Mrs. Emery shook her head. “There’s not much that goes on in a house that the maids don’t know about. They see little things … we know how different it is with the French lady than it was with your mother. He worshipped her. They was like one … the two of them. The whole house knew it and when she went it broke him. Then he kept that room.”

“I don’t like it, Mrs. Emery.”

“You’re not the only one, Miss Rebecca. There’s bound to be talk. They’re already saying her ghost is in that room. Orders is that I’m the only one that’s to go in. That’s all very well, but to tell you frank like, I’d never be able to get any of the others to go in … not alone by any road. I reckon if we had that door open and things moved out and changed round a bit … it would be a lot better. It’s like a shrine, Miss Rebecca … and people gets ideas when there’s that sort of thing in a house.”

“You’re right, Mrs. Emery, but what can we do about it?”

“Well, it’s up to him. If only he’d try to forget her … make a normal life for the present Mrs. Lansdon … you see what I mean.”

“I do see what you mean.”

“If someone could tell him …”

She looked at me and shrugged her shoulders. “You’d be the only one who could, I suppose. But I know how it is between you. You’re not what you might call loving father and daughter.”

I thought: Our lives are exposed to our servants. They are aware of everything that is going on. They know in this house that Celeste is passionately in love with a husband who rejects her because he is still so deeply in love with his dead wife that he makes a shrine to her and spends nights in that room from which the present Mrs. Lansdon is shut out.

“We’ll have to wait and see,” I said. “Perhaps if the right moment comes it might be possible to say something.”

She nodded.

“While that room stays locked it’s unhealthy. That’s what I’ve always said and I’ll go on saying it. I don’t like it, Miss Rebecca, I don’t like it at all.”

I agreed with her. I did not like it either.

Belinda was very sullen after that. She hardly spoke to me and Miss Stringer said she was more difficult than usual.

Lucie was also in disgrace. She was a sensitive child and what upset her most was that she thought I was angry with her.

I explained to her: “I am not angry. I just want you to understand that it is not polite to imitate people. It is all right to play the Queen or the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Lord Chamberlain because they are far away and it is a long time ago when the Queen was called from her bed to be told she was Queen and had her coronation and marriage, but to pretend to be people around you could be hurtful to them … and so it is different.”

She saw the point and was contrite.

It took several days for Belinda’s sullen mood to pass but finally she reverted to her old exuberant self. I remarked to Miss Stringer that she appeared to have given up her theatrical ambitions.

Miss Stringer said: “It was a passing fancy … all due to Mrs. Carston-Browne and her tableaux vivants.”

I agreed.

The children were in the garden with Leah one day when I joined them. We had not been there long when one of the maids came running out. She was breathless. “It’s that new gardener’s boy, Miss Rebecca. He’s cutting down the oak tree.”

“He can’t be,” I cried. “It’s far too big.”

I went across the lawn to that spot past the pond below my window onto which I looked down so often. All the boy was doing was trimming the branches.

“Who told you to do that?” I asked.

“Nobody, Miss. I just thought it needed a trim like.”

“We don’t like the oak tree being touched.”

The maid who had told us what was happening said: “The ghosts wouldn’t like it.”

The boy stared open-mouthed at the tree.

“It’s an old legend attached to the house,” I said. “I don’t think we want it trimmed. Of course, if Mr. Camps thinks it should be done, he should speak to someone about it. But for the time being leave it.”

“Well, I never,” said the maid. “It was a good thing, Miss Rebecca, that I saw him in time. Cutting up that tree. Goodness knows what would happen.”

“Why is it haunted?” asked Lucie.

“Oh, that’s just a story.”

“What sort of a story?” asked Belinda.

“Something that was once said. I’ve forgotten.”

“Ghosts don’t like it if people forget about them,” said Belinda. “They come back and haunt them to remind them.”

“It was nothing,” I said. “Would you two like to go for a ride?”

November had come—misty autumnal with the days drawing in so that it was dark soon after four.

Ever since the gardener’s boy had attempted to lop the branches off the oak tree there seemed to have been a revival of the hauntings. One of the maids swore she saw a shadow at the window of the locked room. She ran screaming into the house. Some of them would not go into the garden after dusk and certainly not in the vicinity of the oak tree.

I began to be affected by it and often at night I would go down to my window and look down on it, in spite of myself, expecting to see Lady Flamstead or her daughter there … and I would have given a great deal to see my mother.

I thought about what Mrs. Emery had said regarding the locked room. How could one stop young people having fancies in a house like this? It seemed to be enveloped in the unhappy atmosphere created by a husband who did not love the wife he had recently, married and continued to mourn the one he had lost. I understood his passionate obsession; I had one of a kind myself for I could not forget her either; but I still blamed Benedict. Perhaps it was due to living in a house of shadows where the past seemed to intrude on the present where neither he nor I could come to terms with life as it was and were both craving to be back in those days when she was with us.

I wondered if I might speak to him about the locked room. But how could I? He would not listen to me. He found his solace there. He communed with her. I had once felt that she came back to me. Surely she would come and try to comfort him if that were possible.

Celeste talked to me about the servants’ obsession with ghosts.

“I suppose in a house like this,” I said, “in which many people have lived over the centuries, there would be a feeling that those who have gone before have left something behind.”

“What is the story of this oak tree?”

“It was about a woman who lived here long ago. She was the young wife of an older man who adored her. She died in childbirth and came back to commune with the child she had never known on Earth. They were supposed to meet under the oak tree.”

“She would be a kind ghost?”

“Oh yes … quite benign.”

“Where is the daughter now?”

“She is dead. All the people in the story are dead. They had to die before they became ghosts.”

“And she died giving birth. It is like …”

“Yes,” I said, “but I am afraid it is not an infrequent happening.”

She nodded. “I see. Why does Lady Flamstead come back now?”

“Because the servants have been reminded of her. When the gardener’s boy tried to prune the tree he is supposed to have disturbed the ghosts. They will tell you they have come back to warn people not to touch their sanctum.”

“I see. That is it.”

“This talk of ghosts adds a spice to their lives. My grandmother used to say that people whose lives are a little dull have to invent things to make them lively. Well, ghosts have provided this little diversion.”

“I see … how it is. And we need not listen for the clanging of chains.”

“There would be no chains attached to Lady Flamstead nor to her daughter. They never acquired them … they lived pleasant, uncomplicated lives.”

It was a few days later when Celeste fainted in the garden. Fortunately Lucie happened to be nearby and called for help. I was in the hall and was the first to get out there.

“It’s Aunt Celeste,” she said. “She’s lying on the ground.”

“Where?”

“Near the pond.”

“Go and call Mrs. Emery or anyone you can find,” I said and ran out.

Celeste was lying on the ground, looking pale. I knelt beside her. I saw that she had fainted.

I lifted her up to a sitting position and held down her head. I was greatly relieved to see the color coming into her face. She turned her head and looked fearfully over her shoulder.

“It’s all right, Celeste,” I said. “I think you just fainted. Perhaps it was the cold …”

She was shaking.

“I saw her,” she whispered. “It’s true … she was there … under the tree.”

I shivered. What did she mean? Was Celeste seeing ghosts now?

I said: “We’ll get you into the house.”

“She was there,” she went on. “I saw her clearly.”

Mrs. Emery had appeared.

“Oh, Mrs. Emery,” I said. “Mrs. Lansdon has fainted. I think she must have left a warm room and the cold was too much for her.” I was battling to find reasons. I did not like this talk of ghosts.

“Let’s get her in … quick,” said Mrs. Emery practically.

“We’ll take her to her room,” I said. “Then I think a little brandy …”

She was on her feet but shaky; she turned and looked over her shoulder at the seat under the tree.

“You’re shivering!” I said. “Come on. Let’s get in.”

We took her to her room.

“Get her to lie down,” said Mrs. Emery. “I’ll go and see about that brandy. I’ll send up one of the girls to see to the fire. It’s nearly out.”

Celeste lay on the bed. She took my hand and held it tightly. “Don’t go,” she said.

“Of course I won’t. I’ll stay here. Don’t talk now, Celeste. Wait till Mrs. Emery brings the brandy. You’ll feel so much better after that.”

She lay back; she was still shivering.

Mrs. Emery came in with Ann.

“Make up the fire, Ann,” she said. “Mrs. Lansdon is not feeling very well. And here’s the brandy, Miss Rebecca.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Emery.”

“Shall I pour out, Miss?”

“Yes, please.”

She did so and handed it to me. Celeste sat up and sipped it. The fire was now blazing brightly.

“I think Mrs. Lansdon would like to be quiet for a while,” I said.

Celeste looked appealingly at me and I knew she wanted me to stay. I nodded reassuringly and the door closed quietly on Mrs. Emery and Ann.

“Rebecca,” she said. “I saw her. She was there … looking for me. She was telling me that this is her place and there is no room for me here.”

“This … er … ghost spoke to you?”

“No, no … there were no words … but that was what it meant.”

“Celeste, there was no one there. You imagined it.”

“But I see clearly … she was there.”

“She?”

“She has come out of the locked room. She has come to where the ghosts are.”

“Celeste, this doesn’t make sense. You didn’t see anyone there. Lucie was near. She saw you fall. She did not say she saw anyone else.”

“She has come for me … I saw her clearly. Her head was turned away at first … but I knew who she was. She was in a pale blue coat with a cape edged with white fur … and a blue hat with white fur round it … a little old-fashioned in style.”

A blue coat with a fur-edged cape. I had seen my mother in such an outfit—and yes, there had been a hat to match. She had worn it in the house, I remembered. I could visualize her walking under the trees, laughing and talking about the brother or sister I was to have.

I gripped my hands together because they were shaking slightly.

“You imagined it, Celeste,” I said without conviction.

“I did not. I did not. I was not thinking of her. My thoughts were far away and then … I saw the movement under the trees … I saw the figure in the blue coat. She was sitting on the seat … and I know who it was … I have felt her in the house many times. There are those rooms in which she lived … that locked room … and now she has come to the garden to join the other ghosts.”

“This is all fancy, Celeste.”

“I do not think so.”

“It is all in your mind.”

She stared at me. “In my mind …” she stammered.

“Yes, you are thinking of her and you fancy you see her.”

“I saw her,” she said firmly.

“Celeste, it has to stop, you know. Perhaps you ought to leave here for a while.”

“I cannot go.”

“Why not? You could come to Cornwall with me. Come for Christmas. My grandparents would love it. We’ll take the children.”