Parting the Veil by Paulette Kennedy
CHAPTER 21
Tap, tap, tap.
Eliza gasped, panic seizing in her chest as she woke. She blinked and looked about the room, wavering lines of color shimmering in front of her eyes. The laudanum she’d taken hours before still clouded her senses, making the shadows wickedly long—the silhouette of the stag’s head above the mantel loomed like a manitou.
Malcolm was gone to Southampton, his side of the bed cold and empty. Lately, especially at night, every wall seemed to breathe and move. An unsettling sense of being watched haunted her in the small hours—a feeling of being stalked like prey.
Even though she didn’t want to believe Lydia, even though the possibility of spirits went against everything in her skeptical nature, as the night stretched onward, it went from absurd to entirely plausible.
The knocking came again.
Fear filled Eliza’s mouth with metal. Whatever it was, it was now above her. And this time, as she watched, a dark shadow skittered over the plasterwork, crawling as quickly as a many-legged insect over the laughing mouths of the frolicking cherubs. Eliza felt for the lamp next to her bed, a whimper escaping her lips. She turned the key, gas hissing through the jets before it ignited. Finally, thankfully, the spark caught, and the room was bathed in soft yellow light.
She lay in bed, frozen in place. Waiting. Listening.
But there was nothing more.
Unable to sleep, she rose and paced about the room for over an hour, her ears pricking at every sound until exhaustion overtook her. She turned down the lights and climbed back beneath the covers. As she was creeping toward the fringes of sleep, she felt Malcolm turn the covers back next to her.
“I’m so happy you’ve returned, my love . . .” She smiled and reached for him, hungry for his embrace, but felt only the smoothness of the linen sheets next to her. She opened her eyes.
There was no one there.
But she could feel something there, looking at her.
Something cold, brittle, and faceless.
With horror, Eliza watched as the frigid darkness next to her bed grew deeper and began to take form. An icy wash of panic scalded her throat as a sudden cacophony of tapping began all around her. She ran down the stairs and banged on Mrs. Duncan’s door. “Shirley, please! Open up. There’s a ghost in my room!”
“I didnae want to tell ye, mum,” Shirley said, holding Eliza’s trembling hand in her own. “I was afraid to say anything. His lordship bid me not to.”
“His lordship doesn’t want to tell me anything, it seems,” Eliza said. She rested her forehead on her hand. Mon Dieu, how her head pounded. “I’ve never believed in such things. My sister tried to tell me about evil spirits. I thought she was being silly.”
“If I may, it might bring comfort to know this particular spirit is nae evil. Just a bit . . . lost.”
“What do you mean?”
“Sometimes a soul gets confused, especially if they were wrenched out of this world unexpectedly. Now, I’ve never seen anything meself, but I’ve felt things. A sadness. It hangs over this house at times. Not always. Things only get a bit stirred up, like the dust in quiet corners, and the veil parts a wee bit. You seem to be the one doing the stirring this time.”
Eliza thought for a moment, remembering the first night she’d visited Havenwood Manor and the inexplicable sense of loss she’d felt. “Yes, I think I know what you mean. I’ve felt the sadness you speak of, only I’d no idea why.”
“This spirit must feel a kinship to ye, m’lady.”
“Then why couldn’t it be kinder about telling me? Instead of rapping all over the walls and staring at me in my bed? I don’t know if I have the fortitude for communion with spirits. The only sort of spirits I fancy come in a bottle.” She dug her fingers through her hair, tugging at her tight scalp. “I could certainly do with a drink right now.”
Shirley winked. “I’ve a wee flask, just here in my dresser. I sneak a tipple of your husband’s fine Oban whisky now and again.”
Eliza gave a conspiratorial grin. “Care to share?”
Muzzy-headed, both inside and out, Eliza woke in Shirley’s narrow bed, her neck stiff from the lumpy pillows and hard mattress. The little housekeeper had already gone from the darkened, tiny room—her cheerful banter rippling from the kitchen.
Eliza crept into the great hall, ducking to the side of the stairs as Malcolm walked out onto the landing. So, he had come home early after all. The dressing-down she’d receive if he found she’d spent the night in Shirley’s quarters was something neither her head nor her nerves could bear at the moment.
“Good morning, Turner.” Malcolm’s voice was boisterous, excited. “I’ve news for her ladyship. Please go upstairs and wake her. I’d have her company at breakfast before I go.”
Merde.
“Very good, m’lord.”
Eliza listened as Turner trudged up the stairs. She waited for his knock on her door, hoping he wouldn’t turn to look back over the gallery, and tiptoed through the open foyer to the library, careful to avoid crossing in front of the morning room. She peeked through a crack in the pocket doors and saw Turner walk across the landing and back down the stairs.
“I’m afraid her ladyship is not in her chambers, sir,” he called, the hint of concern in his voice endearing.
“What?” Malcolm asked, incredulous.
Eliza pushed through the doorway, pulling her dressing gown tight over her nightdress. She glanced at herself in the full-length mirror in the foyer, and immediately wished she hadn’t. She looked like a sea witch—her hair standing out from her head in tangled, ropy knots.
“I’m here, husband,” she called, sweeping into the morning room. “I was in the library. I’d no idea you were already home.”
“Oh?” Malcolm turned in his chair at the sound of her voice, his eyebrows arching skyward when he saw her. “Oh, my.”
“I regret my appearance isn’t to your liking . . . I did not sleep well.”
“I can see,” he said, his eyes trailing over her messy curls and the puffy circles beneath her eyes. A single feather floated to the floor, garnered, no doubt, from Shirley’s sad pillow. “Well. At any rate, please join me.”
Eliza sat at the breakfast table and fiddled with the crocheted doily at its center, relieved when Shirley swung through with coffee and a steaming plate of scrambled eggs. She gave a sly smile to Eliza before going back to the kitchen.
“I thought I’d share the good news. Work on the south wing will begin this very week.” Malcolm beamed. “I hope you’re as excited as I am.”
“Certainly,” Eliza said. “It will be good to have full use of the house.”
“Well . . .” Malcolm’s lips pursed.
“What?”
“It’s quite a lot to open up the entire house. More than Mrs. Duncan can handle on her own.”
“Then we should hire more staff. Mrs. Duncan is overworked as it is, being both cook and housekeeper. There’s plenty of room in the maids’ barracks for at least two chambermaids. And while we’re at it, we should look into remodeling the servants’ quarters.”
“That’s being overly charitable, wouldn’t you say?”
“What would be wrong with a bit of charity? A well-cared-for staff is better suited to serving their masters, don’t you think? Have you seen the state of their mattresses?”
“Yes, but all of that business gets expensive, darling.”
“Right.” Eliza bit the inside of her cheek. Her eyes went to the suit Malcolm was wearing—one she’d never seen before, his pinstriped trousers at the height of fashion. “New suit, husband?”
“Yes, do you like it? I visited the tailor when I was in Southampton. I’ve had it on order and had the final fitting yesterday.”
“I’d imagine a fine bespoke suit is much more important than comfortable quarters for our staff, isn’t it?” she said scornfully. “Shirley and Turner could both do with raises and a day off now and then.”
Malcolm folded the paper and smacked it down upon the table as if he were crushing a gnat. Eliza flinched. “Shirley, eh? I see you’ve been getting on. Look. You are now a member of the aristocracy and must act it. Not like a bloody Marxist. Appearances rate more than how one treats their servants.” Malcolm cleared his throat and adjusted his cravat. His voice softened. “Our family has been under enough scrutiny. Since we’ve lost the townhome to Eastleigh—gossip, no doubt, that will soon make its way to the London scandal sheets—it’s ever more imperative that you make an effort to fit in. You must do your best to dress well, show impeccable English manners, and ingratiate yourself with the wives of my peers. This is your duty as a viscountess. You’re not meant to be cavorting with the servants.”
Tears welled in Eliza’s eyes. “But this is where I become confused, husband. I behave and dress modestly during the day, as you’ve asked, only to have you tear my clothing off me in my chambers. I show concern over my sister’s housing situation after you say she can stay on at Sherbourne House only until she’s married, and then you say—that very evening!—of course Lydia must stay on, regardless. Surely you’ll forgive me if I’m feeling a bit . . . flummoxed.” Eliza took a deep breath. “And then there’s the matter of the bloody pipes. And my hearing things that supposedly aren’t there. I heard it again last night. Something was in my room, Malcolm. Something inhuman. I’m beginning to question my sanity!”
“You’re becoming hysterical.” Malcolm’s voice rose and he shifted in his chair, shaking his head. “It is nothing more than the settling noises of an old house. Your fits of passion do not suit your station. You must endeavor to maintain a sense of dignity.”
“And you must endeavor to be consistent! You go from being the most ardent and sensitive of lovers to being an insufferable toff who keeps secrets from me and implies I’m mad for thinking there’s a ghost in my chambers. Well, there is a ghost! And none of your lies will convince me otherwise!”
Eliza stood and flounced out of the room, ignoring Malcolm’s platitudes. She raced up the stairs to her room, where she threw herself onto the mattress and screamed into her pillow like a spoiled child. After indulging in a few moments of self-pity, she wiped her eyes, washed her face with rose water to calm the redness, and rummaged beneath the bed for Ada’s diary.
June 9th, 1876
Today, I was informed my allowance has been diminished to two shillings a week. Two shillings! What can one buy with so little a sum? My husband has lost again at the card tables, I’d wager. He is a wicked, wicked man, ruled by his impulses and possessed of a foul temper.
At this, Eliza laughed.
My angels are my keenest joy. They are growing much too quickly. I can no longer keep up with Gabriel, who went from crawling to running and hopping about like a tiny jackrabbit. He torments his brother so, and I am worn thin by their wee battles.
July 1st, 1876
Thomas finally tired of my complaining and put in an advert for a companion. Our new Beatrice is such a blessing. And so merry! Her presence takes me out of my dark thoughts. Best of all, she loves my bairns nearly as much as I, and with much more patience. At long last, I have a friend, one who endeavours to know me as I am.
July 30th, 1876
I had quite a conversation with Bea today. She thinks Galbraith and my husband are lovers. Malcolm had toddled into the library, and she went to fetch him. The door to Thomas’s study was cracked. She heard giggling and peeked through. There was Galbraith, engaged in a state of undress with her pinafore off, big, sagging breasts falling over the top of her corset. Thomas was all red-faced in his chair watching her pinch and pull at them, his old poker in hand, abusing himself.
Am I foolish for being relieved? If it keeps that awful old man distracted and away from me, I am ever so glad. Have at him, brave Galbraith! You are a far more formidable woman than I. And ugly, besides.
August 8th, 1877
The Isle of Wight reminds me of home. I covet Scotland. I long for mist-veiled mountains and the sound of the waves crashing over the firth. This house is irredeemably dark and close. Even the brightest noonday sun cannot pierce its gloom.
Beatrice came with us to the regattas today. I dressed Malcolm and Gabriel in their matching sailor suits and did my best to cover my bruises with my yellow lawn. It’s stiff and itches so, but it has long sleeves. Beatrice wore blue. It suits her well. I tried to convince her to sit for the portrait the boys and I made, but she demurred, saying her hair was too mussed by the wind. She’s a silly little hen, but we take great pleasure in one another’s company. We converse only in French around Thomas and whisper our secrets behind Galbraith’s back like naughty schoolmates. It’s great fun.
After the races, we took the boys for strawberry ices and sat watching the yachts move back and forth over the water as the sun fell like a stone and painted the Solent crimson. Bea told me she has a bloke back home on Guernsey, a longshoreman named Dan, but he’s stopped writing. It’s made her a bit maudlin. I tell her there are many loves in life. And she is yet so very young.
I pray she will have much better fortune in love than I.
I only hope she won’t leave me when she does find a husband.
Eliza closed the diary on her finger. The more she read Ada’s words, the more she felt a certain kinship to her. It was almost as if Ada were speaking aloud in the room—her presence felt that real. “Where are you? What happened to you?”