This House is Haunted (21 page)

I raised an eyebrow and watched and it was true that the dog was running towards us at an accelerated rate. I turned round, thinking perhaps that its master was on the beach behind us, summoning him, but no, we were alone. As it came closer I began to feel nervous and wanted to turn and make my way back to the path, but I knew of course that to run from a charging dog would serve only to encourage it. We would do better to befriend it, to make it know that we did not mean to injure it in any way.

Closer it came and I could make out its face now, and it was the stuff of nightmares. A dark black dog, as black as night, with a bright-pink tongue emerging from its mouth. It began to bark
as it approached us, to bark so ferociously that my heart beat faster in my chest and I could feel my very breath being taken away from me.

“Don’t run, Eustace,” I said quietly, placing an arm around his shoulder protectively. “Whatever you do, don’t run. It won’t harm you if you stay very still.”

“It doesn’t intend to harm me,” he replied in a calm voice, and I looked down at him, but he was staring at the dog and not looking at me at all. I glanced over towards the sea again and now Isabella was emerging from the depths, smoothing her swimsuit down and watching us and the dog.

Now it arrived. It stopped before us and rooted itself in the sand, a low, throaty growl emerging from somewhere deep inside its body. Stalactites of drool slipped from the corners of its mouth.

“Good boy,” I said in a conciliatory tone. “Good dog.”

I reached out to pat it, thinking this might persuade it to relax, but as I did so it barked so angrily that I pulled my unfortunate scorched hand back and wrapped my arm around Eustace even more tightly. This, however, served only to infuriate the beast for it began to drool and whine, then bark with such ferocity that a panic started to rise in me. It darted forward, not pouncing on me yet, but with such a sudden speed that Eustace and I were separated, the dog standing between us, ignoring the boy entirely, turning its dark rage completely on me.

“Please,” I said, knowing how ludicrous it was to try to reason with a dog that appeared to have lost control of its senses, but then what else could I do but beg, beg it to spare me?

“Please.”

I saw it drag its hind left paw on the sand a few times, then sink its body into a crouch, its head lowering as it kept its eyes fixed firmly on me, and I knew that the moment was upon me. I had but a matter of seconds before he would jump, and when he did I would have no choice. I would have to kill or be killed. I said a silent prayer and positioned myself, ready to defend my life.

“Go away!” came a voice as if from nowhere and, to my astonishment, Isabella had appeared and placed herself between the two of us. “Go away,” she insisted. “Do you hear me? Be gone.”

The dog retreated a little, beginning to whine in protest, but the child was not to be disputed with. “Leave us,” she cried. “Do you hear me?”

It did not need to be told again. It turned on its heel and, defeated, trotted away, the very picture now of a kind, obedient pet. I sank to the sand, amazed by what I had witnessed, as Isabella turned back to me, looking down at me with a mixture of disapproval and contempt.

“You’re not afraid of dogs, are you?” she asked. “They just need to know who’s in charge, that’s all.”

Chapter Seventeen

I
T WASN
’
T UNTIL
after lunch that I began to recover my equilibrium. I had been badly shaken by the encounter with the animal but the children appeared to have already forgotten it. Eustace, who of course had been there throughout, did not seem to be in the least concerned by what had happened, and when I questioned him about it, all he could say was, “It was just a dog. It didn’t mean me any harm.”

And on that point, I believed he was absolutely right. The dog had not meant him any harm at all. It was me he wanted.

The children, however, seemed to be enjoying their day thoroughly. Isabella was quite refreshed from her swim and her spirits were higher than I think I had ever seen them.

“We should come here again,” she said, dancing around me on the street, appearing like a little girl for once rather than the young adult she often seemed to be. “It’s a splendid place.”

“Perhaps,” I said. “Although there are other wonderful places in Norfolk, I’m sure. We wouldn’t have to come here all the time. But you’re right. It is good to get away for a day.”

“Thank you for taking us,” she replied, dazzling me with a rare smile. “Eustace,” she added, turning to her brother, “tell Eliza Caine how appreciative you are.”

“Very,” said Eustace, who seemed lost in thought now, tired perhaps after all the exertions of the day.

“You look sleepy, Eustace,” I said, putting a hand to his head and brushing the hair from his eyes. “It’s the sea air, I expect. Not to mention that fish lunch. We shall all sleep well tonight, I daresay.” I glanced at my watch. “Perhaps we should make our way back to the train station,” I suggested. “I told Heckling we’d be back at Thorpe by five.”

“Oh must we?” cried Isabella. “Can’t we stay a little longer?”

“A little longer, if you like,” I said. “But not too long. What shall we do next then? Take a stroll?”

“I want to see the church,” she declared, pointing towards a small steeple in the distance, and I raised an eyebrow, rather surprised by this.

“I thought you didn’t like churches,” I said.

“I don’t like attending them,” she replied. “But I quite like visiting them. If they’re empty, I mean. If there’s no religious instruction going on. And you like them too, don’t you, Eliza Caine? After all, you wanted to visit the cathedral in Norwich.”

“Yes, I do,” I admitted. “All right then, let’s go across and take a look. We won’t stay long though. If we’re to catch the four o’clock train we can’t dawdle.”

Isabella nodded and we wandered down the path in silence, all three of us, happy to be left quietly with our thoughts. It was true that I had always liked churches. Father had been a religious man, after a fashion, and had brought me to Mass every Sunday when I was growing up, but occasionally he would take
me outside our parish to a church that he had heard was particularly ornate, or provided excellent acoustics for the choir, or had some extraordinary architecture or wall friezes. I had enjoyed these expeditions enormously as a girl; there was a feeling of peace within the walls of a church, a sense of mystery that appealed greatly to me. The church in Great Yarmouth was no exception. It must have been two hundred years old but was in good repair, a masterful construction of stonework with high ceilings and carefully carved wooden pews. At the nave, I turned and looked up to see a fine representation on the ceiling of the Lord in his heaven, surrounded by angels, each of whom turned to stare at him with awe and wonder. To his side, watching all of this with a curious expression on her face, an expression that suggested dominance rather than love, was his mother Mary. I stared at her, wondering what the artist had been thinking, for this was not how she was typically represented. I didn’t like it; I turned away.

The children were nowhere to be seen but I could hear their voices outside, loud at first but then fading slightly as they walked further from the door, and I made my way down the aisle, imagining myself for a moment as a bride turning on the arm of her handsome new husband, smiling at a congregation of friends and family as I emerged from my solitary state to a union of equals. And, embarrassing even to myself, the face I saw beside me was none other than Alfred Raisin’s. Foolish girl! I smiled at my own simplicity but, in truth, I wondered whether one such as I might ever know a contentment such as that, and thought it unlikely.

Emerging into the bright afternoon sun, I shaded my eyes and looked around me. The streets were mostly empty but Isabella and Eustace had not made their way outside; neither were they
to be seen on the road that ran in the direction of the train station. Instead they were some thirty feet away from me, standing in the church graveyard, examining the stones. I smiled; there were times when they reminded me of myself for I, too, on those expeditions with Father, had always enjoyed reading the gravestones, imagining stories in my head of how their occupants had passed from this world to the next. I was particularly intrigued by the graves of children and infants, I suppose because I had been a child myself at the time. They scared me but attracted me at the same time. They reminded me that I was mortal.

“Are we ready, children?” I asked, approaching them now, but neither turned their head to look at me. “Children?” I said again, louder this time, but it was as if they had been turned to statues. “Oh come along, do,” I insisted, and they turned a little, stepping out of the way to allow me to see the grave they were examining with such serious intent. I read the name and dates. They meant nothing to me at first. And then I remembered.

“Ann Williams” was the name inscribed in the stone.
Beloved daughter and sister. Born 15th July 1846. Died 7th April 1867. She will be missed
.

“She loved Great Yarmouth,” said Isabella in a reflective voice. “I’m sure she’s glad to be back here.”

Later that night, back at Gaudlin Hall, after a light supper the children retired for the night. Eustace was particularly exhausted, poor boy, but I waited until he had been upstairs for about five minutes before going up and entering his bedroom.

He was lying in bed in his nightshirt, his eyes half closed, but he turned to look at me and smiled.

“Are you coming to say goodnight?” he asked and I nodded, smiling at him.

“Did you enjoy today?” I asked, sitting on the side of the bed and stroking his hair a little.

“Yes, thank you,” he said sleepily.

“Such an interesting story you told me about that old man,” I added, hoping to catch him off guard now. “But there was one thing I forgot to ask.”

“Hmm?” he said, already half asleep.

“You said that you’d seen him once before,” I said. “That he’d spoken to you before the day when you fell over and hurt your knee. What did he say, Eustace? Can you remember?”

“He asked me whether I liked my new governess,” he replied, yawning and turning over in the bed, away from me.

“And what did you tell him?” I asked.

“I said that I did. Very much,” said Eustace. “And he said that was good. And that I wasn’t to worry because he wouldn’t let anything happen to her. He said he had come to protect you.”

Chapter Eighteen

I
BEGAN TO TAKE
long walks around the estate in the afternoons. My daily routine had settled down to classes with the children in the morning followed by a simple lunch shortly after noon, when Isabella and Eustace would chat about whatever was capturing their attention that day while I sat quietly, tense, certain that every sound or movement in the house would lead to some unexpected trauma for me. I was not sleeping well and the exhaustion was mirrored on my face, which had grown pale and drawn. Heavy, dark bags lingered beneath my eyes and by late afternoon I felt great difficulty in keeping them open. And yet by nightfall, exhausted as I was, I could manage no more than a few unsettled hours of sleep, so certain was I that the presence would return to cause me harm. After lunch, I would allow the children time to engage in their own pursuits before we completed our lessons in the late afternoon. During their free hours, I would take my coat and shawl and step into the woods of the Gaudlin estate, the fresh air invigorating my drooping spirits, the closely packed trees offering something approaching security.

It did my soul some good to wander freely, to allow the Hall to disappear between the foliage, and as I stepped out into the
clear spaces beyond the wood and towards the lake that sat near the end of the property, I could imagine myself in London again, strolling along the banks of the Serpentine in Hyde Park, with nothing more to worry about than what I would cook Father for his supper that evening or what exercises I might set my small girls the following day.

In truth, much as I had grown to care for Isabella and Eustace, I felt a longing for those I had left behind. My small girls had been an important part of my life. I enjoyed seeing their faces in the mornings, even the ones who were more troublesome than others. I took pride in the lessons and took care to ensure that each girl felt that she had a place in the classroom and that she would not be bullied by the others. And I believe they cared for me too.

There was one girl who came back to my mind more and more often as I walked the grounds of Gaudlin Hall. A girl by the name of Clara Sharpe, who had been five years old when she had first entered my classroom, a bright and mischievous child, but not a naughty one, given to high levels of energy in the mornings and long periods of sullenness in the afternoons. (I took this to be related to the breakfasts she ate before leaving her house and the lunches she was provided with before the midday session; I suspected they had a negative effect on her mood.)

For all her ways, I liked Clara a great deal and took an interest in her development, particularly when I realized what a gift she had for mathematics. Unlike most of the other girls, for whom numbers seemed to present little more than an endless series of Greek hieroglyphs, Clara had the sort of brain that could organize and rationalize without difficulty and, as young as she was, I rather thought that she might in time
follow me into the pedagogical profession. I even spoke to Mrs. Farnsworth about her on several occasions, and she suggested that with her mathematical skills, Clara might someday have a future as a secretary for a bank manager. I recall the incident specifically because I made a remark, intended as a joke, that perhaps she could even
be
the bank manager one day, whereupon Mrs. Farnsworth removed her glasses and looked at me aghast and accused me of being a revolutionary, a charge I denied.

“You’re not a modern, are you, Eliza?” she asked, standing to her full height and looking down at me, filling me with as much trepidation as she had when
I
was a small girl and she my teacher. “I won’t stand for moderns at St. Elizabeth’s. And neither will the Board of Governors.”