Chapter Twenty-two

AS DARKNESS FELL, I believed that there would be no possibility that Santina Westerley’s spirit would ever leave me in peace as long as it was allowed to wander in its half-world between life and death. I could survive any number of attacks, and had, but it was surely only a matter of time before she caught me off my guard and achieved her purpose. Would I see her, I wondered, as I departed this world for the next? Would our paths cross for even a moment, as Harriet Bennet’s and mine had at Thorpe Railway Station six weeks earlier? Or would I simply disappear into nothingness while she lay in wait for her next victim?

I wondered whether my predecessors had fought so hard, whether they had succumbed to fear quickly or risen up against their tormentor. Had they fought back? Had they even realized who they were fighting? I thought it unlikely. But still, there was hope for me, for I was certain that I had something that they did not have: a spirit watching over me.

After the attack in the hallway I lay trembling on the ground for I know not how long. Of course I was frightened, but being able to identify who the presence was and why it resented me so badly had taken some of the terror out of these encounters. I understood it at least. Now it was merely a question of survival. But that scent of cinnamon that lingered in the hallway had left me startled, emotional and terribly afraid. I thought of Eustace and his encounters with the old man and it became clear to me at last who my benefactor was.

I wept as I lay there, and felt a distress unlike any that I had suffered since first entering Gaudlin Hall. Was it possible that Father, like Santina Westerley, had not yet departed this earth? Could he really be looking out for me in this terrible place? There seemed to be no other explanation and yet it left me heartsore, imagining his pain and loneliness, his inability to communicate with me. What was it he had said to me when I returned from Cornwall as a child, when he had at last come to terms with Mother’s death? I will always look after you, Eliza. I will keep you safe. Somehow he had managed to connect with Eustace but not with me. I knew not why. Were the souls of the dead in closer communication with the young? I could endure these riddles no longer. I was left with no choice if I was to prevail; I must provoke the ghost into action. I must end this.

When I recovered my senses, I repaired to the writing table in what had once been Mr. Westerley’s study and, opening some drawers, I located a sheaf of notepaper and envelopes headed with the Gaudlin Hall insignia. Drawing one out, I took a quill from the desk and began to write. When I finished I stood in the centre of the room, speaking to the air with all the oratorical might that I could muster, attempting to equal the confidence of Charles Dickens when he addressed his audience in that hallway off Knightsbridge not so long before. I read the letter I had written aloud in a clear voice, enunciating every word so there would be no confusion as to my intentions.

I reached the end of my narration and waited for a moment. I expected fury; there was a slight movement in the curtains but nothing to make me think that the presence had entered the room and was preparing to attack. The movement might just have been the draught. Nevertheless I believed that wherever it was, wherever she was, it would have heard my words and be considering what action to take next.

I slipped the letter inside an envelope and stepped outside into the courtyard, a shawl wrapped around me for the wind had started to rise now. It had grown dark but there was a full moon as I made my way towards the cottage where Heckling lived. His horse was standing inside one of the stables, her great head watching me as I passed, her eyes meeting mine, and I hesitated, remembering how this same horse had been possessed by a devil as it pursued Miss Bennet. I feared that she might break free of her ropes now and chase me down; if she did I did not believe that my chances of survival would be high. But she appeared calm that evening and as I walked past she simply whinnied a little and returned to her hay.

Knocking on the door of the cottage, I regretted not bringing my coat with me for it had grown very cold, and as I stood there, waiting for the door to open, my body trembled. When finally it did, Heckling was standing in his shirtsleeves, lit from behind by a pair of tall candles, an effect which made him seem otherworldly. He did not look best pleased to see me.

“Governess,” he grunted, picking a fleck of tobacco from between his teeth.

“Good evening, Heckling,” I said. “I’m sorry for the lateness of the hour but I have a letter that needs delivering.”

I held it out to him and he took it, peering at it now beneath the light of the moon to read the name. “Mr. Raisin,” he muttered. “Aye, good enough. I’ll see it gets to him first thing in t’morning.”

He moved to go back inside but I stopped him, reaching a hand out to touch his elbow. He turned round, startled by the intimacy of the gesture. For a moment, I thought he was going to strike me and stepped back in fear.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Heckling,” I said. “But this is a most important communication. He will need to see it tonight.”

He stared at me as if he could not quite believe what I had said. “It’s late, Governess,” he said. “I’m only fit for sleep.”

“As I said, I apologize for that. But I’m afraid it can’t be helped. This cannot be delayed. I must ask you to bring it to him immediately.”

He exhaled deeply from the very depths of his chest. I could see that he wanted nothing more than to be left in peace in front of his fireplace, his pipe in his mouth, perhaps a tankard of ale next to him, alone with his thoughts, allowing the world to stand judgement before him.

“Aye,” he said finally. “If it matters that much, then I’ll take it. Am I to wait on a response?”

“Just ensure that he reads it there and then,” I said. “I think his response will be quite immediate. Thank you, Heckling.”

“Aye,” he said, his voice still a grumble as he went back indoors to fetch his boots.

I made my way back to the house and tried the front door but, in attempting to push it open, a force greater than my own pushed against me from the other side. I was being denied access. Above my head, I heard a sound as a gargoyle from the roof of the Hall dislodged itself and spiralled downwards and I was forced to leap out of its way as it tumbled to the ground, its enormous weight of stone smashing into a hundred pieces. As the stones flew up, one caught me in the cheek and made me cry out and I pressed a hand against my skin. No blood had been drawn. Had the gargoyle fallen on me I would doubtless have been killed instantly. But I was not dead. Not yet. I waited, leaning back against the wall as more remnants from the roof fell down to the ground below; Harriet Bennet had been correct, it was in an advanced state of disrepair. When the rain of stones stopped, I turned back to the front door, expecting the force inside to keep me out still, but this time it opened quite easily and I rushed inside, gasping aloud, shutting it behind me, and stood there for a moment, fighting to catch my breath. Was I insane? Was this entire effort a madness? I doubted that I would see daylight again but persevered. Either she or I who could live at Gaudlin Hall but not both of us.

Making my way up the staircase, I entered the children’s dressing room, where a wardrobe and dresser on the left-hand wall contained all of Isabella’s clothes and shoes, while another on the right-hand side contained all of Eustace’s. In the corner stood a couple of suitcases and I chose two at random, filling each with clothes belonging to one of the children.

“What are you doing?” asked a voice from behind me and I spun round in fright to find Isabella and Eustace standing there in their nightclothes, roused from their beds, holding a candle between them.

“She’s leaving us,” said Eustace in a tearful voice, leaning into his sister for consolation. “I said she would.”

“What a shame,” replied Isabella. “But she’s done well to last this long, don’t you think?”

“I’m not leaving you, my darling boy,” I said, coming over towards him and taking his face in my hands and kissing it lightly. “I’ll never leave you, either of you, do you understand that?”

“Then why are you packing?”

“She’s not packing her clothes, Eustace,” said Isabella, stepping into the room and looking at what was in the suitcases. “Can’t you see? She’s packing ours.” She frowned for a moment and looked back at me. “But this doesn’t make sense,” she said finally. “Are we being sent away? You know that we can’t leave Gaudlin Hall, don’t you? We’re not allowed to leave. She won’t let us.”

“She being who?” I asked, challenging her directly now.

“Why, Mama of course,” said Isabella with a shrug, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “She can only take care of us here.”

“Your mama is dead,” I cried, taking her by the shoulders and shaking her in my frustration. A shadow of a smile crossed her lips. “You understand that, don’t you, Isabella? She can’t take care of you now. But I can. I’m alive.”

“She won’t like it,” said Isabella, pulling away from me and retreating to the doorway, followed quickly by her brother. “I’ll not go with you, Eliza Caine, no matter what you say. And neither will Eustace. Isn’t that right, Eustace?”

He looked from one of us to the other, uncertain where his loyalties lay. But I had no time for this; after all, I had no intention of taking the children away from Gaudlin Hall. I simply needed it to look as if I was. I needed her to believe that that was my plan.

“Go to bed, both of you,” I said, waving my hand to dismiss them. “I’ll come in to talk to you soon.”

“All right then,” said Isabella, smiling at me. “But it won’t do you any good. We won’t leave.”

They went back to their bedrooms and shut their doors and I stood in the dark hallway, breathing carefully, allowing my body to relax for a moment.

As soon as I did so a pair of cold hands surrounded my throat and I opened my eyes wide in fright as I was pushed to the ground. I could feel a body on top of me, an extraordinary weight, but no physical presence could be seen in the hallway. It was dark, of course, there was just one candle lit on the wall halfway down the corridor, but I knew that it could have been as bright as noon-time on a summer’s day and I would see no one, there would just be me lying on the floor, my face contorting, my hands scrambling in the air as I tried to release myself from the monster’s grip.

I tried to call for help but words would not come and the legs of the body atop my own straddled me, a knee forcing itself into my abdomen and sending a horrible shooting pain through my chest. I thought that it might cut directly through me, split my body in half, and wondered whether this was the moment of my death as the hands closed tighter and tighter round my throat, cutting off my breathing, making the world grow darker and darker.

A great sound above me, a roar of disapproval, and the presence was wrenched from me and I heard a scream, a woman’s scream, as the second spirit pushed her to the wall and then a great tumble as she was thrown over the banisters; the sound of a body falling down the stairs was clearly audible to me, and then silence, total silence.

And with it, that scent of cinnamon in the air. I could resist asking no longer.

“Father?” I cried out. “Father, are you there? Father, can it be you?”

But now all was silence again. It was as if neither spirit was present. I coughed repeatedly, trying to clear my throat, but it was terribly sore, as was my chest. I wondered whether she had ruptured something inside me, whether even now the blood was pouring from some sacred vessel within and preparing to haemorrhage and take my life. But there was nothing I could do about that now. I left the children’s suitcases on the landing and made my way upstairs to my own room.

The walls on my corridor were lined with paintings and as I began to walk they lifted from their hooks, one by one, and crashed to the floor, making me scream and run faster. One flew directly at me, missing me by inches, and I ran ahead, flinging open the door and pulling it closed behind me, trying not to think about how little difference this would make; the presence did not worry about doors, after all. She might be in here already. She might be waiting for me.

But inside the room, all was quiet. I suffered another fit of coughing and, when it passed, sat on the bed, considering what I should do next. I was relying on one thing. That the presence would attack me so violently that the second spirit, my own father, would bring her actions to an end. I did not even know if it was possible. She had been killed once and lingered on; perhaps she could not be killed again. Perhaps she was an immortal now. How did I even know that Father was stronger than her?

A great roar lifted the window from its moorings, throwing it out of the house entirely and sending it crashing from the second floor to the ground below, the sound of the glass breaking into a thousand pieces competing with the noise of the wind and the scream that emerged from my mouth. My room was now exposed to the elements. I ran to the door, attempting to leave, but was pushed backwards, sandwiched now between two presences, Santina’s ghost before me, my father’s behind. I cried out, trying to wrestle my way free, but they were too strong for me, their strength was not a human strength at all, but being the weakest of the three I somehow managed to slip down between their bodies and make my way to the door, rushing through it and slamming it behind me. Outside, the corridor was a wreck. The paintings were all smashed upon the ground, the carpet had been lifted from the floor and twisted and torn into shreds. The wallpaper was peeling, the rotting damp swell of the stone leaking some type of primordial ooze down the walls behind. She had grown furious, I realized, because of my refusal to die and was preparing to destroy everything. If my plan had been to provoke her to a fury, I had certainly succeeded. I ran to the end of the corridor, opening the door, uncertain where I might go next.

I was faced with the two staircases.

The first led to the roof, an unsafe place for me to venture, the second to Mr. Westerley’s room. I cried out in pity. I should never have gone this way. I should have made my way back downstairs and out to the courtyard. The presence was at her most effective, her most virulent in the house. The further away I was, the safer I would be. I looked back at my bedroom door, from where I could hear a great roar, a scream of fighting, but I sensed that if I passed it again, she would know and I would find myself within the centre of a great complaint from which I might never be released alive. And so I turned round, made a sudden decision, and climbed the staircase, pulling open the door at the top and quickly slamming it shut behind me.