He looked at me slyly. ‘Not of the house … but of me.’
‘Afraid of you Dickon? In Heaven’s name, why?’
‘Afraid of giving me what I want and what you so much want to give.’
‘What’s that? You have Eversleigh, you know.’
‘Yourself,’ he said. ‘Lottie, you and I were made for each other.’
‘By whom?’
‘Fate.’
‘Then Fate made a very poor job of it. I assure you I was certainly not made for you … nor you for me. You were made for Eversleigh perhaps. That’s a different matter.’
‘You do go on about Eversleigh. You attach too much importance to it.’
‘No. It was you who did that.’
‘Thy tongue is sharp as the serpent’s. Did someone say that? If they didn’t they ought to have done. In any case I’m saying it now.’
‘And I say beware of serpents.’
‘Come. Admit the truth. You are afraid to step inside Enderby with me.’
‘I assure you I am not.’
‘Back up your assurance with words.’
On an impulse I dismounted. He was laughing as he tethered our horses to the post. He took my hand as we advanced towards the house.
‘The window with the broken latch is round there. It is quite easy to get in. Someone wanted to look at it a few weeks ago and I showed him the way in. I wonder if he made an offer for the place.’
He had found the window, opened it, looked inside and helped me in. We were in the hall, at the end of which was a door. It was open and we went through it into a large stone-floored kitchen. The spits were still there. We examined the great fireplace with its fire-dogs and cauldrons. There were layers of dust on everything. I found it quite fascinating and prowled about opening cupboards and exploring.
We must have been there for about five minutes before we went back to the hall. Above us was the minstrels’ gallery.
Dickon put his fingers to his lips. ‘The gallery is the most haunted spot. Let’s explore it.’
He took my hand and I was glad of the contact as the eeriness of the house began to wrap itself about me. I could well believe that at night the ghosts came to relive their tragic lives once more in such a house.
Our footsteps rang out in silence.
‘Cold, isn’t it?’ said Dickon. ‘Are you just a little scared, Lottie?’
‘Of course not.’
‘You look a little.’ He put his arm about me. ‘There. That’s better.’ We mounted the stairs. Some of the furniture remained, though most of it had been taken away.
‘Let’s go into the gallery. Defy the ghosts. Are you game?’
‘Of course.’
‘Come then.’ We mounted the staircase and went into the gallery; we leaned over the balcony and looked down on the hall.
‘Imagine it full of people … people dancing … long-dead people … ’
‘Dickon, you know you don’t really believe in ghosts.’
‘Not when I’m outside. In here … can you feel the malevolent influence?’
I did not answer. There was certainly something strange about the place. It was uncanny, but I had the feeling that the house was waiting for my answer.
‘Let’s defy the dead,’ said Dickon. ‘Let’s show them that at least we are alive.’
He put his arms about me.
‘Don’t do that, Dickon.’
His answer was to laugh. ‘Dear Lottie, do you think I am going to let you go now that I have you again?’
I tried to hold him off. My strength, I knew, was puny against his. He would not dare to force himself on me. He would have to be careful … even he. I was no village girl to be lightly raped and no questions asked. And that was not Dickon’s way. He was too sure of his charms and he wanted to be gratefully accepted; he would not want reluctance … not from me in any case.
‘Lottie,’ he said, ‘it was always you. Never anyone else. Nor was it for you. You never forgot me any more than I forgot you. We’re together at last. Let’s take what we’ve got. Lottie … please.’
He held me fast now and I felt myself slipping away in some sort of ecstasy. I was a child again. Dickon was my lover. This was how it was always meant to be.
I was not fighting any more. I heard him laugh triumphantly.
‘No,’ I said. ‘No.’ But I did not make any other protest and Dickon would know that surrender was close.
But … just then, I heard a movement, the sound of a footstep overhead—and I was immediately brought back to sanity.
I said: ‘Someone is here … in the house.’
‘No,’ said Dickon.
‘Listen.’
There it was again. The definite sound of a footstep.
‘Come on. We’ll see who it is,’ said Dickon. He started out of the gallery and up the staircase. I followed.
We were in a corridor. There were many doors there. Dickon threw open one of them. I followed him into a room. There was no one there. We went into another room. There were a few pieces of furniture in this one and it took us a little time to make sure there was no one hiding there. And as he pulled back the tattered brocade curtains about a four-poster bed we heard the movement again. This time it was downstairs. There had been someone in the house, and whoever it was had eluded us, for he or she must at this moment be climbing through the window by which he had come in.
We rushed down. Soon we were through the window and out among the overgrown shrubs. I felt overwhelmingly grateful to whoever it was who had saved me from Dickon and myself.
We rode silently back to the house. Dickon was clearly disappointed but not utterly dismayed. I realized he had high hopes for the future. I felt a certain elation. Never again, I promised myself.
Something in the house had saved me. It had sounded like human footsteps, but I wondered whether it was some ghost from the past. There was that ancestress of mine, Carlotta. She had had connections with the house at some time; she had actually owned it.
I had almost convinced myself that it was Carlotta returned from the dead who had saved me, and this was an indication of the state of mind into which I was falling. I had always regarded myself as a practical woman. The French are notoriously practical; and I was half French. And yet sometimes I felt as though since I had come to England I was being drawn into a web from which I would eventually be unable to escape.
It was an absurd feeling, but I had to admit that it was there.
The sensation came to me that I was being watched. When I returned to the house, if I glanced up to what I knew to be Griselda’s windows there would be a hasty movement. Someone was there looking down on me and dodging back hoping not be seen. I could put that down to an old woman’s curiosity and according to Sabrina she was a little mad in any case; but it was more than that. Sometimes I felt I was watched from the banisters, from the corridors, and sometimes I hurried to the spot where I thought I had seen or heard a movement and there was nothing there. An old woman could certainly not have been agile enough to get out of Enderby and climb through the window.
My grandmother’s health had improved since we had come and my mother said it was time we thought of going home. Sabrina and my grandmother were sad at the prospect.
‘It has been so wonderful to see you,’ said Sabrina. ‘It has meant so much to us all. It has kept Dickon with us. It is a long time since he has been at Eversleigh for such a stretch.’
I said that our husbands would be wondering why we did not return and my mother added that they had only agreed that we should come because the visit was to be a short one.
I was determined to see Griselda before I left, and one afternoon I made my way to that part of the house where I knew her rooms to be.
It was very quiet and lonely as I ascended the short narrow staircase and came to a corridor. I had judged it from where I knew the window to be from the shadowy watcher who had looked down on me.