Three Graces (11 page)

‘Would you like a cup of tea before we begin?’ Carys suggested.

‘No, thank you, dear. Caffeine interrupts my field of perception. Now,’ she said, clapping two tiny, perfectly manicured hands together, ‘where have you been feeling the disturbances?’

‘Follow me,’ Carys said, taking her through the Yellow Drawing Room and along the snaking corridors to the Montella Room.

‘Here is where I heard the voice,’ she said.

‘And only here?’ Ms Claridge asked.

‘So far. Is that normal?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Ms Claridge said. ‘Spirits are just like us, you know: they have their favourite rooms. Yours is the Yellow Drawing Room, is it not?’

Carys nodded, the sceptic in her thinking that it wouldn’t be hard to guess such a thing. It was virtually the only room in the house you could keep warm in.

‘Yes,’ Ms Claridge said thoughtfully, a finger pressed to her lips. ‘It’s certainly cold in here. I felt the temperature drop as soon as we came in.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t read too much into that,’ Carys said. ‘There are drafts everywhere in this house.’

‘This isn’t a draft, though. Oh, no!’

‘It isn’t?’

Ms Claridge shook her head. ‘It’s a presence. A woman, yes?’

‘I think so.’

‘The Blue Lady?’

‘Who?’

‘My dear, the whole of Cuthland knows about the Blue Lady: she’s legendary.’

‘Oh,’ Carys said, wishing she didn’t appear so out-of-touch with what was now her home.

‘Not many people have seen her, of course. I think her appeal lies in her uncertainty. She doesn’t appear before just anyone, you know. There have been experts and TV presenters and all sorts here hoping to catch a glimpse of her.’

‘But why does she want to speak to me - if it is her?’

Lara Claridge took in a deep breath and then let it out very slowly. It was so cold in the room that Carys thought she’d be able to see it. ‘I really have no idea,’ she said at last.

Carys rolled her eyes. She was just as infuriating as Louise had been. Was she going to get any answers out of this old woman or was she wasting her time?

‘What’s in your bag?’ Carys asked, deciding to try and move things forward as quickly as possible.

Ms Claridge placed it on the carpet and bent down over it, unzipping the metre-long zip. ‘It’s my mat,’ she said, producing a rolled-up mat of gigantic proportions and eye-boggling colours. ‘And cushions. I can’t go anywhere without my cushions.’ And, with a flourish, she’d unrolled the mat in front of them and quickly scattered three plump, purple cushions onto it. ‘Care to join me?’ she asked. ‘I recommend that you do.’

Carys looked down at the swirling purples and rich oranges of the mat, shrugged her shoulders and went for it, sitting down and trying to make herself comfortable.

‘Now, we’ll have some deep breaths,’ Ms Claridge said. ‘Close your eyes and rest your mind.’

Carys tried to do as she was told. She could do this, she thought.

‘I can feel your resistance.’

Carys blinked, opening her eyes and glaring at the colourful old lady sitting in front of her with her legs folded underneath her billowing coat dress of many colours. She really was a human rainbow.

‘Close your eyes,’ Ms Claridge said, shocking Carys. How had she known she’d opened them? Maybe she did have extra-sensory perception after all.

Carys closed her eyes again.

‘Try not to think about anything,’ Ms Claridge began again. ‘Hard, I know, in this day and age but you must clear your mind of all your troubles if you are to be able to receive any new phenomenon.’

Carys frowned. New phenomenon? Was she referring to the spirit world? But hadn’t The Blue Lady appeared to Carys without any preparation? Hadn’t she just been worrying her head about the amount of work Richard was doing to say nothing of her on-going worry about Cecily and-

‘Your mind is too full,’ Ms Claridge suddenly bellowed.

Carys flinched.

‘You must try not to be so preoccupied if this is going to work.’

‘What, exactly, are you going to do?’

Ms Claridge sighed. ‘Open your eyes,’ she said and Carys opened them. ‘I can see this isn’t going to work - not like this.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Carys said and she really was. ‘I don’t mean to waste your time.’

Ms Claridge reached into her handbag which she’d placed alongside her enormous holdall. ‘This should do the trick,’ she said, producing a tiny glass bottle with a pretty stopper. It was filled with a luminous liquid the colour of bluebells.

‘What’s that?’ Carys asked.

‘It’s a herbal relaxant,’ she said.

Carys’s eyes narrowed. She was as sceptical about herbs and their properties as she was about mediums and ghost hunters.

‘Smell this,’ Ms Claridge said. ‘Go on.’

‘What does it do?’

‘Must you always question everything?’ she asked.

‘If I’m going to snort something, I want to know what it will do to me,’ Carys responded.

‘It will relax the mind and stimulate the senses - that’s all. There are no side effects. Usually.’

‘Usually?’

‘Hurry up, now,’ Ms Claridge urged, sticking the bottle under Carys’s nose.

Carys took a wary look at the brilliant blue liquid. It really was very pretty, as if a piece of summer sky had been bottled up for a rainy day. Then, carefully, she wriggled her nose and sniffed.

‘Inhale,’ Ms Claridge said. ‘
Deeper
.’

Carys did. It smelled good. Rather like hyacinths but not quite as strong.

‘Can you feel it?’

At first, Carys thought that Ms Claridge had got confused and had meant to ask if she could smell it but then she experienced a sudden wash of warmth flowing through her.

‘Yes. YES! I can.’

‘Good, good. Now, breathe. Don’t forget to breathe. Feel the warmth from the liquid travelling through you. Let it work. Don’t resist it.’

Carys wasn’t resisting it. She closed her eyes, sinking into a velvety blueness of peace. ‘I … feel … strange…’

‘That’s perfectly normal,’ Ms Claridge assured her. ‘You’ll soon think that’s normal. Can you feel it in your fingers yet?’

Carys concentrated her attention onto her hands.

‘Give them a wriggle. Go on.’

Carys wriggled. ‘They feel spongy.’

‘Good. You’re almost ready.’

‘What for?’

‘Don’t ask so many questions. I told you; just feel.’

Carys nodded.

‘Ready?’

‘I think so,’ Carys said. She could hear Ms Claridge’s breathing: long, deep breaths which seemed to come from the very centre of her being. And Carys’s breathing also became deeper. She hadn’t felt so relaxed in ages. She wasn’t sure if it was the mysterious blue liquid she’d inhaled or the fact that she’d allowed herself a moment to just sit and relax but it felt wonderful.

‘You can open your eyes now,’ a voice told her.

Carys shook her head and blinked as if coming round from a deep sleep which was silly, really, because they had only just begun, hadn’t they?

‘Is that it?’

Ms Claridge nodded. ‘In record time too - only twenty-three minutes.’

‘Twenty-three minutes?’ Carys gasped. ‘But I only closed my eyes a moment ago.

Ms Claridge smiled and nodded towards a small wooden clock on the mantelpiece She was right: it was twenty to ten.

‘How did that happen?’

Ms Claridge stretched her arms above her head and then got up from her nest of cushions. ‘So many questions,’ she admonished with a chuckle. ‘So much scepticism.’

‘I’m not being sceptical,’ Carys said. ‘I’m just curious as to what happened.’

‘I do believe,’ Ms Claridge said with infuriating slowness, ‘that-’

‘What?’

‘I’m ready for that cup of tea.’

Carys sighed, seeing that she was going to get no explanations just yet.

Rolling Ms Claridge’s mat up and stuffing it and the cushions into her holdall, Carys led the way up a back staircase to one of the tiny rooms she’d had converted.

‘I don’t want to have to walk half a mile every time I want a cup of tea,’ she’d told Richard shortly after moving in. ‘And I want a private kitchen - not one I have to share with the butler and the cook.’

He’d given in to Carys’s demand and let her have one of the rooms in the East Turret which had previously been used as yet another hoarding space for moth-eaten tapestries and chairs with dodgy legs. She’d got to work, stripping the wallpaper which was just plain old rather than being old and of national importance, and painting the walls a soft cream to make the most of the light. She’d also had a small sink built in and some cupboards and a worktop where she’d placed a microwave. Two comfy armchairs she’d found in one of the attics gave it a homely feel and the views over the parkland made the climb to the top of the turret worthwhile.

Carys thought it important to have a place like this where she could bring friends and visitors she didn’t necessarily want the whole house talking about and Ms Claridge was certainly one of those.

‘I hope you don’t mind stairs,’ Carys said as they reached the East Tower.

‘Not at all,’ she said but she decided to leave her holdall at the bottom all the same.

‘You get very fit living in a place like this.’

‘I remember your mother-in-law saying exactly the same thing.’

Carys turned round. ‘You know Francesca?’

A cloud of hesitancy flitted across Ms Claridge’s face before she answered. ‘We were great friends for many years,’ she said somewhat guardedly.

‘You mean you aren’t now?’

They had reached the top of the stairs before she answered. ‘We sort of lost touch,’ she said.

They entered the kitchen and Carys motioned to an armchair and Ms Claridge sat down.

‘What a delightful room,’ she said. ‘Did you do this?’

Carys nodded. ‘I had to have somewhere to call my own. Somewhere normal, you know? A room that hasn’t been slept in by a king.’

Carys got two floral mugs out of the cupboard and made the tea, handing a cup to Ms Claridge before sitting down in the armchair next to hers.

‘I know exactly what you mean. You do have to put your own imprint on a house,’ Ms Claridge said, ‘but we’re not here to talk about decorating, are we? We’re here to talk about a duchess.’

‘A duchess?’

Ms Claridge nodded. ‘That’s who’s been causing you all this trouble. Amberley’s
Blue Lady
, no less. Just as I thought. The wife of the fifth Duke of Cuthland. Georgiana Lacey.’

‘Really? She spoke to you?’ Carys’s mouth was a perfect ‘O’ of amazement.

‘She told me her name after much resistance but she wouldn’t tell me why she was here which was most perplexing. Usually, the spirits I meet can’t wait to unburden themselves.’

Carys’s eyes were wide with astonishment. ‘And all this happened whilst I was drugged? In those twenty-three minutes?’

‘You weren’t drugged, my dear. You were merely in a trance-like state of being. But, yes, I managed to contact the spirit who’s been trying to reach you. She didn’t seem too pleased with you, by the way. Says she’s been trying to talk to you for weeks but you’ve been ignoring her.’

‘I’ve been doing no such thing!’

‘She told me you’ve walked right through her on several occasions. Most rude, you know.’

Carys flapped her arms in the air in annoyance. ‘This is ridiculous. I’ve never even seen her!’

‘Then you’ve not been looking hard enough.’

‘I don’t believe it. How can I be accused of doing things to somebody I can’t even see?’

‘But you knew something was going on, didn’t you? Otherwise, why call me?’

For a moment, Carys closed her eyes, as if trying to shut the problem out completely. When she opened them, she said, ‘I guess I knew something was wrong; I could feel that. But I didn’t know what to do.’

‘You were hoping I’d put your mind at rest, weren’t you? You were hoping that I’d pat you on the head and call you a silly girl and tell you not to worry,’ Ms Claridge said. ‘That’s what usually happens. People are more afraid of me confirming their fears than the fears themselves. I’ve lost count of the number of people who could live quite harmoniously with the spirits in their homes until I get involved.’

‘Why do you make such a difference?’ Carys asked.

‘Because I make them
real
. What may just have been a few odd bangs and crashes turns out to be a very real visitor from another dimension.’

Carys’s mouth dropped open. ‘And you’re saying that’s what I’ve got - what Amberley’s got?’

Ms Claridge nodded. ‘Georgiana Lacey. The Blue Lady; call her what you will. She’s not new to Amberley. In fact, since her death, she’s probably never left. You’ll have to ask her, of course. She wouldn’t talk to me.’

Carys’s eyebrows knitted together in consternation. ‘What exactly am I meant to do?’

Ms Claridge put her empty mug on a table beside her chair. ‘Don’t panic. That’s the last thing you must do. People don’t realise it but we’re surrounded by spirits all the time. As soon as you understand that, you can begin to communicate with them.’

‘How?’

‘Just as you would with a normal person. Spirits are just like you and me except in the fact that they have passed over,’ she said with a little chuckle.

‘And you can get rid of her, can you?’

For a moment, Ms Claridge’s face dropped, her cheerful demeanour changing to one of frostiness. ‘I don’t really do that - not automatically, anyway and only in extreme cases. You must talk to her first. Find out what she wants. You can’t just blitz her until you’ve done that.’

‘
Blitz
her? Is that a technical term?’

Ms Claridge smiled. ‘It’s my belief,’ she began, ‘that spirits are as much a part of these houses as the antiques, if not more so. After all, it is they who made these houses what they are today.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Carys confessed. ‘I thought ghosts or spirits, or whatever you call them, belong somewhere else. I’m not at all sure I want one in my home. It’s difficult enough for me thinking of Amberley as my home without it being haunted too.’

Ms Claridge simply smiled. ‘I appreciate your concern. Perhaps it will help if you understand a bit more about spirits. Really, they’re just like normal people. Some are nice and some are nasty. Like in life, you try and avoid the nasty ones - or blitz them back into their own dimensions,’ she said with another little chuckle. ‘But the nice ones can be a pleasure to have around. They really can be the making of a home, you know. Why not give her a chance? You might even become best friends. That’s the wonderful thing about the spirit world: you never know what to expect.’