’ A small giggle erupted from her lips. She bit it back, mortified. ‘I’m sorry. I know it’s not funny.’
Belinda stared at her. The maid was not quite herself this morning; she was twitchy, verging on hysterical. That seemed to happen to everyone when Belinda spoke of unnerving events. At the prospect of the supernatural, everyone’s character warped and rippled, unsteady as a reflection in a pond.
They were closeted together in Nathan’s room. He was still confined to the bed with its elaborately carved posts, while Belinda perched on the edge of a chair, Lydia sleeping in her arms. Sawyer hovered about like a restless spirit, folding a sheet here, dusting a surface there and doing a thousand other little things that did not really need to be done.
Belinda turned to Nathan. ‘But you believe me, don’t you? This incident cannot simply be brushed aside.’
‘I am forbidden from saying a word about it,’ he protested. ‘Wilfred has accused me of unsettling you. He thinks the idea of a haunting only entered your head because I put it there.’
‘Wilfred is not here,’ she pointed out. He had taken Freddy into Torbury St Jude to get a proper barbering. ‘He will never know. And besides, he is wrong. Wilfully wrong. He saw Mrs Knowles take the Hetta companion to the attic. Yet when I showed him it was back in the nursery, all he could say was that it must be one of a pair.’
Nathan rolled his shoulders. ‘Well, he is not being entirely unreasonable in that. Some of the companions do come in pairs, one for either side of the fire.’
She felt as if she was losing her mind. Now she had what felt like irrefutable proof, fewer people than ever agreed with her. She had not wanted to believe it. But Nathan had shown her the diary and now he was drawing back, leaving her alone and isolated in her fear.
‘You must admit, ma’am, it is a little too absurd, to propose a wooden board could cut Master Freddy’s hair?’ Another hectic laugh began but Sawyer raised a hand to her mouth and smothered it, moving away rapidly to the chest of drawers.
Belinda was hurt. ‘I am not pulling this out of thin air.’ She struggled to keep her voice low, so as not to wake Lydia. ‘A child’s skeleton was found in our very garden. And you have read the diaries now, Sawyer.’
‘I did read them, ma’am,’ she admitted, opening a drawer and refolding the contents. ‘They were dreadful things, and no one’s denying horrible events took place in this house. But they were only one lady’s reflections, ma’am. Maybe it was all true for her, but it doesn’t mean it was the truth.’
‘Miss Sawyer is of the opinion,’ Nathan explained, ‘that perhaps Anne Bainbridge is not what they would call a reliable witness.’
Belinda was incredulous. ‘Do you think she was insane?’
‘From the way she writes, I’d say Anne Bainbridge was as mad as a box of frogs!’ Sawyer burst out. The words seemed to have said themselves. All at once her face was panicked, contrite. ‘I’m – I’m sorry, ma’am. I am out of sorts today. I’ll – I’ll go and make us all some tea, shall I?’
