Greygallows (14 page)

One of the least handsome portraits was that of the first Baron. I did not like his looks at all. Oddly enough, his face was like a brutal caricature of Clare's fastidious features. The old ruffian—for, by Mrs. Andrews' account, his deeds matched his
face—had been depicted in the armor he wore at Bosworth, on which bloody field he had won his baronetcy. It was not hard to deduce that he had been on the winning side, so, remembering one of Miss Plum's little history stories, I made what I thought an appropriately flattering comment.

'He fought for King Henry the Seventh, then, against the usurper. How we used to shudder, we girls, over the poor little nephews whom Richard the Third smothered in the Tower!'

Mrs. Andrews opened her mouth as if to speak. She closed it; and then, looking amused, decided to speak out.

'That is not how they talk of him here, my lady.'

'Him?'

'King Richard. He was governor of the north for many years, you know, and these wild Yorkshiremen speak of him as though he had died only yesterday! Murdered, they say he was; it was written so, in the city records of York. "Our good king Richard, piteously slain, to the great sorrow of this city." Would you believe, my lady, that there are old men in the village who still spit at the mention of the Tudors and who call King Henry "that Welshman"? His Lordship's ancestor had a most difficult time establishing himself here; he was much resented by the inhabitants, who dubbed him traitor to the true king. In their eyes, the Tudors were the usurpers.'

I looked up at the slitted windows and noted the thickness of the old walls.

'That is why this place is like a fortress?'

'Yes.' Mrs. Andrews nodded. 'The first Baron lived in fear all his life, it is said; once he was set upon from ambush and nearly killed. After that, he
withdrew inside these walls and never went out again. It is said that he became a miser, and that he walked the halls each night, inspecting the locks on windows and doors, and guarding his buried gold.'

'He must be one of the family ghosts; I cannot imagine a more fitting person to become a ghost.'

'Oh, yes,' Mrs. Andrews agreed cheerfully. 'As you see, my lady, it is the sort of tale upon which these superstitious people dote. They say he walks still, and that the light of the torch he carries can be seen from without, flickering behind the window slits. At least he does not trouble our part of the house!'

She chuckled comfortably; and I said, trying to match her ease—for really, on such a dull afternoon, the shadowed hall and the horrid portrait were suggestive of apparitions—

'You have never seen him, I take it.'

'No,' said Mrs. Andrews, chuckling again. 'Now this painting is supposed to be of his wife, Lady Elizabeth Mortimer, that was. He treated her badly, poor lady; or perhaps that is only part of the legend. Her father was slain in that same Battle of Bosworth, fighting for King Richard, so perhaps...'

'She was the heiress,' I said slowly, looking at the painted face. It was badly done; there was no emotion in that flat, doughy mask. 'He married her, I suppose, to make good his title to this estate. How did she die?'

I suppose the question sounded abrupt. Mrs. Andrews gave me a startled glance.

'Here is her son,' she went on, as if she had not heard me. 'The second Baron, Henry by name. His first wife...'

Very well, I thought to myself; you may not answer, my good Mrs. Andrews, but I think I know how the first Lady Clare died; and it should be reassuring to me, for it explains the genesis of the ugly legend Fernando had mentioned. An unwilling bride and a soldier husband who acquired her as the prize of war—partisans of two rival houses, the Red Rose and the White—so if the lady had wept away her brief married life and died giving her lord a son—no, it would not be surprising if the sullen peasants murmured of unholy pacts. Yet the thought did not console me. As we moved slowly down the line of portraits, one thing became plain, though Mrs. Andrews did not stress the point. The ladies of the house of Clare had been a sickly lot. An unusual number of them had died young.

The last portrait in line was that of Clare's father. Elegant in court costume of black satin that set off the stark coloring so like his son's, his features were rock-hard and his mouth wore a sneering smile. I looked with pity on the rather vapid face of Clare's mother, and wondered why all the women looked so—so flat. Were their faces weak only by contrast with the strong features of the men they had married, or did the Clares select wives of feeble character?

The idea was unsettling. I dismissed it.

At Mrs. Andrews' suggestion we made our way back toward the left wing; I was beginning to be a little tired. As we paced down the hall, with shadows darting out as the candles flickered in the draft, my attention was caught by a portrait hanging in an alcove, which I had not noticed before.

It was an arresting painting, particularly after my critical appraisal of the Clare brides; for this was a woman's portrait, and it was neither weak nor flat. The deep-set eyes were blue, but so dark a blue that they looked black until one examined them closely; they had an air of wildness that was strengthened by the haggard cheeks and half-parted lips. Nor was the lady's garb prosaic; she wore long floating white robes, with a veil that concealed her hair and wrapped her face around. It might have been a nun's robe and wimple, save for the texture; the draperies were gauzy. They lifted out away from the body, as if the wearer had been caught in violent, abruptly arrested movement.

'Good heavens,' I said, with more emphasis than tact. 'Who, or what, is this creature?'

'I don't know,' said Mrs. Andrews.

'You mean she is truly unknown? What is she doing here, then, if her connection with the family is not proven?'

'She must be a relation,' Mrs. Andrews admitted, 'or she would not be here. As to her identity—that is a question. You observe her dress. It is of the late fifteenth century, when veils and wimples were popular. Hence it may be, as one visiting expert claimed, that this portrait, and not the one I showed you, represents the wife of the first Baron.'

'Lady Elizabeth?' I said. I was disconcerted by the idea; I could not have said why. Perhaps it was because this face showed such evident emotion. I did not want to waste my sympathies on such an ancient tragedy, but no one could look on this face of incipient madness without pity. In a misguided attempt to divert myself and Mrs. Andrews from
the tragic look of the face, I said flippantly,

'I suppose she walks, too.'

Mrs. Andrews looked uneasy.

'Come now,' I said impatiently. 'Come, Mrs. Andrews, don't insult me by treating me like a superstitious fool. Of course I have heard of the family curse; I had much rather learn the true facts—if legend can ever be called true, or factual—from you than hear garbled accounts from outsiders.'

'Of course, my lady. You are quite right. I feel foolish, repeating such stuff ... Well, this, then, is the famous White Lady of Greygallows. White Ladies are not uncommon in the lore of the supernatural; but ours, we think, is the oldest and best documented. She was first seen by the sister of the bishop of Ripon in fifteen hundred twenty-five...'

I listened with growing amusement to the long list of distinguished visitors who had testified to the existence of the White Lady of Greygallows. We were moving off down the hall by then; it was easier to be amused when that painted face was not before one's eyes. As we neared the doorway, I stopped my lectress in midsentence.

'They were all women. Only women, who saw her.'

'That is true, my lady.' Candle-lit, Mrs. Andrews' face looked quite gruesome; her cheeks shone fatly as she nodded with grisly satisfaction. 'No man has ever seen the White Lady. Only women can see her, only women who—'

Here she broke off, her eyes round as saucers, realizing she had said too much. Too much, and not enough; for all her boasted superiority she had
a streak of superstition too. Urge her as I might, she would say no more.

When Clare was away I dined at midday, in the old-fashioned way, and had a bowl of soup in my room for supper. The lofty dining room was somber enough by day; at night, with the candles making little lost islands of light amid the gloom and the footsteps of the servants echoing in the silence, it was too much for me. I did not tell Mrs. Andrews this when I gave her my orders; I said, with some truth, that the new arrangements would be easier for the servants. That excuse astounded her even more than the truth would have done; the
convenience of the servants was not one of Clare's constant worries. I don't think Mrs. Andrews approved, but there was nothing she could do about it.

One afternoon I decided to do some exploring on my own. Though it was still early when I left my room, the day was dark as twilight and the rain fell with monotonous persistence. The servants were still at their dinner; the house was very silent, and I found myself tiptoeing. I had to remind myself that I was the mistress of the place, and that no one within its walls had any right to question what I did.

I came upon the library quite by accident. Like all the other rooms, it was kept ready for its master's use at any moment. A good fire burned on the hearth. As I had expected, Clare had a splendid collection of books. Many looked new. The rows of handsome bindings, the gleaming carved paneling, the deep chairs scattered about were inviting on such a dreary afternoon.

Rather timidly I walked along the multicolored rows, my hands clasped behind my back. The soft rustle of my skirts, the beat of the rain against the curtained windows, and the crackle of the fire blended into a gentle harmony. I felt rather small in that room from the start, and as I walked on I felt myself shrinking. Some of the titles and authors I knew—but not many. The famous names were known to me only by reputation; I had not read them. The books seemed to be in all languages. My smattering of Italian, French, and German allowed me to recognize those languages; and I could identify the Latin and Greek as well. Once I thought it would be fun to learn Greek, the
writing was so pretty. But Miss Plum informed me in consternation that girls did not learn Greek. Recalling one of our brief history lessons, I was pert enough to reply that the great Queen Elizabeth had been proficient in that tongue. I was told to hold mine and not introduce irrelevant facts. Of course Miss Plum knew no Greek and could not have taught the language.

I was looking for a novel of the sort the girls had smuggled into school., but I found no such title as
My Lady's Secret
or
Mysteries of the Mad Monk.
Nor were there any books on the mines or the mills. I had rather hoped to find a report such as Jonathan had mentioned, but then I realized Clare would have no such document in his collection. Finally I found a massive tome on the Middle Ages, and settled down in one of the big chairs. I had rather enjoyed our little history stories at Miss Plum's.

If I had been a proper heroine, that book would have opened new vistas to me and made me eager to study more. I am sorry to say that its only effect was to put me to sleep. Though it was called a history, its contents had little resemblance to the stories of kings and queens and saints we had studied.

When I awoke the fire was dying. I ran to the door, feeling like a truant schoolgirl. Mrs. Andrews was coming down the staircase at quite a smart pace; when she saw me her face flushed with mortification and relief.

'My lady! What a start you gave us! I had no idea where you had gone.'

'I was looking for something to read,' I said haughtily.

Mrs. Andrews glanced at the heavy volume I was holding, having quite forgotten to replace it. She looked impressed.

'Yes, my lady. I trust the fire in the library—'

'Quite satisfactory,' I said graciously.

She stood aside as I climbed the stairs, trying not to limp. When I reached my own room I dropped the book onto a table, which rocked under its weight, and looked at it ruefully. So long as it was here, I would continue to read it. Perhaps one day it would begin to make sense.

I did read it—as a sinner performs his daily penance. I was plodding through page fifty, or thereabouts, when Clare returned the next night. He came upstairs directly; he was always punctilious about inquiring after my health. As soon as he entered I saw he was out of temper. When his eyes fell on the book—it was far too large to be readily concealed—his slight frown deepened.

'You have been in the library.'

'I did not know I was not supposed to go there,' I said. I meant to be dignified, but my voice ended in a squeak.

Clare took a deep breath.

'Naturally there is no room in the house where you may not go. You are its mistress. I confess, however, to a foolish fondness for my books; I dislike having them disarranged or mishandled.'

'I would have put it back in the same place.'

'I know.' He stood in silence for a moment. Then his face relaxed. 'I beg your pardon. I did not mean to sound as if I were scolding you. But what are you doing with such a tome? It is almost as heavy as you are.'

'Oh,' I said airily. 'I thought I would just refresh my memory of the medieval period.'

'Indeed? If you are interested in history, perhaps I can find you a lighter volume—lighter,' he added, with one of his rare gleams of humor, 'in weight as well as in content.'

We talked then of his journey, which was the cause of his vexation. It had been in vain, and he feared he would have to go to Edinburgh or even London for the work he wanted. After talking for a while he took his leave with his usual courtesy.

I sat thinking after he had gone, the book heavy on my knees. I wished I had the courage to own my ignorance; he could have helped me so much if he would. Why had I not done so? He had been kind, after that first burst of vexation—and from all I had heard of husbands and male relatives, that little tantrum was unusually mild. I was forced to own the truth. I respected the man who was my husband. One day I might even come to love him. But I also feared him.

One of the minor vexations of my life was my inability to ride. I could sit on a horse if I had to, and a handsome riding costume was part of my trousseau. Yet I had a shuddering horror of the creatures which was wholly inexplicable to me. Mild as they might appear, I kept seeing them as wild, plunging figures with huge white teeth.