Haunted Page 5

  I turned to the parcels to distract myself. Inside the first was an old edition of Jane Austen’s Mansfield Park with a cloth cover and fraying spine. The fragile yellowed pages were covered in neat, almost minuscule print, the letters pressed so tightly together it gave me a headache to look at them. It smelled the way all old books do, of cut grass and worn leather.

  The second parcel contained something small and hard swaddled in tissue paper. It was a faded felt-covered box, and inside was a swirling moonstone brooch in the shape of a flower. It looked too delicate for my world, like it didn’t belong here. I turned it over in my hands, marvelling at its perfect shape. The central milky stone was set in a frame of silver studded with tiny pearls. The brooch was tarnished with age though still beautiful.

  As I admired it, turning it over in my hand, a sudden wave of drowsiness came over me. Soon I could barely keep my eyes open. Perhaps the strain of the day was finally catching up with me.

  Alex will be fine, a voice in my head reassured me. What’s the worst that could happen? Everything will look different in the morning.

  I was too exhausted to argue, so I curled up on top of my duvet, the brooch still in my hand, to close my eyes for just a few minutes. But the moment my head hit the pillow, a wave of sleep washed over me so heavy that I was powerless against it.

  I stand in the dark listening to the sound of my laboured breathing. It takes me a moment to realise my eyes are closed, and when I open them I blink in the white winter sunlight. I’m standing on the doorstep of Grange Hall with the bell only inches from my nose.

  I stagger back a few steps to take in the vast grey manor. Its looming facade soars skyward. The air smells fresh and I see droplets of dew gathered on the petals of lightly perfumed roses. A short distance away, fog rolls at the edge of the woods.

  I shiver and watch my breath unfurl like a wreath of smoke in the frosty air. I glance down to see that I’m wearing a flimsy dress made from a fabric that offers all the warmth of a paper bag. When I lift my hands to my face to warm them with my breath, I notice my fingernails are cut neat and short and some cuticles are ragged. These aren’t my hands. I’m not sure who I am exactly, but I know I’m not myself. These thoughts don’t belong to me. But they are too powerful to ignore and soon Chloe is pushed further and further away until my mind belongs to someone else. I know this is a dream so I decide to go with it, offering no resistance.

  At my feet is a battered old trunk that contains all my worldly possessions. I kneel down and unclasp the latches. There is not much inside: a few items of clothing, a shawl made by my mother, a leather-bound journal, and a letter from my baby sister, Eileen. She was terribly upset to discover I was going away. But we always knew this day would come, right after my fourteenth birthday. Still I do not feel prepared, although I had no other choice. With our father not working, who else will take care of the family if not I, the eldest child?

  The wind hits me from behind, blowing a tumble of rust-coloured curls over my shoulder. Eager to get out of the cold, I ring the brass bell. Its chimes echo through the house. I wait patiently, but the place remains as still as a morgue. I wonder if I have made a mistake about the time and date, but then I hear the brusque rattle of keys in the lock.

  The door swings open and a plump housekeeper stands before me, hands on hips, cheeks like two bright red apples. “You must be the new housemaid,” she says. “Rebecca Burns, is it not?”

  I open my mouth to answer but find I am racked by nerves. It has been a long time since anybody has called me by my full name. At home, I am always Becky. I nod meekly and stare at my shoes, knowing I have already made a poor impression.

  “Don’t just stand there like a stunned rabbit, child,” she continues. “Come inside out of the cold.”

  She ushers me through the doorway and I step into the grand foyer of Grange Hall. It is draughty, with vaulted ceilings and rich furniture I cannot imagine ever sitting upon. Suddenly I feel very shabby, even though my mother hemmed my dress meticulously and polished my shoes until her arms ached.

  “Leave your trunk outside,” the housekeeper instructs. “I shall have it taken up to your room later this morning. I’m Mrs Baxter. If you need anything, you’re to come to me. Don’t go bothering anyone else, do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, Mrs Baxter,” she corrects, her bushy brows arching with disapproval. “Come along then.”

  I scurry after her, up a vast staircase lined with family portraits. I spy one which I assume depicts the master of the house. He is quite a handsome man, although his features are severe and his eyes seem to glower at me. I notice the banister rail is so polished I can see my own reflection. I drop my hand immediately so as not to leave fingerprints.

  “I know it’s a lot to take in,” Mrs Baxter says without turning to look at me. “But if you go about your chores quietly, show respect for your superiors and refrain from gossip, we shall get along just fine.”

  “Will I be meeting the lady of the house today?” I ask.

  “I hardly think so,” she replies, as if I’ve said something amusing. “The mistress has more important things to do than meet the servants. You’ve heard talk about her, I suppose?”

  “Oh, yes! She is admired by all the girls in the village. Although nobody has seen her more than once or twice.”

  Images click through my mind: a veiled face at the window of a luxurious carriage as it sails by, the swish of a silk hem sweeping dusty cobbled streets, a white-gloved hand being kissed by a man on bended knee. I can still hear the girls speaking in hushed tones whenever Mrs Reade’s carriage passed by: “I hear she’s a Spanish noblewoman!” “Mr Reade claims he never met a young woman so accomplished.” “Do you suppose it’s true she has a dress made of emeralds to match her eyes?”

  Mrs Baxter’s voice brings me back to the present. “The mistress rarely goes out these days.” She offers no explanation as to why.

  On the upstairs landing she veers onto a narrower, darker flight of steps that leads to an attic. Once my eyes adjust to the gloom, I look around to see three narrow beds crammed under the sloping ceiling. The room is clean enough but spartan, with very little by way of furnishing. Other than the beds with their flimsy coverlets, there are three rickety bedside tables, each holding a Bible; a cupboard and a washstand. I am merely observing, not complaining. Work is work and I am lucky to have it. It is more than I can say for some of my friends in the village. What will become of them, I wonder, when their fathers are gone and there is no one left to put bread on the table? At Grange Hall, I shall have a roof over my head, a bed of my own and food in my belly every night. I cannot ask for more than that.

  “Here you are.” Mrs Baxter points out the bed that is to be mine. Linen is folded neatly on top of the single lumpy pillow.

  I notice a row of wooden hooks with a maid’s uniform dangling from one peg. “Is that for me, Mrs Baxter?”

  “Don’t ask foolish questions,” she tells me. “Who else might it be for? Now get changed quickly, then come and meet me in the drawing room. I shall expect you there in precisely ten minutes.”

  She is gone before I can tell her I don’t have the faintest idea where the drawing room is.

  I hurriedly wash my face and change, fixing my mob-cap so my unruly curls are well concealed. I fold my dress and place it neatly at the end of the bed. My cheeks are hot despite the chill in the room, so I splash a handful of icy water on my face. Then I scamper downstairs, coming to a breathless halt in front of Mrs Baxter, who is in the foyer holding a tea tray.

  She clicks her tongue and glares at me. “No running in the house! The master won’t stand for it.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs Baxter,” I mumble. “It won’t happen again.”

  “See that it doesn’t.” She pushes the tray into my hands. It is heavier than it looks. “Take this tea into the parlour. The master and mistress are taking their breakfast and we must not keep them waiting any longer.”

&
nbsp; “You want me to do it?” I stammer. “But I thought I was not meeting the mistress today?”

  Mrs Baxter makes a clicking sound with her tongue. “You are not meeting the mistress, you are serving her.”

  I can hardly believe it. Just an hour ago, I was at home in our three-room cottage. Now I am about to be thrust in front of the most noble people I shall ever encounter in my lifetime. I take a deep breath, trying to compose myself, but Mrs Baxter’s hand is on my back, prodding me toward a door on the far left. Before I can say a word, she opens it and propels me inside. It is all I can do not to drop the tray!

  The parlour is bright and inviting, with sunlight spilling through the tall windows and reflecting off a crystal bowl filled with freshly cut roses. They are outshone in beauty only by the young woman sitting in front of them. She cannot be much older than twenty and I think she must be the most elegant creature I have ever laid eyes on. I feel remarkably plain and coarse in comparison.

  Mrs Reade’s lustrous dark locks are piled atop her head and held in place by delicate pearl-studded combs. The sweep of her hair draws attention to her pale, swanlike neck. Her skin is flawless and the pink bloom on her cheeks so perfect it could be the work of an artist’s paintbrush. I cannot tell the colour of her wide, almond-shaped eyes; only that they seem to glitter when the sun catches them. It is little wonder she is the envy of every woman in the county. Her beauty quite literally takes my breath away, although I cannot fail to notice the glum expression on her face. She is gazing out the window at the rainclouds inching their way toward the sun.

  “I simply cannot bear another day of rain!” she declares. Although she is complaining, her voice has the cadence of music. “I wish to go walking or to ride in the woods. It is wretched to be always indoors.”

  Opposite her, Mr Reade is generously buttering a crumpet and studying the newspaper with a grave expression. He cannot yet be thirty, but he seems much older. He is undoubtedly handsome, but fierce-looking. Something warns me to stay out of his way.

  “Sadly, my dear, the weather is beyond the scope of my influence,” he says with a hint of annoyance. “I am not a wizard to command the clouds at will.”

  “Why must you always mock me?” Mrs Reade asks.

  I feel obliged to make my presence known lest I be accused of eavesdropping. I softly clear my throat and they both turn to look at me. I dare not speak, so I offer a wobbly curtsey and begin to unload the tray onto the table.

  Mrs Reade resumes the conversation, seeming to look right through me. “Must you leave for London today?” She pouts as she daintily stirs a lump of sugar into her gold-rimmed cup.

  “I’m afraid so.” Her husband turns the page of his newspaper without looking up. “I have business to attend to. Surely you can find something to entertain you while I am gone.”

  “I do not understand why you will not take me with you.”

  “Because I know you would find it tedious.”

  I can see Mrs Reade does not appreciate being dismissed like this. Her eyes narrow. “What then do you suggest I do with myself?”

  “There is plenty to occupy the mistress of a house such as this. Mrs Baxter will let you know of matters requiring your attention.”

  Mr Reade’s manner is so abrupt it is hard to believe they are newlyweds. His young wife seems to him more of an encumbrance than an asset despite her obvious beauty. I watch her face fall and almost feel sorry for her, until my mind conjures the careworn faces of the village girls I know. Their lives hold problems for which there are no ready solutions, and they will struggle and toil every day through rain or shine until the Lord calls them to Him. What can a woman in Mrs Reade’s position have to complain about? She lives in the lap of luxury, and if her biggest problem is how to fill her day, I daresay she has never known real hardship.

  Her head lifts suddenly and her gaze locks with mine as if she has heard my thoughts. Now I see that her eyes are the most exquisite gold and green, like light falling through a forest. I am acutely aware of my own muddy brown eyes.

  I think I have lingered too long in the parlour. It is the duty of a maid to be unobtrusive; being noticed likely means you are doing something wrong. I make for the door, but unfortunately with too much keenness and accidentally bump Mr Reade’s elbow. He gives a shout and I see with horror that I have caused him to spill hot tea all over his shirtfront.

  The room goes deathly still and silent. Outside in the hall, the grandfather clock chimes the hour …

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The chime of the grandfather clock morphed jarringly into Wham’s “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go”. It took me a second to realise my alarm clock was going off. Heart pounding, I slammed my fist down on it, hoping to recapture the scene I’d just been jolted from.

  The cosy parlour was gone, but the livid look in Carter Reade’s eyes remained emblazoned on my memory. Even though it was just a dream, I felt afraid for Becky and the fate that might befall her. But even more strangely, I felt afraid for myself. I sensed that somehow our lives were inextricably linked, although I had no idea how.

  I lay there for a while longer until I was forced to accept that Grange Hall was gone, for the time being at least, and no amount of willing would bring it back. I couldn’t deny it felt good to be there even in a dream. But the dream had been too vivid for comfort. Who was Rebecca Burns? Was she a figment of my imagination or was I somehow reliving the memories of a real person?

  I noticed with surprise that it was light outside. How long had I been sleeping? I heard the shower running in the bathroom and the TV blaring from the den where Rory was probably not getting dressed for school and not eating any kind of acceptable breakfast. He’d taken to grabbing whatever was in the cupboard, which usually meant a Twinkie with a handful of Doritos.

  I had a feeling I’d heard Rebecca Burns’s name before, only I hadn’t the faintest idea when or where. Alex had certainly never mentioned her, nor had Grandma Fee. But somebody had, I knew that much. The question niggled like a mild toothache at the back of my mind as I washed and changed quickly before going downstairs to pour some cereal. But I was too distracted to eat more than a few mouthfuls. Instead I sat there absorbed in my own thoughts until I felt sure I would drown in them, just like my Cheerios drowned in the milk. I tossed the remnants down the sink and checked my watch to find I was late for school. It wasn’t even eight o’clock and I already felt tired.

  I was heading upstairs to my bedroom when it happened. The moment my hand connected with the banister, the memory came flooding back: “My baby, Becky! He’s not breathing!” The voice was Isobel’s and I’d heard her cry those words in a haunting vision I’d had at Grange Hall. I remembered it like it was yesterday. With a stricken face, she’d come flying down the stairs, clutching to her chest a bundle wrapped in white cloth. She was a mess of tangled hair and huge, glistening eyes. She’d looked past me at someone I couldn’t see and asked for help from … Becky, the young housemaid.

  Remembering the name didn’t lessen my confusion. In fact, I was more confused than ever! Why was I dreaming about Rebecca Burns; or dreaming as her if that was even possible? I didn’t know anything about this girl. It occurred to me that she might have been the person who found the bodies, but I quickly discarded that thought. I couldn’t bear to be shown Alex’s corpse lying there in the library at Grange Hall where he’d been fatally shot.

  Speaking of which, where was Alex? I still had no leads about where he’d disappeared to. He could be in Canada for all I knew.

  Outside, the sun was obnoxiously bright. That was the downside of living in California with its desert climate: when you were in a crappy mood, the sun seemed to make a mockery of you. Just for once it would be nice to have the weather reflect my emotions.

  I made it to school in time for my first class of the day: French. It was my toughest subject by far because Madame Giles was one of those teachers who believed the entire world revolved around her subject. If you dared to show up even thir
ty seconds late, she left you tapping helplessly at the door while she pretended she couldn’t hear you. Madame was always dressed in a tailored pantsuit, with her hair wound up so tight it made the prominent vein on her forehead throb. She had impossibly high standards and was a firm believer in the immersion method, which meant she’d banned all English in her classroom, no exceptions. If you needed to use the bathroom, you’d better be able to ask permission in French. If you’d just eaten a peanut and had a deathly allergy, you’d better be able to call the paramedics in French. If she caught anyone speaking English, she banished them to the library for the remainder of the lesson, where they had to write in French Speaking French will make me fluent one hundred times. Yeah, Madame Giles was a little archaic. But today she’d broken her own golden rule. She was almost ten minutes late.

  I’d been in her French class for two years now and not once had anybody gotten to the classroom before her. Feeling unsettled, I flipped to a random page in my textbook and tried to distract myself by memorising its contents while the other students seized the opportunity to talk.

  My concentration lasted about thirty seconds before my thoughts derailed like a freight train. I was worried about Alex, worried about my dream, worried about my family, and now worried about the fact that it was 8:50 am and our pedantically punctual teacher still hadn’t arrived. It felt like everything in my world had been off-kilter since my mom died. With her gone, my world had crumbled and the things I’d thought important didn’t seem so any more. And since Alex’s disappearance last night, that coil in my chest had grown tighter by the second. Now I felt as if it was strangling my heart.

  I was itching for the lesson to begin just so I’d have something else on which to focus my mind. Finally, I thought, when I heard the classroom door opening. But it wasn’t Madame Giles who entered the room. It was our school principal, Mrs Kaplan, otherwise known as Kraplan by the entire student body. The room fell silent as her heels clacked across the floor. She was dressed in her customary grey garb, which looked about as comfortable as armour.