Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Ghosts of Netley

“The kind that come by day,” she replied darkly.

“There’s evil work afoot at the Lodge, as I may attest — and my mistress is in the thick of it.”

This so nearly approximated Lord Harold’s view of things that I did not know whether to furl my brow in consternation, or cry huzzah! in relief.

“What possible evil may Mrs. Challoner do? You saw how kindly she treated me.”

“Aye — but that was merely by way of throwing dust in a body’s eyes,” Flora declared. “You will understand the truth of it when I tell you, miss, that she is a witch.”

This conclusion was so unexpected that I nearly laughed aloud.

“Incubus or succubus, Mrs. Challoner’s the one or t’other — except that I can never rightly recollect what the words mean.”

“What can your mistress possibly have done, to inspire such terror?” I exclaimed. “You must know that witches are no very great moment in England. They were cast out years ago with all popish things, and went to live in Italy.”

“It’s what comes of biding so hard by the Abbey,” the maid said with a wild look around the blasted chancel. “Ghosts do walk the cloister by night, miss, and I’ve seen their lanthorns bobbing in the darkness.”

“Does a spirit require a taper to light its way?” I enquired in amusement. “Surely you mistake. You have glimpsed a pleasure party overtaken by nightfall, and given way to dire imaginings.”

“I know the difference between a ghost and a pleasure-party,” Flora insisted stubbornly, “same’s I know the difference between dusk and midnight. It were past the witching hour and turning towards dawn when the lanthorn were raised Tuesday night.”

Tuesday night . The maid had observed a light on the ramparts only hours after I had first met Orlando, and learned of Sophia Challoner aboard the Windlass . Coincidence?

“I remember the day,” Flora persisted, “on account of Wednesday’s fire, and that poor Mr. Dixon with his throat cut. ‘It’s the Devil’s work,’ I says to myself, making the sign against the Evil One as my grandfer taught me, ‘and the mistress is to blame.’ ”

“Why should you think Mrs. Challoner has aught to do with lights at the Abbey? Surely she is asleep in her bed at such an hour?”

“The mistress fairly haunts this place,” the maid insisted. “Rambles about the ruins at all times. And she’s a close one, she is — never tells a body nothing about her doings, or who to expect at the door. This very morning, I went to answer the bell and nearly stumbled over the mistress. Held out her hand, she did, as though to fend off a dog — and said, ‘Very well, Flora, I shall attend to it myself.’ Wouldn’t open the door before me, and stayed to watch that I was safely gone in the servants’ wing. But later, I saw who had come.”

Lord Harold? But no. There had not been time enough since the chaise’s arrival for a fit of strong hysterics.

“A great, tall man wrapped up in the black cloak,” Flora informed me impressively. “Nose as sharp as a blade, and eyes that glittered dark like a serpent’s. Not that I saw him to speak to — this was just a glimpse, like, through the pantry door. But the mistress was a perfect lamb when he was near — treated him like a prince, she did, with her head bowed and her voice low; and that Mr. Ord — he fair fell over himself with deference!”

“Mr. Ord? He was present, too, at the Lodge this morning?”

Flora nodded. “They all closeted themselves in the drawing-room, and that’s when the black arts was raised.”

“Black arts?”

“Mumbling in a foreign tongue, like spells — and the burning of some stuff, sweetly-sick and unnatural.”

“But Mrs. Challoner is accustomed to speak Portuguese,” I said slowly, “and several of her servants, I believe, can speak nothing else. Can this be what you heard?”

“This waren’t no Portugee,” Flora returned stoutly. “I’ve come to know the sound o’ that talk when I hear it — I know the French, too, as Eglantine uses. Not but what all foreign speech sounds the same — except this sort: the kind she and Mr. Ord and that man in the black cloak were muttering this morning. Sent chills down my spine, it did; and when I considered, miss, that I was all alone in the house — a respectable young maiden, such as might serve for a sacrifice if they found they were in need of one—”

“You were alone in the house?” I interrupted.

“Mrs. Challoner sent that Eglantine, and the housekeeper Mrs. Thripps, off to church with Zé the manservant — and it’s the scullery maid’s day off — and when I considered of my position, miss, and the prospect of maiden sacrifice — why, naturally I had strong hysterics!”

“Naturally.”

A cloaked figure, waiting in the Abbey ruins. I had observed Mr. Ord and Mrs. Challoner bow to him only a few days ago. But why conduct conspiracy in the Lodge itself? What caution — or abandonment of the same — had led to the shift in their meeting?

And what in Heaven’s name was this gibberish about witchcraft?

“... boxed my ears and told me that I was a stupid girl, and if I did not mean to set the whole of Hound on our backs, I must regain control of myself this instant! So I cried all the harder, and she declares as she can do nothing with me. Turned me out of the house to collect my wits — and now I find myself shrieking at you, miss! I expect I’ll learn I’ve lost my place, when I get back to the lodge,” she concluded mournfully.

“Flora,” I said gently, “you must try to remember. Did you overhear the gentleman’s name — the man in the long black cloak?”

She shook her head. “The mistress called ’im by his title. A French handle, it were — not like those spells they was parsing.’’

“What did Mrs. Challoner call him?”

“Mon seigneur.”

My lord . The very words I had heard Sophia utter in the ruined refectory, as I stood below the tunnel hatch. It was something to tell him, I thought — that his spy was engaged in witchcraft. But perhaps the idea should not be news to Lord Harold. He had long been subject to her spell.

I suggested that Flora might do well to visit her mother’s cottage in Hound, and take a tonic from exposure to her little brothers and sisters, before returning to her post in the servants’ wing. She was seized with the idea, and acted upon it immediately, being uncertain how much of liberty might remain to her.

“I may never go back,” she told me defiantly; “but perhaps, when the mistress considers of the stories I might tell, she’ll make it worth my while to remain in her service. ’Twouldn’t do to have a tale of witchcraft whispered about the country, would it?”

“Have a care, my dear. You would be well advised to make your apologies to Mrs. Challoner. I am certain you have allowed your young mind to run entirely away with you.”

She smiled at that, but did not look convinced; and took herself off in the direction of Hound with a pretty air of unconcern. She had learned, at the very least, the endless utility of a fit of strong hysterics; but perhaps she had long employed that particular weapon in her arsenal.

“What did she witness this morning, I wonder?”

“Nothing she will not turn to advantage,” rejoined a wry voice at my back. “Pray God her mistress does not wring the girl’s neck on the strength of her hints.”

“Orlando!” I swept round and detected his figure — woodland green from head to foot — taking its ease against the wall of the south transept. “You have the most uncanny method of materialising from thin air! How long have you overlistened my conversation?”

“Long enough. The maid Flora is full young to possess so canny a brain — but such an one shall never suffer abuse in silence.”