“I did. I pursued it, but it vanished upon the moor.”
“You pursued it! But it was a phantom,” Effie protested. “You ought to have been too frightened to attempt it.”
“And you are a woman of science, which means you ought to know it is likely some phenomenon of a natural variety,” I replied. Whilst I was perfectly willing to entertain all possibilities, I found myself taking a decidedly contrarian position with Effie. Her insistence that the moor was full of supernatural creatures had no doubt been intended to provoke reactions in the Hathaway children, but it seemed Anjali had fallen victim to the notion of such horrors as well. Such a dramatic reaction was surely the result of a mild hysteria, certainly stoked by Effie’s haunted tales of the macabre.
She must have been thinking along similar lines, for she colored slightly. “I know it is irrational and contradicts all that we know of logic and reason. And yet . . .” She paused and glanced outside the window to where the moon hung, full and ripe. “I am a modern woman, like you, Miss Speedwell. But I was reared here, and the moor is full of ghostly tales. Runaway coaches with phantom horses, highwaymen who ride in search of their heads. And our own grey lady and black dog. I have told the children the stories, but I confess, I cannot help but sometimes wonder if perhaps there is not a grain of truth to these legends.”
She looked very young just then, her freckles standing out starkly against her white skin as the flush ebbed from her cheeks. I felt a rush of pity for her, particularly when I considered that the woman lying on the bed was perhaps her only friend in the house.
“Atmosphere and setting can make believers of us all,” I said in what I hoped was a gracious tone. The truth was, I had often expressed just such a notion to Stoker, much to his amusement. I was unwilling to dismiss all things supernatural simply because we had no explanation for them.
Effie gave me a level look. “No doubt you think me very foolish.”
“I understand how easily one’s belief in the rational world may be overcome by the sight of something spectral. This was an uncanny apparition.”
“But you do not believe it was an apparition,” she pressed. “What do you think it was? You must have some thoughts on the matter.”
I shrugged. “I do not say that such things are utterly impossible, but this particular manifestation was making use of the door to the summerhouse. Why should it have need of such a thing if it were indeed incorporeal?”
Effie continued to stare at me, her hands working into small fists at her sides. “I do not know. But I can tell you that it is supposed to be an omen of evil tidings to this family when such things are seen. Everyone in these parts knows that. The sensible thing when something frightful is abroad on the moor is to lock your doors and draw your curtains.”
“Surely such precautions are pointless against an entity which is completely supernatural,” I argued. “Ghosts and phantoms do not exactly stop at locks and doors.”
“No, but you are supposed to stay inside and leave such things strictly alone,” she said stubbornly.
I reflected that Effie, like all the Hathaways, had a considerable exasperating streak. She seemed annoyed that I questioned the spectre, and yet she was the one who had warned me of such things to begin with. Perhaps, I decided, she was a little embarrassed at being a woman of science who indulged in such superstitious fancies.
Suddenly, it all seemed terribly pointless, and I realized I was very tired after my earlier exertions on the moor. I longed for nothing as much as the comforts of my bed just then.
“Is there anything more I can do for Anjali? If not, I shall leave her in your hands.”
Effie shook her head, her expression relieved—no doubt that I was not pressing her further on the matter of scientific inquiry where the phantom was concerned. “You have already been most kind, Miss Speedwell.”
“It was understandable. I myself found the spectre unnerving,” I assured her. I bade her good night then and made my way to Stoker’s room. I was fatigued, but I could not in all decency avoid the conversation we needed to have on that pretext. I should, I knew, rest easier for having it over and done with.
The clock was striking the hour as I raised my hand to rap upon Stoker’s door. But just as I did so, I heard a gentle snore. He was already asleep, and if there was one thing he hated, it was being roused from his slumbers. I told myself it was out of consideration for his rest that I did not waken him, but it was the purest cowardice. I spent the next few minutes loathing myself vigorously as I returned to my room and prepared for bed. I ought not to have slept well, given all that weighed upon my conscience and the events of the evening, but I did.
I passed peacefully into the arms of Morpheus, where I lay quite happily until the next morning—when hell itself seemed to break loose within Hathaway Hall.
CHAPTER
18
I was first aware of some uproar when I left my room, having made my ablutions and dressed for the day. I had dressed in a becoming blue wool day dress trimmed in black passementerie and pinned my hair in a style Stoker particularly liked. I did not probe deeply into my motives in doing so for fear I would discover I had made myself attractive in order to please a man—a disturbing notion to be sure.
“That is the beginning of domestication,” I told myself darkly as I descended the stairs. But before I could complete the thought, I heard raised voices from the direction of the Great Hall. Anjali was coming up the stairs and passed me, carrying a watering pot.
“You are up and about your duties early,” I said with a smile.
She inclined her head in the direction of the Great Hall. “It seemed best to give the Hathaways a little time to themselves this morning,” she said as Charles Hathaway’s unmistakable voice rose.
“Troubles?” I asked.
She pressed her lips together. “I should not speak of it,” she said with great tact. “Besides, you will hear of it soon enough.”
I searched her face. She seemed paler than usual but otherwise none the worse for her nocturnal adventure. “I hope you are quite recovered from last night.”
She ducked her head. “I feel very foolish.”
“Anyone might have fainted at seeing such a thing,” I assured her. I tipped my head thoughtfully. “I suppose you went outside for a cigarette?”
She flushed. “Lady Hathaway does not mind, but Mrs. Hathaway would be very upset if she knew that I indulged.”
I laid a hand upon her arm. “Your secret is safe with me.”
A tiny smile played about her lips. “You are very kind, Miss Speedwell.”
She stepped aside and I passed her then, bracing myself for whatever uproar might be in evidence. When I entered, I saw Stoker, sitting quietly at his place, consuming a vast amount of kedgeree whilst Charles thundered.