BLAME

Ellen settled back into her old life as if she had never been away from her home at all. She baked treats for the Davidson children and ran errands for elderly neighbours. She bought new music to learn on the piano and took Prince for long walks through the streets of Richmond when she needed to breathe the fresh spring air. When the skies were pale and clear, the scent of jonquils and freesias overwhelmed the ever-present stench of horse muck. A white frost coated the grass in the mornings, but the days were no longer as cold.

Ellen’s life was as it had been before she had encountered the Church of the Spirit, but Ellen herself was changed. Her past certainty seemed naive now. She had thought herself so clever, so impervious to trickery and temptation, but in the end she was as susceptible as the next person. She had liked Caroline and so she had believed her. Had believed in her. She had liked Margaret, too. And Grace…

Leaving the house should have fixed things. She was a practical woman who had learnt as a girl that strong emotions solved nothing. You could sit about and feel sorry for yourself or you could lock away the hurt or fear and get on with your life. The alternative was becoming a living ghost like her parents. Grief had ruined them, and their children in turn. But Ellen had not let that wound define her. Moving to Melbourne had been an escape, and it had allowed Ellen to become more than just an echo of her past. She had assumed that her return to the cottage would be similar: a clear end to what had gone before and a chance for something new.

Instead, Ellen felt haunted. Not by spirits that had never existed but by people who were undeniably real. She had scoffed at the talk of family when she had first entered the house. It had seemed forced and foolish, like a game the women played to make the church seem more special, and Caroline seem more than someone who offered respite from their grief. Family, Ellen had thought, was formed through blood or marriage. It was not something that people could simply choose to be.

Now she felt differently. How could Ellen condemn Caroline, who had always been warm and kind to her, when she remained stubbornly loyal to Dorothy Whitfield? She loved her mother despite the cold and broken parts of her. Caroline was no less human, after all. Frances, too—even theatrical Adelaide. They had made mistakes, but Ellen could not find it in herself to condemn them for it. Families blundered and quarrelled and hurt each other, but stayed united because they cared. It seemed wrong for the Church of the Spirit to be permanently torn apart. Yet what other outcome had been possible? The very reason for its existence had been discredited; without spirits there could be no church.

Ellen missed it, however. She wondered daily whether anyone remained in the house, or if they had all gone their separate ways. She checked the newspapers carefully for any mention of Caroline or Margaret, but there was nothing. To Ellen’s shame and embarrassment, Sarah’s inquest had been covered at length in multiple papers—although to her relief, the papers had not named Ellen in their brief summaries—so she knew there would be similar interest if the matter went to trial. She hoped the lack of information meant that no one had been charged. Caroline was clearly not responsible and, while Margaret had been at fault in many ways, Ellen did not want to imagine her in jail.

Grace she tried to keep out of her thoughts. If she allowed herself to dwell, she would remember the ease of their conversations and the comfort she had found in the grip of Grace’s hand. She would remember the gleam of her eyes and the proud line of her shoulders. And she would remember the heat of her kiss.

During the day, this was not impossible. In sleep, however, Ellen’s armour fell away and she was left vulnerable to her memories. On some mornings she woke upon a wet pillow with salt-streaked cheeks. Sometimes she would jolt awake from a nightmare or, worse, a dream of perfect happiness. Once, she woke up gasping, with an aching heat pulsing at her core.

No. Thinking of Grace was dangerous. Thoughts quickly turned to worrying, and an overwhelming urge to make sure she was safe. But she had lied to Ellen. There was no way of going back from that—no matter how much Ellen might wish it.

For once, Harriet’s chair at the kitchen table was empty. Her visits to the Whitfield cottage had resumed and, much as Ellen had expected, William had returned to his courtship of Harriet without judgement or anger. If it had been up to him, their engagement would have been reinstated as well but Harriet had said she must first prove herself worthy. This idea seemed quite ridiculous to William, who had never thought otherwise. But Harriet insisted, and he had patience enough to allow it.

Ellen was glad to see her brother looking happy again, and thought the two of them might be stronger for their separation. When they married, it would not be due to habit or infatuation, but a decision never again to be apart.

This week, however, Harriet had cousins staying with her and was enjoying the opportunity to bring laughter and gossip back to her family home. Ellen and William had dined with them the previous evening, but were back to two again tonight, and rather glad of the chance to lounge about in their slippers drinking tea instead of wine and speaking of mundane things. It was only when Ellen brought out a ginger sponge for dessert that William’s conversation assumed a less off-hand tone.

‘You never speak of that church,’ he said, ‘nor any of the women you lived with for so long.’

‘I speak of Harriet.’

He gave her a familiar look.

‘Is there any point? That time is over and I’ll probably never see them again, unless they decide to put Margaret on trial. In that case I suppose they’d want me to testify, as horrible as it sounds. I’ve had enough of my foolishness being on show.’

‘Caring for people isn’t foolish.’

‘No, but believing in spirits is . Especially when you know better.’

‘It’s not your fault they betrayed your trust.’

‘It’s my fault for trusting them in the first place.’

‘Why did you?’

William’s question was unexpected, although it was something she had asked herself many times, never fully satisfied with her own answers. It seemed nonsensical that a cynical, cautious person could be so easily swayed by parlour tricks and kindness. And yet what else could she blame?

‘I liked them,’ she said. ‘They made me feel wanted. Special. As if the group hadn’t been complete until I joined it, and with me there it was capable of bigger things.’ It was galling to realise how susceptible she was to the flattery of strangers, but she knew that was not the only thing. ‘Caroline reminded me of Mother,’ she admitted. ‘Before Bella died, I mean. The way she used to make me feel like everything I did was wonderful—and even if it wasn’t, that she’d love me just the same.’ She let out a huff of bitter laughter. ‘We both know how that turned out.’

His smile was sympathetic. ‘What about the others?’

‘Frances is young, but once you talk to her, you realise how clever she is. Adelaide is quite ridiculous and terribly spoilt, but she has such a good heart.’

‘And Grace?’

Ellen looked down at the table. Several crumbs of cake had fallen on the cloth, and she pinched each in turn between her thumb and forefinger, then dropped them on her plate. ‘What of her?’

William surely sensed her discomfort, but he persisted. ‘Why did you trust her?’

She briefly considered ignoring him, but William could be just as stubborn as she was. ‘I didn’t, at first,’ she admitted. ‘She was rude. And she was Caroline’s daughter, so I assumed she had a hand in whatever scheme they had going on. I thought she despised me; she kept telling me to stay away from the church and the house.’

‘She was trying to warn you,’ William said.

‘I suppose so. It didn’t matter in the end. By then, I was staying for her. Harriet, too, of course.’

‘What changed?’

‘Nothing. Everything!’ Ellen sighed. ‘Oh, I don’t know.’

‘You started to care for her,’ he suggested.

‘I cared for all of them.’

‘I didn’t mean like that.’

Startled, she looked up to find her brother looking at her with compassionate but knowing eyes. ‘Harriet told you?’

‘You know she wouldn’t do that.’ He smiled at Ellen’s confusion. ‘Do you really think me too stupid to see it for myself? I know I’m not the most observant man in the world, but I like to believe I know my sister fairly well. Besides, you’re not very good at concealing your feelings.’

‘Except from myself, apparently.’

William’s smile grew wider. ‘That’s always been the case. But if you wanted to conceal them from me, you probably shouldn’t have spent half your visits talking about Grace. How awful she was…and then how wonderful.’

‘I never said that,’ Ellen protested.

‘Not in those words.’

Ellen drank the last cold dregs of her tea to give herself time to think. William knew. William knew . All this time, she had kept this part of her from him, because she had thought she had no other choice. The guilt of it had nagged at her: particularly so when he began to court Harriet. I love her too , she had wanted to tell him. It was a selfish urge, so she had swallowed the words before she could speak them. But perhaps he had known all along.

‘Do you think ill of me for it?’ she asked, frightened for his answer but wanting to know it all the same.

‘Of course not.’ She could see in his face that he was telling the truth. ‘It worried me at first. I’d always assumed you’d have a husband to protect you and I feared for you when I realised that might not be the case. But I’ll be here. You’ll have a home with me and Harriet for as long as you want it.’

‘But it’s not natural, Will.’

‘I suppose not.’ He shrugged. ‘But it’s not as if you’re hurting anyone by loving a woman instead of a man. Well… perhaps yourself.’

There was something in the way he said it that made Ellen wonder just how much William knew. ‘How long?’

He understood immediately what she was asking. ‘Harriet.’

She looked down. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘No. It was you who brought her home. If anything, I—’

Ellen jumped in before he could finish. ‘Don’t be foolish. I was pleased things happened as they did. I love Harriet as a sister, now; no more. As she has always cared for me.’

‘And Grace?’

‘She…I believe she felt as I did.’

‘That seems a rare thing to cast aside.’

She stared at him. ‘Will, she lied to me.’

‘And I’m not saying you should forget that. But is it so unforgivable to be loyal to your mother?’

She realised, then, that it was not only Grace he was speaking of. ‘Harriet didn’t deceive you.’

‘I think it might have been easier if she had.’ He grinned at the sight of Ellen’s expression. ‘Look, all I’m saying is that it’s obvious you’re miserable. You’re angry with her, but you’re punishing yourself. Why not give her another chance?’

She hated how much she wanted to take his advice. ‘How would I ever trust her?’

‘How would she ever trust you ?’

‘Now you’re speaking nonsense.’

‘Am I?’ He pushed back his chair and rose from the table, then gathered a pile of empty plates to take over to the sink. ‘You’ll be waiting a long time if you insist on finding someone flawless. No one’s perfect, Ellen; not even you.’

She brandished her cup as if to throw it at him. William plucked it deftly from her hand.

*

Ellen walked back to the Plumstead house on the final day of September. There was no sign of rain, and a cab would have made the journey too swift when she needed time to steel herself for whatever she might encounter. It was a full month, now, since she and Harriet had carried their possessions through the crooked front gate. Everything could have changed in the ensuing weeks; or nothing at all.

As she turned into the street, Prince raced ahead, stopping only when he reached his former home. She followed more slowly, still unsure whether she had made the right choice. Her anger had faded, but not her sadness. She missed her friends, but feared she may never really have known them. And what if they didn’t wish to see her? She had turned away from them, after all.

She paused at the gate to neaten her hair and brush the road dirt from her skirts, amused by the idea of doing it for Grace’s sake—Grace, who would cast away pins and hats forever if she could. But Ellen wanted to look tidy: untroubled. She didn’t want her inner state to be obvious to anyone who saw the dust upon her dress.

The house looked much the same. A row of daffodils had broken through in one flowerbed and the other was home to a thriving crop of weeds. A large spiderweb extended from one camellia to the front fence, its architect barely visible at the very centre, two long legs extending from a curled-up leaf. The windows were dull and dusty, and there was a fine layer of dirt coating the veranda tiles—blown there, perhaps, by the storms of the previous week.

Ellen took a breath and knocked three times.

She could hear no sound seeping from within the house, but she knew the front door was almost as thick as the walls. And unless someone was sitting in the drawing room, it took a while to walk to the door to answer it…

It was only when several minutes had passed that Ellen realised no one was coming to greet her.

‘Come on, Prince,’ she said. ‘They must be in the kitchen. You can never hear the door from there.’

The delay was doing little for her tightly held composure. She could feel her pulse racing as she made her way to the back of the house. She had prepared herself for a meeting at the front doorstep; this deviation from what she had expected made it all seem so much harder.

The back garden was empty, except for a pair of blackbirds in the vegetable patch throwing dirt onto the path. Ellen tried not to look at the place where Sarah had landed, but her eyes were drawn to it as if by magnetism. A stranger would have seen nothing out of the ordinary, but Ellen couldn’t miss the slight discolouration of the paving stones.

She rapped with her fist on the kitchen door. When there was no response, she felt justified in wiping the dust from the window to peer inside. The kitchen was just as she remembered it, albeit unusually neat, and…

It took her a moment to realise what was wrong, but when it struck her she felt a strange sinking in her chest. There was no fire burning in the range.

There could be all kinds of reasons for that, she tried to tell herself. A late coal delivery, or perhaps Amy was sick in bed. She went to knock a second time, and it was only then she noticed the weathered note that had been pinned to the frame with a nail.

All outstanding accounts to be sent to the Bank of Australasia, corner of Queen and Collins , it read, care of Mr Albert Forsyth. The signature had been blurred by rain, but Ellen recognised Adelaide’s careful, looping hand.

The house was empty. The knowledge was so unexpected and disquieting that she felt quite light-headed and had to take a seat upon the kitchen doorstep. Having made the anguished decision to return, she had thought she might find Adelaide gone—possibly even Frances—but she hadn’t so much as contemplated the idea of the others moving on as well. It was Margaret’s house, and Caroline had no other home to go to. And Grace…Grace wouldn’t leave her mother.

Grief rose within Ellen like a river bursting its banks. Grace was lost to her. Ellen had walked away from her, and now, when she turned back, she was gone. The lies, the betrayal…none of it had torn at her the way this did. She had thought this was what she wanted. How could she have been so wrong?

The door at her back would never open. Ellen lay upon the cold steps and cried.

In the week that followed, she moved through her world as if she had become a spirit herself. She did all that was required of her, but without animation or real thought. When she did try to think, the words and images were distant and distorted, as if she was deep underwater, reaching for the fractured light above. A levee within her had crumbled when she found the church house empty and now she was inundated by years of dammed emotion and a spreading flood of guilt. She had failed Grace, like she had failed Bella: had turned her back just like all others had, even knowing how friendless she would be. And for what? For protecting her mother, just as Ellen had wished to protect Harriet.

She was a hypocrite, she realised. She had gone to the house with the intention of exposing Caroline as a fraud—and would have done so without any concern for the people she was hurting. She did not care if she robbed a woman of her home and livelihood; she didn’t even care what that truth might do to Harriet. The renewed grief that her friend was now enduring might so easily have been Ellen’s fault.

Grace had thought her Caroline’s ally from the beginning, and Ellen had never said otherwise. She had never lied to Grace directly, but then—couldn’t the same be said for Grace, as she had insisted? Perhaps, in the end, Grace had done no more than allow Ellen her assumptions.

Ellen had thought herself entirely faultless, but that was a fault in itself. William was right: she wasn’t perfect. She was hard-headed and quick to judge. Grace had certainly wronged her, but she had wronged Grace as well. And now that Grace was lost forever, it was no more than Ellen deserved.

William and Harriet allowed her seven full days of misery. On the eighth day, they joined forces and persuaded her to put on a coat. They would all go for a stroll through the botanical gardens—the fresh air would do her good.

And she did find it helped to feel the sunshine on her face. Her body, too, felt better for the exercise. She was normally quite active for a woman, and a week of torpor had made her stiff and sluggish. It was good to be amid the greenery, and to watch Prince romping with the other dogs. It was cheering too, as melancholy as Ellen was, to watch Harriet walking on William’s arm. This at least was a happy outcome for all concerned. It was what happened when hurts were forgiven and mistakes forgotten. She was the elder sibling, but still: it seemed there was much William could teach her about humility, and about kindness—both to others and to herself.

They were expected at the farm the following weekend. It was Edgar Whitfield’s turn to celebrate a birthday, undoubtedly with another awkward dinner eaten almost entirely in silence. Ellen, who thought it fitting that she should return to the site of her greatest misdeed while suffering the consequences of another, said as much to Harriet and William.

They exchanged a worried look.

‘Have you wondered how Caroline knew about Bella?’ Harriet asked.

Ellen did her best to answer the unexpected question. ‘I assumed someone overheard us talking about her, then passed it on to Caroline.’

Harriet looked a little sheepish. ‘I think Margaret read my diary. It’s the only thing that makes sense, given what we know now.’

‘Why would you write about Bella?’

‘I didn’t, really. I wrote about you: how much I hated to see you blame yourself for something that wasn’t your doing. I said that I hoped Bella would come so she could tell you so herself. You don’t believe it from me or William. I thought you might believe it from her.’

‘I wanted to,’ Ellen admitted.

‘Why didn’t you?’

‘Perhaps I always knew it wasn’t real.’

‘Or perhaps you’ve spent so long feeling guilty over her death that it’s hard to let it go,’ William suggested. ‘If you did, how much of you would be left?’

Ellen had to admit there might be some truth in this. She had been carrying Bella’s death since she was a child. It had shaped the person she was. It had been a factor in every decision she had made about her life, guided her relationship with her parents and made it difficult for her to become close to friends. Without it, she would be a different woman. And who would that woman be?

‘You weren’t to blame for Bella,’ Harriet said, ‘and you’re not to blame for whatever happens to Grace. Not just you, anyway. She made the choice to protect her mother; she must have known you’d be hurt if you found out the truth.’

‘I kept things from her, too.’

Harriet grinned. ‘I’m not saying you’re faultless. Just that perhaps it’s time to stop thinking you’re the worst woman in the world.’

‘She’s right, you know. There are at least two or three who are worse than you.’ William ducked as Ellen aimed a blow at his hat.

*

William generally brought the day’s paper home from work with him, and Ellen would flick through it after their evening meal. Previously, she hadn’t bothered with the social pages, but now she checked them carefully for any mention of Adelaide. She knew she could contact her directly—care of her father, if no other way—but didn’t assume Adelaide would want to renew their acquaintance. Ellen would be content knowing that she had returned to her old life and was happy and, since she was yet to find the proof she was seeking, she continued to read tedious accounts of weddings and balls.

One Wednesday Ellen was skimming the Argus as she always did, pausing at times to read an interesting item of news in more detail. She noted that Prisk the draper was promoting a discounted range of dressmaking silk and, taken by the idea that a new bonnet and frock might be a distraction from her troubles, she almost missed the small advertisement at the bottom of the column.

Then she read it several times to be sure she wasn’t mistaken—but the words and their message were quite clear.

MRS MCLEOD, MEDIUM.

Talking Board and Trance Seances.

Reasonable Rates Discretion Assured.

Victoria Coffee Palace, Melbourne.