Chapter 22
CHARLOTTE
Charlotte wondered who the shrieking woman was, and what she was doing in Harling Hall. More to the point, why was she wandering around in her nightclothes when it was clearly daytime? Whoever she was, she looked a fright and sounded insane.
She slapped her riding crop against her thigh and headed purposefully downstairs. She would find Edward and demand to know who he’d invited into their house without even asking her if it was all right.
Typical of him, of course. He always was a law unto himself, especially when it came to his precious estate.
Yes, that was probably it. The madwoman was probably some misfit tenant or other who he’d taken under his wing.
She was so tired of explaining to him that the tenants didn’t belong in Harling Hall. He never listened to a word she said.
As she neared the bottom of the staircase her steps slowed and she stared around her, perplexed.
Where had that rug come from? She hadn’t purchased such a rug, and who would have dared place it in the hallway without her permission?
Slowly, she became aware of other differences. Someone had removed her aspidistra! And – good heavens! – her portrait was no longer hanging on the wall. Who had moved it?
Edward? Surely, even he wouldn’t have done such a thing without consulting her? She certainly had no recollection of him mentioning that it was to be sent for cleaning, and he would have done so over breakfast that morning, wouldn’t he?
She frowned suddenly, trying to remember what they had talked about over breakfast. To her consternation, she realised she wasn’t actually sure. It was surprisingly difficult to remember. She looked down at herself, realising she was wearing riding clothes.
‘Now, am I going riding?’ she pondered. ‘Or have I returned from riding?’
She simply couldn’t recall and it alarmed her.
Standing at last in the hallway, she repeatedly tapped the riding crop against her thigh as she struggled against the sudden fog in her mind.
Looking down at the hand holding the crop, she realised she was wearing string gloves.
Surely, if she’d been riding and had returned, she would have taken off her gloves the moment she entered the house?
It was her habit to do so. Maybe then, she’d been about to go riding?
Mrs Godfrey would know. She always knew everything.
‘Godfrey!’ she called loudly. ‘Godfrey, where are you?’
She turned towards the kitchen door and called again, then spun round as she heard a familiar shriek behind her.
‘There she is! I told you!’
Charlotte’s mouth fell open. Good heavens, who were these people?
She surveyed the woman she’d seen moments earlier in her old-fashioned nightclothes, the rather handsome man dressed in a stylish Victorian suit, and a grubby little girl with plaits, a cotton dress, a cardigan that had – shudder – clearly been rather poorly hand-knitted, and wellington boots, of all things!
‘My word,’ the gentleman murmured. ‘It really is her.’
‘She’s wearing them funny trousers again, Poppa,’ the young girl said with a grin. ‘She always looked proper funny with them flapping around, didn’t she?’
Insolent little brat! Charlotte glared at her.
‘Have you no manners? These are my jodhpurs,’ she said haughtily. ‘Have you never seen jodhpurs before?’
The girl shrugged. ‘Course I ’ave. You wore ’em a lot but I didn’t remember the name of ’em is all.’
‘I can’t believe you’re here,’ the man said, sounding dazed.
‘Do something, Aubrey,’ the woman begged.
Charlotte was completely staggered by their lack of manners. Didn’t they realise who she was?
‘Who are you?’ she demanded. ‘And what are you doing in my home? Who invited you here?’
Now the shrieking woman seemed to change before her eyes. She gathered herself up and stared at Charlotte with a decidedly defiant look in her eyes.
‘I think you will find that this is our home, and it was our home long before you ever arrived here.’
Charlotte couldn’t believe the cheek of the woman! ‘Who on earth do you think you are?’ she said furiously. ‘Wait till I tell Sir Edward that you were trespassing in our property.’
‘I think,’ the man said kindly, ‘that we’d better explain to you what’s going on. You obviously have no idea what’s happened to you.’
‘What do you mean, “what’s happened” to me?’ Charlotte asked warily. She felt rather dazed suddenly, and reached for the support of the balustrade, wondering what on earth was wrong with her.
Somehow, and she had no idea how, she managed to miss the balustrade – which made no sense at all. She closed her eyes and then opened them again, alarmed by a sudden image that had flashed through her mind.
Golden Boy’s ears in front of her, the feel of the wind in her hair, her cry of exhilaration as the fence loomed ahead of them, Golden Boy taking off…
Then – what? She staggered a little, and was surprised when a hand cupped her elbow, offering her support. She opened her eyes to find the gentleman eyeing her with compassion.
‘This must be a dreadful shock to you,’ he said, his voice oozing sympathy.
‘What must be?’ she asked, wondering if she was actually fast asleep in bed and dreaming this entire thing.
‘Aubrey!’ said the woman sharply. ‘Have you forgotten who she is? How she treated Sir Edward and Lawrie?’
‘Lawrie!’ Charlotte’s frown cleared and she smiled for the first time at the thought of her handsome son. ‘Where is Lawrie? Godfrey! Godfrey!’
Godfrey was the housekeeper and she knew where everyone was. Charlotte had a feeling she should know where Lawrie was at this particular moment, but she couldn’t quite remember. She wasn’t even sure what time it was.
‘Godfrey isn’t here,’ the woman said abruptly. ‘She hasn’t been here for many a long year.’
‘Agnes!’ the man said disapprovingly.
‘Well!’ The woman shrugged. ‘She needs to know the facts. There’s no use pussyfooting around her. I’m quite sure she wouldn’t have been gentle if our positions had been reversed.’
She leaned towards Charlotte, who reared away, feeling nervous for the first time.
‘You’re dead, Lady Davenport. You’ve been dead since 1962.
And we – we are your fellow ghosts. And let me tell you something, we’ve lived here at Harling Hall since long before you passed over.
Long before you even arrived here, in fact.
So don’t go trying on your airs and graces with us because it won’t work.
We’ve seen too much. You didn’t know we were there, watching you, but we were. We know exactly who you are.’
She nodded her head furiously and Charlotte could only stare at her in bewilderment. Was the woman mad?
‘I-I don’t understand,’ she muttered.
‘To be quite frank,’ the man – Aubrey – said, ‘neither do we. You see, you didn’t stay around after you died. You, er, moved on. Unlike us. I simply cannot comprehend what you’re doing here. It makes no sense.’
‘I think,’ Charlotte said slowly, ‘that you’re all insane.’
She thought fast. Wherever Mrs Godfrey was, she wasn’t answering Charlotte’s calls for some reason.
Her best chance was to rush to the sitting room and lock the door behind her to keep these ruffians out.
Then she would have to wait for Mrs Godfrey or one of the other servants to arrive.
There was no point pinning her hopes on Edward.
He’d be too busy with his precious estate, and it would be dark before she saw him again.
As soon as the three trespassers were occupied asking each other questions and providing their own answers, she bolted for the sitting room door. She grabbed the handle and – missed.
How in heaven’s name had she done that? She tried again, but the handle simply couldn’t be held. It was like she was clutching at thin air.
She gave a wail of desperation and the young girl said calmly, ‘No need to fret. You don’t need no ’andle. Just walk through the door.’
With a grin, she proceeded to demonstrate. Charlotte gave a whimper of fear and stepped back. What the hell was happening to her?
‘It’s quite simple,’ Aubrey told her. ‘As Agnes explained, we are all ghosts.’
‘You’re mad,’ Charlotte told him. ‘I’m mad! Someone’s trying to drive me insane! Is it Edward? Has he put something in the tea?’
She grabbed for the handle again, to no avail.
‘Just step through the door,’ Aubrey advised. ‘It won’t hurt.’
‘I forbid her to go into that room!’ Agnes shrieked. ‘Lawrie’s in there! She mustn’t disturb him!’
‘Lawrie?’ Charlotte stared from Agnes to Aubrey, trying to decide which of them was the most unhinged. But Lawrie might be in that room, and she needed to make sure he was safe. They might have tied him up, for all she knew. Maybe this whole thing was an elaborate plot to get money from Edward.
‘Stay away from that door!’ Agnes commanded.
Charlotte closed her eyes and stepped forward, and when she opened them again, she was amazed to find herself in the sitting room. At least, she presumed it was the sitting room, but it had changed far more than the hallway. And why was there a bed in here, of all things?
She ignored the grinning child who was sitting on the edge of the bed, swinging her legs, and she ignored the indignant mutterings of Agnes behind her.
Her gaze fell on an old man, sitting in an armchair.
He was asleep by the looks of things, and Charlotte looked around helplessly, seeing there was no sign of Lawrie after all.
She had no idea who the old man was, or why he was here in this room, or how someone had managed to redecorate and refurnish the place so thoroughly in her absence. She’d only been out for a ride…
Again, she saw the image of Golden Boy’s ears as he sprang over the fence. But try as she might, she couldn’t recall anything after that moment.
‘Get out of here,’ Agnes said urgently. ‘You can’t just appear to him like this. It will be too much of a shock to him. You might kill him.’
‘Kill who?’ Charlotte asked. ‘Who is this person?’
The child chuckled and Aubrey told her to hush.
‘Don’t you understand?’ he asked Charlotte kindly. ‘This is Lawrie. This is your son.’
Charlotte staggered back in shock. This – this old man was her beloved Lawrie? It was impossible!
‘Please,’ Agnes said, the angry tone absent from her voice for the first time, ‘be careful. He mustn’t be alarmed.’
Charlotte crept forward and stared at the old man sitting in the chair.
He had a shock of white hair, and his face bore the lines and wrinkles of many years of life.
His hand cradled his cheek as he slept, one elbow on the chair arm, and she watched his chest rising and falling with a fascination she couldn’t explain.
He was wearing a sage green cardigan with a white open-necked shirt and brown trousers.
She peered closer at him, trying to see any semblance of her beloved Lawrie.
‘This is not my son,’ she said, turning back to the two adults who were watching her closely. ‘This cannot be my son. My son is twenty-one years old. He is tall and handsome and full of life and vigour. Whoever this man is, he’s no one I know.’
There was a sudden rustling movement from the chair, and they all turned as the elderly man yawned and stretched. Charlotte was frozen to the spot. She had the unmistakable feeling that something momentous was about to happen, but she couldn’t imagine what it could be.
Then the man turned and his eyes met hers. Blue eyes. Blue eyes that she knew and loved, though they couldn’t possibly belong to this old body. How could it be?
‘Lawrie?’ she whispered.
His mouth fell open and his hand flew to his chest as he stared at her, clearly as shocked to see her as she was to see him.
‘Mother?’
Charlotte swallowed as his hand reached out to her. He knew her!
‘Oh, Mother,’ he said, his eyes brimming with tears. ‘It is you. Oh, I’m so pleased to see you. My dear, dear Mother.’