“It is surely the Ghast!” I cried, and fled, nearly falling back down the moisture-slick stairs several times in my haste, but by the time the handle of the garden-door of Calipash Manor was in my hand I was laughing at myself for being such a noodle. The wind often moans when it passes over stone, does it not, and I had left the door ajar—and why, I wondered, had it not occurred to me that Orlando could have walked in front of the crypt-door? That would have cast a shadow very like the “ghost” I saw.
If there is any real danger here at Calipash Manor, it is too much sunshine. I must be more careful of my skin—my complexion will be ruined if I continue taking morning walks. My skin is browner already, I am sure of it.
Afternoon—Orlando did not come down to dinner. I fear I must have done him a mischief. Perhaps attempting to induce a fourth occasion took more out of him than I anticipated?
I had a solitary, silent meal in the dining room; again, Lizzie and Bill would not allow me to dine with them. They were really rather stern with me about it.
“We would have notions of rank preserved in this house, Chelone,” said Lizzie. “Anarchy results elseways.”
“Yes indeed, a woman of your breeding mustn’t break bread with those such as us,” said Bill—which in anyone else I would think to be a crack about my lack of proper parentage, but not from Bill!
Ah well. I have eaten lonelier meals.
I wonder, though, if I didn’t work myself into rather an agitated state, too—I could stomach only the vegetable courses.
Late Afternoon—Something strange is going on, I am sure of it. Orlando must be ill. Before going down to tea I knocked on the door of his room, and heard nothing. I raised my voice and told him it was tea-time, and I heard a faint moan from within. Who declines tea? Even invalids must have their refreshing cuppa and hot buttered toast, surely.
After Tea—I went to consult with Lizzie about Orlando, though I hated to disturb her again after her earlier sternness with me. It is funny, as I approached the kitchen-door, I am sure I misheard her, but before I knocked, I heard her conversing with Bill. He said, “that he will not stir is a good sign,” and I thought I overheard her say, “Soon will come the hour of the tortoise,” which made Bill laugh, a harsh sound. Then I knocked; they fell silent as I entered.
“I fear the Lord Calipash may be ill,” said I.
“As I said, he was up late last night,” said Lizzie. “When I retired he had called Bill to bring him another bottle of wine. Have you never had a hangover?”
“Even if he was up late—”
“Likely he’s a cold upon him,” said Bill. He had obviously been doing something that required his high boots (come to think of it, he could have been the source of the shadow, as he is tall and thin, too). Mud plastered his feet and calves nearly to the knee, but he had not shed his footwear before coming to sit at the table. Lizzie, I was surprised to note, did not chide him for this; indeed, she seemed hardly to notice his mess. This was quite a change from the attitude she used to take when I came in from outside without a care!
“A cold!” I exclaimed.
“He went outside last night, in the storm,” said Bill, and shrugged at me as he put his boots up on one of the kitchen chairs, fouling it horribly. “I tried to speak reason to him, but he would not listen. Said he wished to keep vigil by the side of his dead father. Heathen notion—perhaps it is as you say, and the Lord has punished him with an ailment.”
“Then he must be in need of at least a cup of tea,” I said, exasperated. “Let me bring it to him, you needn’t trouble yourselves.”
“Oh, go on then,” said Lizzie, pouring some liquid the color of wash-water into a chipped cup. “Take him this, if you must be meddlesome.”
It was in low spirits indeed that I went up to Orlando’s room, tea in hand. I have rarely felt so depressed. This slapdash housekeeping and surly language would be understandable, of course, if Bill and Lizzie seemed distraught over my guardian’s death, but neither seem to care tuppence about it—they have not even mentioned it to me! And come to think of it, the house was topsy-turvy when I arrived. From what I saw, taking care of the former Lord Calipash would not have occupied the whole of their waking hours, so how can they account for how decrepit Calipash Manor has become? It pains me to write this, but I feel as though the two of them have no emotion whatsoever as regards their former master; I get the strange feeling if no one would notice the irregularity of it, they would not even attend to the funereal arrangements. When I was a girl neither one of them seemed the sort of servant who would take a “when the cat’s away” attitude toward their duties, but perhaps I was not a perceptive child?
Well, regardless, I went up to Orlando’s room and entered without knocking, only to find him prostrate on the bed, sheets wound around him like a shroud. The curtains were drawn and I could barely see my way over to him.
“Lord Calipash?” I whispered. “It is I—Chelone, your cousin, come to see if you need anything?”
He groaned and stirred, and I took this as a good sign. Setting the cup of tea down beside him, I took the liberty of seating myself on his bed and patting his shoulder.
“It is after tea-time, please—won’t you take a bite or sip of anything?”
“My head,” he groaned. “Oh, Chelone—I was beastly to you last night, was I not?”
“Never mind that,” I said. “I believe you have already apologized enough.”
“Did I?” He flopped over onto his side and looked at me. “I must have had more wine than I thought.”
“Not all apologies must be spoken,” I said, and touched where my new lovely necklace hung below my blouse. Stroking the pendant, even through the fabric, gave me the most visceral shock! Plenty of times I have received trinkets from lovers, but this—it comforted me to have it about my neck, as if it were a warm extension of my very flesh.
“True enough, I suppose! Draw back the curtains, cousin, and hand me that tea—ahh,” he said, sipping it. “Better. I should not have lingered in bed so long, but ach—my head! How it aches!”
“Well, you had a long night,” I said over my shoulder.
“Indeed I did. Ventured out to that tomb—well, you must know that already. Dreadfully wet, and I fell—or hit my head—or something. Must have slipped.” He took another long slurp of tea and fell back upon the pillows of his bed. “Well, no lasting harm done. Still feel miserable, though.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“I wonder …” He looked at me. “You seem in a maternal sort of mood, eh? Would you be so kind—no.”
“Ask anything and it shall be yours, if it is within my power to give it.”
“Just sit with me, talk to me. Keep me company. I never had a relative to look after me before.”
Poor dear! “Let me read to you, then—and perhaps you will doze until supper-time.”
“Smashing idea, Chelone. What would you like to read?”
“You claimed to have a collection that would make me blush,” I suggested, having retained no small curiosity regarding his literary tastes. “Even if you no longer think me so easily shocked, I should like to see what you have.”
Even in the dim light—for though I had drawn back the drapes, the hour was late, and the sunlight waning—I saw him blush pinker than a rose! I had no expectation of his showing any shyness after the events of last night, and felt such a rush of tenderness for the dear boy that I kissed him on the forehead.