Spider Light(95)
Supposing the sounds he could hear were something to do with that–supposing those women really were witches? That was ridiculous! It was an animal–an injured animal. Holding resolutely onto this notion, George went inside. As he walked across the wooden floor, the old joists creaked under his weight, and something moved in one of the corners near to the bottom of the wheels–something that had been huddled into the darkness, and something that was too large to be an animal.
George did not quite cry out, but his heart came up into his throat. Then the darkness shifted, and he saw the shape was human and female: a youngish girl with fair fluffy hair. Relief washed over him, and he was able to say, ‘Who is it? Is something wrong?’
At first she shrank back into the shadows, both hands thrust out as if to ward off an attack, but George had already recognized her. Miss Rosen, Louisa Rosen, from Toft House–the mellow old house that had formed part of that wild pipe dream.
He said again, ‘Is something wrong? It’s Miss Rosen, isn’t it? You know me, surely? George Lincoln from the rectory.’
Now he was nearer he saw her face was streaked and swollen with tears, and her gown was ripped. He was not very used to young ladies, but he took off his jacket and put it around her shoulders, then knelt down on the wooden floor and took one of the small hands, trying to warm it between his own. He asked if she was ill. He was not sure what family she had, so he just asked if he should go along to Toft House and fetch someone for her.
‘No!’ cried Miss Rosen. ‘No, you mustn’t do that. I shall be all right presently. There’s only my grandfather, and he mustn’t be distressed. He has a–something wrong with his heart.’
George said, ‘You came to live at Toft House last year, I think?’ At least she had stopped crying.
‘Yes. My grandfather wanted new surroundings after my parents died in a carriage accident. We like Amberwood. But he mustn’t know what’s happened to me–he hasn’t got over my mother’s death. And if he found out about the man this afternoon—’
‘What man? Miss Rosen, has someone hurt you?’
‘He was from–that place,’ said Louisa, shuddering and starting to cry again.
‘What place?’
‘You know. The asylum.’
‘Latchkill?’ said George in surprise, and another shudder went through her. But he persisted. ‘D’you mean someone who works there or a–a patient?’
‘A patient. One of the mad people.’
George did not know a great deal about Latchkill’s occupants, but he knew, as everyone in the area knew, that the asylum’s gates were kept firmly locked and bolted at all times, and that patients were not permitted to roam around unchecked.
So he said, ‘But you can’t have been attacked by one of the patients, not unless you were actually inside Latchkill’s grounds, that is. Were you visiting someone, or—No, I’m sorry, of course you weren’t. Please don’t start crying again, I’m sure it’s not good for you.’
But more of the story tumbled out, as if Louisa wanted to get rid of the words as quickly as possible.
She had, it seemed, been intending to pick wildflowers to press and use for making birthday cards to send to friends throughout the year; it was something she had done ever since she was a child, she said, and George nodded, and thought it a very nice, very lady-like occupation. He imagined Louisa bent over a table, the flowers and the tissue paper scattered around, her fair curls tumbling free of a ribbon.
But, said Louisa, she had stayed out longer than she had intended and had not noticed how dark it was getting. Mr Lincoln would know that early autumn twilight that seemed to creep in from nowhere and catch one unawares? Quite frightening it could be.
‘So I was going to walk very quickly past Latchkill, and go home along Scraptoft Lane.’
She had been almost level with Latchkill’s gates, walking along the grassy bank that fringed the road.
‘I didn’t much like it, but I thought I’d soon be past the gates, and I was going to be firm about not looking in through them. Only then, a–a figure stepped out from behind a tree, and barred my way.’ The tears began to flow again. ‘I ran off at once, but he came after me–I could hear him running along behind me–like a giant pounding on the ground. And I didn’t really look where I was going–I just wanted to get away–or hide somewhere safe…That was when I saw the mill, and I thought I might be able to hide there. The door was locked, but it was only a thin sort of lock, and when I pushed hard it snapped off. I didn’t think Mr Forrester would mind, and I thought I could explain to him–I do know him; we’ve been to luncheon at Quire House, and for sherry after church on Sunday.’
George knew a ridiculous stab of envy at the casual way she said this, as if it was an ordinary thing to do. But for her, it would be an ordinary thing. Louisa and her grandfather would be invited to Quire House as guests, as a matter of course–they were neighbours, equals. It would not occur to old Josiah to invite an employee, a hireling, and it ought not to occur to the hireling, either. But one day, thought George, one day…
‘I didn’t think the man would follow me in here,’ said Louisa, ‘but he did. So I tried to hide over there’–she indicated the huge silent waterwheel–‘and I huddled right down behind it, and it smelt horrid–there’s some water in the bottom of the tank-thing. I prayed he wouldn’t find me–I prayed so hard, Mr Lincoln.’