The Dead of Winter (7 page)

Hodges left my side and moved towards him as Charlotte swept into view, her face pale and confused as she tried to understand what was happening. It was only when she embraced the screaming figure that I realised it was Sir Stephen.

I began to try to speak but the sound of my voice seemed only to intensify his mania and he renewed his terrible shrieking with increased vigour, shielding his face with his arms, staring out between them like a madman. Hodges bade me be still and Charlotte took Sir Stephen away.

‘Take Michael to the morning room and wait for me there,’ she said as she left.

‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Hodges.

I took one last look at my terrified guardian, whose face I could just make out over Charlotte’s shoulder, and then followed Hodges. The screaming rang out along the passageway, following me along, but by the time I reached the staircase it had calmed.

I stood in the morning room with Hodges, not knowing what to do. The door to the hall was open. Other servants went to and fro about their business, glancing at me as they did so, looking up at the stairs and in the direction of the earlier screams. A large portrait hung above the fireplace
showing a stout, square-jawed man. He scowled down at us, as though ready to box our ears for the impertinence of looking at him.

‘Sir Stephen’s father,’ said Hodges, following my gaze.

I marvelled at how different he was from his children. They had clearly inherited their fine features and delicate frames from their mother. I could see nothing of this brutish man in them at all. Within a few moments Charlotte came down.

‘What were you doing there?’ she said quietly as she entered the room, closing the door behind her.

‘I meant no harm,’ I said. ‘I heard …’ But I remembered what Jerwood had said and thought better of saying what I had heard. ‘I was exploring the house, ma’am.’

She smiled and half closed her brilliant blue eyes.

‘Charlotte,’ she corrected. ‘Sir Stephen is not well, Michael.’

‘I’m sorry if –’

She held a finger to her lips to signal silence.

‘You were not to know,’ she said. ‘You are a child and children are inquisitive and irresponsible.’

She said these words without a trace of admonishment. She smiled sweetly as if she were merely
stating the obvious, and I could think of naught to do but nod at my own inquisitiveness and irresponsibility.

‘I can see that you are shocked at my brother’s appearance, but Sir Stephen’s health is precarious. Please do not think badly of him, but please understand that he must not be excited in that way.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I repeated, unable to think of anything else to say.

‘I know you are,’ said Charlotte kindly. ‘It must be very difficult for you. You have been through so much yourself of late. But I must get back to Sir Stephen. He will sleep now, but he will want me to be there when he wakes. We will talk later, Michael.’

Charlotte turned and swished away, her dress slithering across the marble floor. I watched her climb the stairs and then turned to Hodges standing beside me.

‘Come along, Master Michael,’ he said, patting me on the arm. ‘Come and sit with me in the kitchen for a bit, eh? Mr Jerwood asked me to take special care of you while he was away and that’s what I intend to do.’

I followed Hodges into the kitchen, the hot air hitting us in the face as we walked through the door. The kitchen was a different world compared to the chilly gloom of the rest of Hawton Mere: the fire glowed like a setting sun and painted every surface with its golden light.

Servants shared jokes and sang and whistled as they worked. They had created a sanctuary here and I fancied that if I could stay there for the whole of my sojourn at Hawton Mere, then things would not be so very bad. But I knew, just as Hodges knew, that Sir Stephen and Charlotte would never
permit such a thing. I was to be a gentleman now. I could not be allowed to live among servants.

Besides, the servants were too busy to spend time with me. For all his promise to pay special attention to me, Hodges had his duties to perform, which were many and allowed him little time to sit and keep me company. In no time at all I felt as though I was simply in the way and left the kitchen unnoticed.

It was not until I crossed the bridge and left the confines of the shadowy courtyard that I felt the welcome heat of sunlight on my face. But sunshine did not lift the mood of Hawton Mere or the marsh that spread about it. The effect of those great, thick, high walls was still one of overwhelming gravity and gloom, but I found that at least by daylight – and from the outside – it held no special dread for me.

The sun shone out of a pale and dazzling blue sky and I had to squint into the brightness of the day, my eyes having become too accustomed to the dinginess of the house. The frosted marshes twinkled as though scattered with diamonds and sapphires. For the first time I was awake to the possibility that this landscape could be thought beautiful.

The air was clear and the horizon line was as sharply focused as the edge of the moat. I could see for miles. And this seeing for miles gave me the curious sensation of being on show. For though I was alone, the fact that I seemed to be the only living thing out in the open made me feel like a specimen on a dish.

Just as I thought this, I sensed something rushing towards me through the marsh. I heard a whispering gathering strength behind me, but when I turned there was nothing there. Again the whispering at my back, as if something were running towards me through long grass, but again on turning round I saw nothing. Nothing.

I stood in silent bafflement. And the silence was now absolute and just as disturbing in its way as the whispering had been, for it was as though I had become deaf in that instant.

Then I saw movement from the corner of my eye. Blurred movement. White. Something white moving by the house. It flew – no,
fell
. I turned and whatever it was had gone, although the echo of it was still there in my mind’s eye, clinging like a dream on waking.

I ran in that direction. It was the area of the moat under a lichen-covered stone balcony. Had something
fallen from that balcony? Had someone fallen into the moat? I skidded to a halt, staring at the ice.

There was nothing there. Nothing troubled the frozen surface, nor had anything fallen through: the ice lay unbroken all about. Neither had there been a sound of any kind.

Could Jerwood be right after all? Could I really have imagined the woman that night? Grief can damage a mind, he had said. Had grief damaged mine? I suddenly felt less sure of things.

I wandered back to the house in something of a daze. I was about to climb the stairs to investigate which of the upstairs rooms it was that had that balcony when Sir Stephen emerged from the shadows. He must have been standing in front of the mirror he said had held so much terror for him as a child. By the expression on his face, it was not without its terrors now.

‘Michael,’ he said.

His face seemed thinner, if such a thing were possible, his body tense, as though waiting for an explosion. The memory of him screaming like a madman came back and I flinched from him.

‘Sir?’ I answered.

‘I wanted to talk to you about this morning,’ he said.

‘I’m sorry, sir.’ I paused on the steps. His whole body seemed arched towards me as if he were about to pounce. I could not help but back away. ‘I had not meant to … I only heard a noise and …’

He strode over to me so swiftly that I involuntarily recoiled, tripping over in the process.

‘You heard a noise?’ he said. ‘A noise? What noise?’

Each repetition of these words was spoken at increasing volume as he loomed over me, his pale, skeletal fingers clutching at the air between us.

‘Stephen!’ called a voice behind him. It was Charlotte.

Sir Stephen did not move at first. I had assumed he was angry with me, for some unexplained reason, but his expression was not one of anger. Rather it was one of crazed inquisitiveness. He continued to look at me, his face only inches from mine, searching – or appearing to search – for something. But what?

‘Stephen,’ said Charlotte again, ‘you are frightening your guest. I think we have all had a little too much excitement for one day.’

Sir Stephen blinked, his eyes losing their manic sparkle by degrees. His fingers flexed in front of my face and he stepped back, putting his hand to his
temple and straightening himself. I stayed pinned against the panelling on the staircase, happy to keep as much distance between us as possible. Clarence trotted up the stairs to stand beside me, looking at Sir Stephen warily as though he did not know him.

‘I … I … must apologise, Michael,’ said Sir Stephen, without looking at me. ‘Forgive me.’

With that he turned and climbed the stairs, slowly at first, but with a gradually quickening step until by the top step he was almost running. Within seconds he was gone.

I wondered how unhinged my guardian’s mind might be. I was still a little shaken. The way he loomed over me on the stairs – I could believe him to be dangerous. I looked to Charlotte, who was still gazing up towards the top of the stairs. She took a weary breath and then turned to face me. I thought she would be angry that I again seemed to have been the unwitting cause of one of Sir Stephen’s nervous attacks, but I was wrong.

‘Come along, Michael,’ she said, holding out her hand. ‘I know for a fact that Mrs Guston has a large piece of pie left over. You will never taste a better apple pie in all England, I promise you.’

We walked those few steps, Charlotte’s arm
through mine as if we were old friends, and by the time we reached the warmth of the kitchen I was once more at my ease.

‘I’m afraid I have things I must attend to,’ said Charlotte. With that she leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek, which blushed instantly at the touch of her lips.

She smiled at my embarrassment and, without saying another word, turned and walked away, her dress whispering quietly against the floor tiles, like children in a church.

Mrs Guston’s apple pie was every bit as excellent as Charlotte had promised and I confirmed that to the cook herself, who stood over me, hands on hips, while I ate. She turned out to be a very friendly woman indeed, fussing about me and clapping her hands together every now and then, causing small explosions of flour.

‘It’s lovely to have a young lad in the house again, Master Michael,’ she said. ‘There hasn’t been a child in the house since Sir Stephen and Charlotte were youngsters. And me and Hodges along with them.’

‘You have been in the house since you were a child as well, Mrs Guston?’ I asked, taking a swig of milk.

‘Well, since I was about your age,’ she said. ‘My
mother was cook then, and I worked in the kitchen. Mr Hodges was a pageboy for Sir Stephen’s father. There’s a painting of him in the morning room.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’ve seen it.’

Mrs Guston’s tone had changed as she’d mentioned Sir Stephen’s father and her expression soured. It was plain that she hadn’t been at all fond of him and Mrs Guston did not strike me as a person who disliked people without reason. I had the same impression from Hodges. I wondered if the grimness of the house was his legacy.

‘We had some happy times back then,’ said Mrs Guston. ‘We still do on this side of that door.’ She nodded to the kitchen door. ‘But the house has become a sad old place, Michael. It needs children. A house needs children.’

‘Did Sir Stephen and Lady Clarendon not want children?’ I asked.

‘Oh, Lady Margaret was desperate for a child, God rest her soul,’ said Mrs Guston. ‘It’s just a pity that you couldn’t have come here when she was alive. Oh, it was a different place then, Master Michael.’

She had her back to me at this point but I saw her lift a cloth to her eyes and her voice was breaking as she spoke.

‘There’s not a day goes by when I don’t think of her,’ she said. ‘She was the kindest person you could ever meet. But she was too good for this house.’

‘What do you mean?’ I said.

Mrs Guston turned and I saw the tears twinkling in her eyes.

‘Don’t mind me,’ she said. ‘I’m a silly old thing.’ But then her face became serious. Her rosy cheeks seemed suddenly to dim. ‘Nothing will make me understand how she could do it.’

‘Do what, Mrs Guston?’ I said.

‘How she could –’

‘Mrs Guston,’ said Charlotte, coming into the kitchen. Mrs Guston jumped to attention, dropping the cloth and busying herself. ‘Could you make a pot of tea for Sir Stephen?’

‘Of course, ma’am,’ she said.

‘Is everything all right?’ Charlotte asked, looking from the cook to me and then back again.

‘Oh, quite all right, ma’am,’ said the cook. ‘I was chopping onions, is all.’

Charlotte smiled and left. Mrs Guston took a deep breath and smiled at me.

‘Never mind me, sir,’ she said. ‘I’m just a silly old so-and-so. You run along now, Master Michael.’

Sir Stephen did not join Charlotte and me for dinner that evening, but he certainly made an appearance in my dreams that night, looming out of shadows and scuttling up darkened stairways like a hideous insect.

It was starting to feel as though some monstrous joke was being played on me: to have the benefit of a wealthy benefactor, but to find that benefactor seemingly a step away from the madhouse. What good was a guardian who was so deranged? What crazy purpose did he have for me at that house and how long must I wait to discover it?

I breakfasted alone the following morning. Clarence waited for me in the hall now, expecting to be patted before I went into the dining room. I was happy to oblige.

I returned to my room and spent the next few hours leafing through some books I had brought there from the library. I was particularly taken with a book by the famous artist and travel writer Arthur Weybridge, about his adventures in Asia Minor. It was dedicated to his son, Francis, who had died in tragic circumstances on the expedition.

But Francis’s fate notwithstanding, I was enchanted with the wonderful drawings of those exotic locations and the descriptions of what he found there. The Turkish heat seemed to shimmer before my eyes. What a contrast with cold, damp Hawton Mere. It made me yearn to travel.