The Ghost of Crutchfield Hall (12 page)

“The tea,” Aunt called to me from the top of the stairs. “You were to tell Nellie to bring tea and stoke the fire! Why are you still lingering on the stairs? Have you no sense? Do you not care what happens to James?”

Without answering, I ran to the kitchen and found Nellie scrubbing the kitchen floor. “Quick,” I said. “Fix a good, hot fire in James's room, and bring hot tea for him.”

Nellie wiped her small red hands on her apron. “What's happened, miss?”

“Never you mind,” Mrs. Dawson said. “Fetch the coal.”

“Yes'm.” Nellie ran to the scullery.

Mrs. Dawson looked at me. “I knew there'd be trouble today. It was her, wasn't it? Causing mischief like she used to.”

Before I could answer, she said, “No, don't tell me. I don't want to know.” Grabbing a tray, she added, “Run along. I'll bring the tea.”

I left Mrs. Dawson in the kitchen and slowly climbed the stairs. Poor Sophia. Poor pitiful, sad Sophia. Had she gone uncomforted to her grave? I thought of her tombstone, already tilting over her grave, her name, her birth and death dates. What a short life. What an unhappy life.

Anxious to escape my thoughts, I went to James's room. Uncle had gotten him into bed and heaped blankets over him. “More coal on the fire,” he barked at Nellie. “Build it up and drive away the chill.”

As I approached the bed, Aunt took my arm. “What are you doing here? Your presence is not required.”

As she began to usher me to the door, James stopped her with a cry. “Please let Florence stay,” he begged. “Please.”

“Hasn't she caused enough mischief already?” Aunt asked.

Pushing Uncle's hands away, James sat up in bed. “I tell you, this is Sophia's fault.
She
made Florence and me go to the roof.
She
wanted—”

“Nonsense!” Aunt exclaimed. “Sophia rests in peace as do all the dead. No one returns from the grave. It is heresy to think so.”

Uncle gazed at his sister, his face solemn. “You heard what Samuel Spratt said, Eugenie. Perhaps there is some truth in this talk.”

“Are you mad, brother?” Aunt tightened her grip on my arm. “The boy is ill, the girl is a liar, and Samuel Spratt is a superstitious, ignorant old man.”

“Please, Aunt,” I said. “You're hurting me.”

“Release Florence,” Uncle said. “James wishes her to stay.”

“Then
I
shall depart!” With that, Aunt left the room in such haste that she almost bumped into Mrs. Dawson, who had chosen that moment to appear with the tea tray.

Mrs. Dawson set the tray down and beckoned to Nellie. “Come—you left the kitchen floor half scrubbed.”

Touching Uncle's hand as she passed, Nellie whispered, “I ain't seen her, master, but she be here a-watching us all.”

Uncle nodded. “Yes, my dear,” he said softly. “I'm beginning to believe my niece haunts this house. There have been times when I . . .” His voice trailed off and he gazed into the fire. “Even Mr. Dickens believed in ghosts, I daresay. And Shakespeare, too. Who is to say what is real and what is not?”

Nellie glanced about fearfully. “Don't be saying too much about spirits, sir. Some folks say talking of the dead brings them out of their graves and into a house. They wants a warm place, too, I expect. The burial ground be powerful cold.”

“That's quite enough, Nellie.” Mrs. Dawson took the girl's arm and led her toward the door. “Beg your pardon, sir. We're all a bit unsettled.”

“It's perfectly all right, Dawson.” His face thoughtful, Uncle leaned back in his chair and watched Nellie follow Mrs. Dawson out of the room.

For a while we all sat in silence, drinking our tea and staring into the fire.

At last Uncle spoke. “Did not Mr. Shakespeare say ‘There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy, Horatio'—or something to that effect?”

“In
Hamlet,
” I said. “After the ghost of Hamlet's father came to say he was murdered.”

Uncle looked at me, pleased. “You've read Shakespeare, have you?”

“A few plays,” I said. “I didn't completely understand them, so I plan to read them again when I'm older and know more about life.”

Uncle chuckled. “What fun a governess will have with you and James.”

James frowned as if he did not like the change of subject. “What we told you is true, Uncle. Sophia forced me to go to the roof.”

“She thought she could change the past,” I said. “She wanted James to fall and die so she could live.”

“But it happened exactly the same way it did before,” James said. “Sophia fell and I didn't.”

“She's jealous of James,” I said, “and she always has been. She thinks no one loved her.” I paused and stared into the darkness beyond the firelight, wondering if Sophia was there now, listening. Overcome with pity, I dropped my voice to a whisper. “Sophia's very lonely. And very sad.”

Uncle sighed. “I hope our loneliness and sorrow does not follow us to the grave and torment us there as it did in life. I've always thought of death as a release from mortal cares, but if what you say is true, my dear Florence, my philosophy, like Horatio's, must be reexamined.”

Our conversation was interrupted by a knock on the door, followed by the entrance of Dr. Fielding. His face was ruddy from the cold, and the fresh smell of a winter evening clung to him.

“Well, well, young man,” he said to James. “I understand you've been so foolish as to venture onto the roof again.”

“It wasn't my idea,” James began, but stopped when Uncle shook his head and frowned at him.

“Not your idea?” Dr. Fielding looked at him inquisitively.

James interested himself in the loose thread in his blanket, plucking at it to avoid looking at the doctor.

“It was my idea,” I said quickly. “I wanted to see the place where Sophia fell, but I didn't expect James to climb up on the roof. I thought he would point from the window.”

Dr. Fielding looked at me as if he'd noticed me for the first time. “So you followed him in case he needed rescuing?”

“Yes, sir.” My cheeks burned with shame at telling a lie.

Turning to Uncle, Dr. Fielding said, “The girl bears an amazing resemblance to Sophia.”

“Physically, yes,” Uncle said. “But she is of an entirely different temperament.”

A look passed between the two men, and Dr. Fielding took a seat on the edge of the bed. Taking James's wrist, he felt his pulse. “Quite normal,” he said. “How do you feel?”

“I feel surprisingly well, sir, though a bit tired from so much exertion.”

Dr. Fielding listened to James's chest with his stethoscope, examined his throat, and finally leaned back with a smile and pronounced him much improved.

“Although I do not recommend doing it again, I must say, climbing the roof seems to have been good for you.”

“I have no intention of doing it again, sir,” said James.

“I am very glad to hear it,” Uncle said.

Dr. Fielding nodded in agreement. “I suggest a day of rest tomorrow. Your aunt and uncle should watch for signs of a chill or some other adverse reaction to today's activities.”

“Would it be possible for me to rest downstairs in the sitting room?” James asked. “I've grown weary of my bedroom.”

“That's a splendid suggestion,” said Uncle. “Do you give your permission, Fielding?”

“Wholeheartedly. James has spent entirely too much time in bed. Hopefully he'll soon be outside playing in the garden with Florence.” Dr. Fielding patted James on the head. “But stay warm.”

Uncle kissed James and left the room with Dr. Fielding. Alone, James and I sat on the bed and gazed at the fire. Outside, the wind blew harder. The snow seemed to have turned to ice from the noise it made striking the windows.

James yawned and snuggled under his covers. “I'm so tired,” he whispered.

Curling up beside him, I peered into the corners where the shadows were darkest. Nothing stirred there. Nothing spoke. The fire murmured, and the sleet rattled the windowpanes. For a moment, I imagined I saw Sophia making her way through the night, her thin form battered by the wind. Slowly she walked, her head down. She paused at the churchyard gate, rimmed in ice now, and looked back as if she could see me from where she stood. Never had I witnessed such unhappiness, such loneliness, such despair.

Gradually Sophia faded out of sight among the crooked rows of tombstones. Moving close to James, I put one arm around him and fell into a deep sleep.

A
WAKENED BY A RAPPING ON
the door, I sat up and stared about me, surprised to find myself in James's room. He lay beside me with eyes closed, breathing peacefully, his face pink with health.

“Miss, are you in there?” Nellie called. “Mrs. Dawson has sent me to fetch you for supper.”

James opened his eyes. “Where is Sophia?” he asked, still groggy from sleep.

“Gone,” I whispered, remembering my vision of her vanishing among the tombstones in the churchyard, defeated forever, I hoped.

“Truly gone?” James looked doubtful.

“She's not here now, I'm certain of it.”

Nellie knocked and called again.

“Who's knocking?” he asked, suddenly fearful.

“It's just Nellie,” I told him.

James rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “You're certain it's not—”

I put my hand gently over his mouth. “Don't say her name.”

“Tell Nellie to come in,” he mumbled.

The girl entered, carrying a coal scuttle as usual. “Beg your pardon, but the fire needs tending,” she said to James. To me, she said, “Be ye coming to supper, miss?”

“I am.” I turned to James. “How about you? Do you feel well enough to join us?”

“If Uncle would be kind enough to carry me down. My legs are a bit shaky still.”

Nellie gave him a shy smile. “It'll be a rare sight to see you at table,” she told James. “Never have ye been out of yer bed since I come here.”

James sat up straighter, a grin on his face. “I hope to be out and about every day, Nellie. I've stayed in this room much too long. There's more to do than lie in bed and read and sleep.”

Nellie turned her attention to the fire. When she'd added coal and stirred it with a poker, she asked James if she should ask Mr. Crutchfield to bring him down to the dining room.

James nodded. “Yes, please, Nellie.”

Cheeks flushed with pleasure, Nellie darted away.

Soon Uncle appeared, a bit breathless from running up the stairs.

“Nellie tells me you wish to dine with us,” he said. “Dr. Fielding advised you to rest, but if you feel strong enough, you jolly well shall join us!”

With a smile, Uncle wrapped James in a blanket and carried him downstairs. As he settled him in a comfortable chair, Aunt shot her brother a disapproving look but said nothing. Without speaking to any of us, she sat quietly, cutting her mutton into small bites, chewing slowly, and pausing now and then for a sip of water.

All around her, Uncle, James, and I talked and laughed and discussed the days that lay ahead. We did not mention the roof. We did not speak Sophia's name.

When Mrs. Dawson came to clear the table, she was humming an old song about wild mountain thyme and blooming heather. She gave us all a cheerful smile and patted James on his head.

“It's right glad I am to see you here, my boy,” she said, “eating your dinner and enjoying yourself. It's as if a dark cloud has lifted and the days ahead will be bright and sunny and you'll play like the lamb you are.”

James ducked his head and looked embarrassed, but I had a feeling he was glad of the happiness in Mrs. Dawson's voice. Glad to be at the table instead of in his lonely room. Glad his sister was gone.

From that night on, James's health improved quickly. Although Dr. Fielding was delighted, he couldn't explain it medically. But he was happy to attribute it to his skill.

Unfortunately, Aunt continued to compare me unfavorably to Sophia, refusing to listen to anyone else's opinion of her niece. She also considered me a bad influence on James.

“He was no trouble while he was sick,” she pointed out with a frequency that quickly became monotonous. “A perfect little angel, he was, before that girl took an interest in him.”

Early that spring, Aunt took it into her head to move to Eastbourne, where she shared a residence with a cousin even more disagreeable than she was—or so Mrs. Dawson claimed. No one missed her. Indeed, we were all glad she was gone.

As he'd promised, Uncle hired a governess for James and me. Miss Amelia was young and pretty and good natured. She made our lessons entertaining, and I found myself enjoying subjects I'd previously disliked. Even mathematics lost its terror.