Chapter Twelve

1911

The autumn was generally Laurie’s favourite season. It was not the hot, sticky time that summer could be, and not cold and wet like winter in Cornwall often was.

Spring was all right though. Spring was acceptable. But he still preferred autumn.

Only in autumn could he see the glorious colours spreading out before him — the reds and golds of the leaves turning, those odd, bright-blue days where the orange trees would pop against the cloudless sky. His sisters would dismiss it as simple colour theory — ‘Blue,’ Isolde would say with a sniff, ‘is the complementary colour to orange. How do you not know that, Laurie Teague?’

‘Because I don’t really paint pictures,’ he’d say. No, Laurie was much more at home with words. It was, he supposed, his guilty pleasure. He’d begin novels and poems and the like, but never get around to finishing them. Part of the enjoyment was starting new things. He liked playing with how the words sounded, writing them out, reading them in his head . . . that sort of thing. But he never wanted to try to publish anything or had any great ambition to be known as a writer.

He was Laurie Teague, he liked words and was rarely stuck for them. Unless, of course, he was in the company of Miss Viola Arthur. Even her name in his head made him shudder and forget what sensible thing he was stringing together in the form of a sentence.

Laurie used to have a habit of stuffing his notebooks and scraps of paper on the library shelves, but then his younger siblings had discovered his notes and tried to read them, and that was not for him. Especially when Medora had decided she wanted to act out one of his ghost stories as a monologue one Christmas Eve in her traditional guise as the family storyteller.

‘And then the duchess wailed as she saw the roses in her garden shrivel and turn black , one by one, as she drifted past them on that moonlit night . . . she would not rest , her spirit would not rest and the Tower became the only safe haven she knew . . .’

Honestly, the story had sounded better when Laurie had written it, aged ten. It had been on those shelves for the best part of a decade when fourteen-year-old Medora had found it.

It was, he thought, hiding a smile, amusing now in a way that only the distance of years could make it amusing.

He had particularly liked autumn and the darker nights, though, when it came to creating those sort of stories — sitting by candlelight in his room, preferably with a full moon streaming through his window, scratching these things out with a traditional pen and ink, and wondering what exactly would terrify his younger siblings the most.

Now, as an adult, he preferred getting out into the fresh air and doing what he was doing right now — riding his horse as fast as he could over Bodmin Moor. He dug his heels into Jester’s flanks, sensing that the horse too wanted to go faster. Obligingly, Jester took off at full pelt and Laurie leaned forward over his neck, clinging onto the reins, exhilarated by the sense of freedom and speed.

This was better than being hunched over a piece of paper, scribbling words down! This was far better.

Because by doing this, on this glorious autumn day, when, yes, the sky was blue and the trees were stark against it, he had no time to think about Viola Arthur. Because she — or a version of her, anyway — had crept, unknowingly, into his bedroom and he’d spent several evenings with that pen and ink, and that candlelight, and these thoughts in his head about words. And he’d written words down that made the outcome of that hideous ball quite, quite different.

In his version, she hadn’t walked away from him and disappeared back into the crowd. He hadn’t stood like a total incompetent and let her go. He had called her back, or he’d reached out and taken her hand, or she’d looked back over her shoulder and hesitated just long enough for him to take those few steps towards her. And the common denominator in all those versions and in all the words he was writing, was that there was a kiss somewhere. And, yes, had it all happened as he had written it, the ending of the evening would have been very different . . .

Laurie dug his heels into the horse’s flanks again and grasped the reins more firmly as Jester lowered his head and bolted across the moor.

This was better, though , he told himself again. This was much better than words. He needed to concentrate on staying on his horse, which left absolutely no time for thoughts of words, or thoughts of Viola, or any thoughts at all beyond not falling off the beast and breaking his neck.

Because it would be Halloween soon, and he really wanted to be at Pencradoc in person and not as the resident ghost.

* * *

So there they were, heading up to Pencradoc on the night of 31 October 1911 — Halloween.

‘The night where the veil is thinnest between the living and the dead.’ Sam intoned the words as he peered out of the carriage window. ‘ What has Pearl been up to? Are those things even available in England?’

‘Outta the way!’ Viola practically clambered over her brother to see what he was commenting on. She gasped — for instead of the dark, chilly, Cornish October night, there was an eerie orange glow coming through the window. The moon wasn’t full — it would be another week or so before that happened — but what light there was, was practically dulled by flickering jack o’ lanterns, lining the carriage drive.

The pumpkins had all been carved with grinning faces, and candles lit inside them, and Viola could only marvel at the work Pearl must have done to bring them to life like this — and even to her acquiring the things in the first place.

‘I wonder if she grew them on the estate?’ Viola whispered in awe. ‘She might have had a proper pumpkin patch created, knowing Pearl.’

‘Wouldn’t surprise me,’ replied Sam. ‘Those children are going to be mesmerised.’

‘ I’m pretty mesmerised!’

‘Is that what you call it?’ Sam glanced at her, amused. ‘You look more like a vampire.’

‘Oh, funny.’ Viola was indeed dressed as one, in a confection of red and black, with her hair standing out around her head and a considerable layer of face powder caked on to give her a ghastly pale complexion. Sam had gone as the male version and accepted the face powder under sufferance, but not the messy hair. He was a man of standards, her brother. ‘Oh, here we are. Right at the door.’

They had travelled from Elton Lacy with the carriage swathed in black velvet, and even the horses had black plumes on their heads. It made Viola deliciously shivery. She’d always enjoyed the celebration in New York — apple-ducking and storytelling and all the wonderful traditions — and it made it even more exciting that she was attending this party today.

She refused to acknowledge the fact that she might be even more excited at the prospect of Laurie being there.

They alighted the carriage and the door opened as if on its own.

‘Good evening,’ boomed a voice from beneath a white sheet. ‘Welcome to Pencradoc! Mwah ha ha!’

Viola fought a smile back as a small hand emerged and lifted the sheet so the person beneath could get a better view. A boy peered at them. ‘I say — are you the Arthurs?’ he said in a normal voice.

‘We are,’ replied Viola.

‘Yes, indeed we are. Viola and Sam,’ said Sam.

‘Jolly pleased to meet you! My name is Arthur as well! Arthur Teague.’ The boy bowed, his sheet trailing on the floor as he did so. Then he stood up, remembering his role and put on his very deep Halloween voice again. ‘Please go into the paaaaaarlour . But beware of the witches! Oh.’ He turned and pointed at a very old dog wandering around with a little white sheet attached to his collar, like a very small opera-cloak. It had some sort of hood that kept flopping over the dog’s ears until he stopped and shook his head vehemently and moved the thing. ‘That’s Biscuit. He’ll try to eat anything within his reach, so you have been waaaaaarned . Mwah ha ha.’

‘Wunnerful.’ Viola laughed. ‘And is the parlour this way?’

‘Yes.’ Arthur Teague nodded beneath his sheet. ‘We normally call it the morning room, but I think paaaaaarlour sounds more scary, don’t you? Oh, and watch out for the cobweb. Medora made it and I’ve already broken it.’

Privately Viola thought changing the name to “Mourning” Room by adding a “u” would have been fine and dandy. But she nodded back at Arthur, realised he might not be seeing her too clearly through the unevenly cut eye-holes, and agreed verbally that “ paaaaaarlour ” sounded ideal.

Then she and Sam wandered towards the room he’d indicated and saw a huge, white, crochet spiderweb hanging over the door with a long, trailing piece of wool, which was slowly unravelling. Sam lifted the edge of the web and Viola ducked under and entered what was seemingly a witches’ coven.

Everything had been draped with dark fabric and a huge bucket was in the middle of the floor full of apples bobbing around in water. Goblets and red punch in a decanter labelled Dragon’s Blood were on a serving table pushed against the wall — obviously for the adults — and what Viola assumed was a children’s version, labelled Bat’s Blood , was next to it, with a collection of smaller glasses. Biscuits shaped like bats and witches’ hats lay on plates, and everywhere she looked, there seemed to be a small person dressed as a creature of the night or a wolf or a bat or a black cat shrieking and running around. One small black cat, her tiny black ears half-hidden in her mass of dark curls, clutched a biscuit in each hand. A black taffeta skirt and a long velvet tail completed the outfit, and Viola laughed to realise it was, of course, Marigold.

‘Aunt Viola!’ Marigold charged over to her. ‘Hello! I’m a cat !’

‘I can see that,’ said Viola. She managed a quick hug before the cat wriggled out of her grasp and started prancing around. ‘Mama is the witch I belong to. Look!’ She pointed a sticky finger towards the back of the room where three witches were indeed sitting together — Pearl, Elsie and Holly, all dressed in black. Holly was dandling her baby on her costumed knee. Elsie’s frock was the most embellished, obviously, embroidered with moons and stars. She was also wearing a pointed hat. A silver rope hung loosely around her waist and the lace sleeves were long and full. She looked stunning.

‘Off you go, then,’ said Sam with a laugh. ‘I’m going to investigate the Dragon’s Blood, and talk to Ernie and Louis and Noel. Oh, delightful. Fabian is here as well. Just spotted him.’

Sam headed over to the men — there was another younger man with them as well, Elsie’s brother Clem, who it seemed had come back from university for the party. He looked awkward, as if he’d much rather be apple-ducking with Arthur — who had abandoned door duty and joined the party now they were all there — and another young boy dressed as a warlock. The warlock was Elsie’s other brother, Enyon. Two other boys she didn’t recognise were also with the apple-ducking group, but she suspected from the copper hints in their hair that they were related to the same family. Someone had also hung apples from pieces of string on the ceiling, the idea being that people could try to bite those as well.

And sure enough, as Sam approached the men, Clem peeled away and joined his brothers. Viola looked around. There was one man missing. Noticeable by his absence in fact: Laurie.

Her heart sank into her boots. Perhaps he wasn’t coming after all. Arthur had left his post at the door. Even Biscuit was lying on the floor by a group of six girls — two dark and four fair-haired. Elsie’s sisters and cousins likely.

It just didn’t look as if he was coming.

Dammit .

She hovered for a moment or two, checking and double-checking the guests. And, no, no siree, no sign of Laurie at all.

Well, she couldn’t just hover there, could she?

So she pasted a smile on her face and headed over to her sister and her friends. She couldn’t let them know how she felt.

To be fair, even she didn’t really know!

But the first thing that she said when she approached was, ‘Is everyone here who’s coming now?’

Elsie, who was half lying and half sitting in a large comfy chair, looking even paler than usual, perked up at that. ‘Good evening, Viola. Delightful to see you. Mama and Teague are in London, and at the theatre with Aunt Alys, Uncle Jago, Lily and Edwin, so they won’t be here. And Laurie . . .’ She looked around vaguely. ‘No Laurie. Not here. Oh dear .’ She slumped back in the chair, a plate of biscuits and a goblet of Dragon’s Blood, both seemingly untouched, close to her. ‘He and Evie must be delayed. Oh, well. It’s only four thirty. Train must be late. Those boys over there — Lily and Edwin’s sons, Albert and Edward. Very sweet.’

‘Oh dear, indeed,’ said Viola wryly, hung up on the fact Laurie was definitely not there. She couldn’t stop herself. And also . . . she wanted to shout, “ Who’s Evie?” But fortunately she didn’t, and fortunately Elsie seemed as if her mind was elsewhere, or as if she was recovering from rather too much champagne, so she didn’t pick up on the original comment. Thankfully!

And actually, would it be worse if Laurie came with another woman or simply didn’t come at all? Now there was a dilemma.

Elsie seemed to make a great effort, leaned over and patted Viola’s hand. ‘But we are here. Jolly good. And a stunning costume, darling. Stunning. Make sure you have your photograph taken. Look — we’ve got it all set up over there.’ She nodded to a corner of the room draped with black velvet, looking for all the world like a photographer’s studio. ‘Isolde and Medora painted most of the background, I added the spooks and demons and some finishing touches, and I’ve designated Clem as the photographer. Letting him use my camera and tripod, though.’ She frowned. ‘ Think I made the right decision. Think I trust him. But we really need to record this party and all the costumes. We’ve all had our turns. You simply must do it.’

‘Your costume is stunning too.’ Viola looked at the three friends and couldn’t help but smile, even if Laurie was apt to arrive with a lover at any time soon. ‘In fact, you all look wunnerful.’

‘Don’t we just.’ Pearl stood up and kissed her sister. ‘I am just certain that we look absolutely Macbeth in our photograph. And the little ones are having a wunnerful time already!’

Pearl’s twins, although a little older than Marigold, were running in her wake, totally in thrall to the girl, and Pearl’s other two smaller children were staggering around and falling down in that way small children do when they are unsteady on their feet but desperately want to play with the others.

‘Just wait until that apple-bobbing starts.’ Holly handed over her tiny baby, Joe, to Elsie, and also got to her feet. She kissed Viola too. ‘It will be chaos. Marigold suggested she could hold Joe over the bucket to help him, but we suggested it wouldn’t be appropriate, seeing as he has no teeth . So she’s taking his turn instead.’

‘That seems sensible.’ Viola took a seat nearby. ‘I have to ask, are you the three witches from Macbeth — or did you just not consult before you came out?’

Pearl laughed. ‘Number one, sweetie — we have a reputation to uphold, so we may as well uphold it. Although . . .’ She frowned and leaned in closer. ‘Elsie isn’t her usual self,’ she murmured in a low voice. ‘Don’t know if she’s feeling rather punk or just has a case of the blue devils.’

Viola studied Elsie and she definitely didn’t look herself — perhaps she was feeling ill or a bit miserable. She knew fizz could do that to a person. The dark circles beneath her eyes and her pale cheeks could suggest that.

‘I’m sure if she felt too bad, she wouldn’t have had the party,’ Viola whispered back to Pearl. ‘But look — the boys are doing very well with those apples!’