Chapter Fourteen

1911

As the Halloween party picked up pace in Cornwall, Laurie was elsewhere — in a carriage, to be precise, travelling from the railway station. With him, was a very dusty, very excited girl. That girl was fourteen-year-old Evie Griffiths, red-headed daughter of Lily and Edwin Griffiths.

‘That’s the first time I’ve travelled on a train by myself!’ she was telling Laurie happily. ‘When Mama and Papa waved me off, I swear I was going to cry — I mean, all the way to Cornwall on a train!’

The arrangement had been that Laurie would collect Evie at the other end. She’d had a piano examination earlier that day at Trinity College, in London, and hadn’t wanted to miss it — she and her older brother, the quiet, shy Albert, had a friendly rivalry going on. Albert was one grade ahead of Evie and if she’d missed this — well, he would be two grades ahead of her and that would never do . . .

The boys had travelled up yesterday after lessons had finished, and stayed at Pencradoc. They got on very well with Laurie’s younger brothers and the evening had been an uproar of yelling boys and rough-and-tumble games. Elsie, normally in the middle of it all, had stayed out of it for once, helping Pearl as she prepared the house for the party.

Laurie’s aunt and uncle had also dropped his cousins off earlier today, and then Alys, Jago and Laurie’s parents had travelled in the opposite direction to Evie, to meet Edwin and Lily in London, and to stay with them for the evening in their beautiful house in Primrose Hill. It was all pretty complicated — the point Laurie was focussing on right now was that he was escorting Evie to Pencradoc to join them all for the party. The train had been half an hour late, she had explained, as there’d been a delay while they’d shooed a cow off the line, but once the cow had decided to wander back to its field, the train had started up again and Evie had eventually made it.

Laurie allowed her to chatter happily all the way back and to discuss the best way for her to wear her costume. It was an old stage costume of her mother’s — Lily had kept one or two of her favourites from her life before Edwin — and this one was a gypsy fortune teller.

‘Will everyone be dressed like they were in Alva Vanderbilt’s ball?’ Evie asked, her mind dancing to something else entirely. It was the first time she’d been to anything like a costume party and she was practically bouncing.

‘Not really,’ Laurie said carefully. ‘This is more for the children. I don’t think there’ll be any cat headdresses tonight beyond the traditional witch’s cat outfits.’ He referred to a hideous costume someone had worn at the Vanderbilt ball in 1883, which included a stuffed cat as a headdress. Evie loved reading Lily’s magazines, and there had been an article about the Vanderbilt ball, along with a selection of astonishing photographs a little while ago, and they had clearly made an impression on her.

‘Oh.’ She was disappointed for a second, but soon perked up again. ‘Whatever. It will be splendid anyway!’

‘Medora is going as Mary Shelley. Or Lady Byron. Or someone like that,’ Laurie said. ‘She always does that.’ He knew his sister adored the black Regency-style dress she had inherited from Elsie and dragged out whenever possible. ‘Isolde is going as Mina from Dracula — she’s dug through the dressing-up box and come up with something corseted and uncomfortable-looking.’ Privately, he thought it would suit Isolde to sit primly. Situated between Elsie and Medora in age, Isolde often seemed as if she was trying to prove that she was the sensible one of the family, which was a shame because Laurie knew that she could be one of the funniest, kindest girls he knew — she just didn’t show it very often. He definitely felt there was an element of jealousy there, but who was he to try to mediate between his sisters. He had given that up a very long time ago.

‘What are you going as, Laurie?’ asked Evie.

‘Me? Byron, I suspect. Or maybe I could be Shelley — after the vampire got ’em in Switzerland, though. Going for the half-decomposed cadaver look. No choice. Outfit ancient. Medora swooned when I suggested it.’ Laurie had also rummaged through the dressing-up box and come up with a collection of clothes he’d thought might be appropriate. He knew Fabian had a fondness for Regency dandies as well — indeed, there was a wonderful photograph of Elsie and Fabian from the summer when they’d been to Pearl’s ball, where it all blew up about Marigold — but Laurie’s clothes were quite tattered compared to the outfit Fabian had worn so well. And there was that famous story about the Villa Diodati, where Mary Shelley had written Frankenstein , and Byron had written a story about a vampire, and Laurie believed in artistic licence, so . . .

Also, Laurie did enjoy writing his poetry, even though he had to keep hiding it from the rest of the family, so why couldn’t he be a Romantic poet tonight?

The thought made him smile.

Evie laughed. ‘A vampire didn’t get them,’ she said.

‘I know.’ Laurie smiled back. ‘But we can pretend it did. It’s scarier that way.’

‘Oh, definitely! Yes, it is!’

They continued to debate how scary that sort of story could be, all the way to Pencradoc, and, when they eventually reached the place, Evie gasped with delight at all the jack o’ lanterns on the driveway . . .

‘If it’s as scary as this outside,’ she exclaimed in delight, ‘it will be marvellous inside!’

‘I’m sure it will be.’ Laurie helped her out and took her Gladstone bag out of the carriage as well. It was only an overnight stay, so she hadn’t brought a great deal, but he knew her precious outfit was folded up in there.

The light was spilling out along the side of the house as they approached and as Laurie pushed the door open and stepped into the hallway, they heard the party in full swing. Children were shrieking, adults were laughing and Evie looked delighted.

‘Come on.’ Laurie grinned at her. She reminded him a lot of Medora with her joie de vivre and her exuberance over everything. ‘I’ll take you up to your room and you can get ready. Would you like someone to come and help?’

‘Oh, no!’ She shook her head. ‘I’ll be awfully quick. Then is it all right if I just — go in?’

She almost looked worried that he’d say no.

‘Of course you can,’ he said. ‘You can surprise them. I’ll be down as soon as I’m ready — but you know everyone, I think.’ Mentally, he counted out who he thought would be there — truth be told, he hadn’t taken much notice when his siblings were discussing it. After that appalling ball in Mayfair, he had tried to put thoughts of socialising out of his head.

And maybe thoughts of a certain blonde American girl, to whom he felt he’d acted appallingly as well. Still. He’d managed to avoid her thus far and she was probably living it up in London with her brother anyway. No need to keep revisiting the dreadful evening.

Tonight, he knew without a doubt it would be Holly, Noel and the baby; Pearl, Ernie and the children; Evie’s brothers; his cousins; Elsie, Louis and Marigold, and the rest of his brothers and sisters. Oh. And Fabian, of course.

Yes, Evie would be fine walking into that lot.

He dropped her off at her door and she ran inside, already trying to get the straps off her bag, then he went along to his own bedroom.

The outfit was laid out on his bed. It wouldn’t take too long to get washed and changed, then he’d head down to the party as well.

At least this time, nobody would be critical of his sister’s marital status, and not for the first time he thanked whatever powers that be for his genuine friends and his family.

* * *

The apple-ducking — or apple- bobbing , as Viola was told it was called over here — was being taken very seriously by the boys. Unfortunately, at one point, Arthur had to be fished out of the bucket as he’d overbalanced trying to grab one of the floating fruits between his teeth, then a howl to rival a werewolf followed as one of his previously wobbly teeth embedded itself in the apple he’d won.

Arthur continued to roar in horror as blood dripped into the bucket and some of the smaller children cried as it stained the water red and simultaneously spread all over Arthur’s chin, dripping onto his no-longer-white ghost outfit.

‘Oh, Arthur!’ Elsie came to life, jumped to her feet and went over to him. ‘Are you all right, darling? That’s been ready to come out for a while, hasn’t it?’

‘Yeth.’ Arthur was trying to speak and staunch the blood at the same time.

‘Jolly good timing for Halloween,’ said Elsie. ‘Good prank.’

‘Not a prank,’ said Arthur grumpily. ‘With it wath . . .’

‘Why is Arthur bleeding?’ asked Marigold. She ran up to her young uncle and patted his cheek, getting blood all over herself in the process.

‘Goodness me,’ said Elsie’s friend Fabian, obviously trying not to laugh. He swooped on Marigold and gently removed her hand from Arthur’s face, dunked her hand in the water, then shook the liquid off it. Then he picked the bucket up and hurried out of the room to dispose of it, shouting over his shoulder as he went. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll wash the apples! No harm done! You can use the ones hanging up to play with in the meantime!’

Enyon pulled a face. ‘Ugh, Fabian, I’m not doing that! The girls have been at those — trying to see who’ll get married first!’

‘Have not!’ said Medora, while simultaneously flushing bright red. She was wearing a black lace dress with a high waist that wouldn’t have looked out of place in Regency times. In addition, she was wearing long, black gloves and a black tiara.

‘Have too!’ said Enyon. ‘I saw you all there squawking about it! And I heard you practising that poem and it sounded stupid ! Who has a raven called Quoth anyway?’

‘The words are “Quoth the raven”,’ said Isolde icily, siding with her sister. ‘And if you studied your schoolbooks you would know that means the raven quoted the phrase “nevermore”. Stupid boy.’

‘I say,’ said Holly suddenly as Pearl, Viola and Holly watched the drama unfold. ‘Do you do that thing in America with the apple peel?’

‘What, where you pare the skin off in one long ribbon and drop it on the floor?’ Viola asked, tearing her attention away from the centre of the room.

‘That’s the one!’

‘Why, yes, we do. Although Pearl didn’t get an “E” when she did it, so we never thought she’d marry an Ernie.’

‘An “E” is quite a hard one to get,’ said Pearl defensively, but she sounded amused anyway.

‘It’s not hard at all,’ said Holly. ‘If it was a lower case “e”.’

‘Ah. No. You’re right.’ Pearl nodded. ‘Well, it must be a silly game anyway, as it wasn’t correct like Viola says.’

‘Viola, you should do it,’ said Holly. ‘You’re the only one we need to matchmake, and we need a clue.’

Viola laughed. ‘Fair dos. All right. I’ll get an apple.’ Confident as ever, she stood up and headed over to the hanging apples. ‘Boys. Anyone got a penknife?’ she called, and Sam obliged, handing her one.

‘There you go, sis,’ he said, grinning. ‘Let’s see how you’re gonna use it, then!’

‘Oh, I know how to use one of these, dear brother.’ She was just about to use it to cut the string, when Nancy, Elsie’s youngest cousin, stopped her. ‘No, Viola. You need to do it properly. If you grab it with your teeth , you’re getting married.’ She gnashed her little white teeth together to push home the point.

Viola blinked. ‘Very well. But if I can’t grab it, you have to let me cut it.’

‘Of course — because we need to see the initial anyway, don’t we?’ the girl said, grinning. ‘Go on. Try the game first, though.’

Viola laughed and shook her head. She ducked down and aimed at the apple, not expecting to get a bite at all now she was in company — her luck was like that! She had played this dozens of times at home, even with the dangerous addition of lit candles stuck to the tops of the apples, and she knew the best way for her to attack the fruit was to put her arms behind her back and go from beneath. She rarely missed if she attacked it logically.

Sometimes, it helped being short.

To everyone else’s surprise, it seemed, she managed to win the apple, and the girls all clapped and cheered.

‘Viola is the next to get married!’ cried Nancy.

‘I wonder who to?’ said her sister Lucy, and they all started chattering excitedly about a fictional prince who would meet her and fall in love with her at first sight, and sweep her off her feet, and simply adore her.

‘I don’t want to be adored,’ she said, curtseying her thanks to them, then opening the blade on the penknife. ‘I know someone who would do that, and, no, thank you, I don’t want that at all!’ She fervently hoped that she wouldn’t get an “e” with her peel, even as she carefully pared the apple from top to bottom — émile was not even to be entertained in that respect!

Finally, after a few cautious minutes, she had it — one long piece of peel, dangling from the knife. Everybody was around her now, watching eagerly as she tossed it over her shoulder — even Arthur was watching. He seemed to have forgotten about the tooth, he probably had his eye on her brother’s penknife more than the peel, but still . . .

Viola heard a gentle, slithery sort of noise as she tossed the peel over her shoulder and it landed on the floor. There was a beat, then a confused voice — Medora, Viola suspected — said, ‘But it’s just landed in a line . That’s not an initial!’

Viola turned to look — and the girl was correct. There the peel lay, defiantly in a straight line. ‘Jeepers,’ she said. ‘What sort of apples do you grow over here? We’ve always had something that at least looked like a letter in America.’

Everyone stared at it for a moment;, then Marigold, who was just learning her letters from her papa, knelt down and peered at it. She reached out a chubby finger and pointed at it.

‘Luh,’ she said. ‘It’s a little luh . Look. “Luh” for lollipop. Light. Lily.’ Here she smiled, naming one of her very favourite people in the entire world. ‘And luh for Unca L aurie.’ She looked up at Viola proudly. ‘Luh,’ she said again. ‘Unca Laurie.’

‘What? No !’ Viola was shocked. It was only the innocent words of a tot learning her letters and proud of what she knew, but, even so, she felt herself flush and she knew her face would have displayed all of her feelings, for everyone to see. ‘No. Not Unca Laurie. Viola won’t be marrying Unca Laurie.’

‘But it’s Halloween!’ the little girl said, all wide-eyed and innocent. ‘It is magical on Halloween.’

‘It is,’ said Pearl, stifling a laugh. ‘Listen to Marigold. She’s a very wise witch’s cat.’

Viola could see the little girl nodding proudly. ‘No,’ Viola said again, weakly.

‘One way to find out!’ said Medora. ‘The mirror and candle game.’

‘Oh, yes .’ One of the blonde girls clapped her hands — Viola thought it was Mabel. ‘Clara, please could you go and find a mirror? I think there’s one in the study. Isolde’s been using it to check her hair when Fabian’s been here painting her portrait.’ There was an indignant squawk from Isolde, but everyone ignored her and the tallest blonde girl added, ‘We need a candle as well — but that might not be very safe, actually. Because we don’t want the little ones copying and she has to walk up the staircase backwards . . .’

‘Wait. What ?’ Viola felt completely cornered. ‘Walk up the staircase backwards ?’

‘Yes. Traditionally, you’d hold a candle and look in the mirror at the same time, but I think we can just do it with a low lamp in the hallway this evening,’ said Medora. ‘Come on. Oh, this is so exciting.’ She reached out and took Viola’s hand and practically ran out into the hallway, dragging Viola with her.

Fabian passed them in the hallway with a bucket of clean water full of freshly washed apples, and swung it out of their way. ‘Easy, girls!’ he said, laughing.

‘Fabian, could you keep the little ones busy in there?’ asked Medora. ‘And the boys. With the apples? We just need the girls out here!’

Fabian shook his head and pressed himself into the wall as seven young women hurtled past him. ‘As you command,’ he said, waiting until they’d gone past before resuming his travels.

Viola looked helplessly over her shoulder at the morning-room door, hoping that one of the three adult witches in there would weave a spell and rescue her. But it was to no avail. The three witches themselves were at the door, eager to join in, and Viola had never felt more in the spotlight — and not in a good way. If she was dancing or something that would be a good spotlight experience. But this — this was not a good spotlight experience.

‘Here’s the mirror,’ said Clara, handing it over. ‘And now the lamplight.’ She lowered the lights in the hallway and blew out a few candles that were dotted around atmospherically. The hallway was plunged into an eerie gloom, but, despite herself, Viola began to feel a little excited. She didn’t believe in the folklore, but she could have some fun here. She could make up a man — who was n othing like Laurie — and spin them all a tale. It was a night for stories after all . . .

‘All right,’ Viola said. ‘I’ll do it. But you must all be quiet .’

There were rustles of skirts and sudden, nervous giggles, but, eventually, the girls settled down and Viola stood on the first step, facing them, her natural confidence bubbling to the surface.

‘“Shade of a shadow in the glass,”’ she said in a low, resonant voice, looking around the assembled faces. ‘“O set the crystal surface free! Pass — as the fairer visions pass — Nor ever more return, to be . . .”’ She walked slowly up the steps, backwards, as instructed. There was a delicious sigh from Medora and Mabel as the words of Mary Elizabeth Coleridge’s Gothic poem, The Other Side of the Mirror , echoed around the darkened hallway. ‘“The ghost of a distracted hour . . .”’ More steps backwards, as she held the mirror aloft and stared into it . . . ‘“That heard me whisper—” Jeepers! What the hell ?’

Because, looming up in the background of the mirror, was a pale, dark-haired man, dressed in tattered Regency clothing. Then it all seemed to happen at once — she screamed, the girls screamed, she tried to move and her foot caught in the long skirt of her gown.

She clutched in vain for the handrail and lost her balance on the stairs . . . but before she actually tripped, tumbled and fell to certain doom, the man in the mirror reached out a bone-white hand and grabbed the back of her dress, hauling her backwards so she was suspended, half lying, half sitting on the stairs, rather than rolling inelegantly down them.

There was another scream from the top of the stairs and almost simultaneously, a voice which sounded not unlike Laurie Teague’s. ‘What the hell are you doing that for? It’s bloody dangerous!’