Hush Now, Don't You Cry(72)

So up I went, my heart beating faster in anticipation of what I might find. It must lead up into the tower. It was dimly lit with that one window of tinted yellow glass and then no other form of light for quite a while. At the top I came to a doorway. It was shut. I turned the handle, rattled it, but it must have been locked from the inside. Frustration welled up in me. I was so close and I wasn’t about to give up now. I knelt down, trying to put my eye to the keyhole, but the key must have been in it as I could see nothing. I realized in annoyance that I hadn’t yet put my hair up. A good hairpin might have been able to dislodge that key. I didn’t relish climbing all the way down again and then back up with the right tools to gain entry, but I was prepared to do it if that was what it took to find out the truth.

Let me tell you that going down was harder than climbing up. I slithered, got my skirts caught, scraped my toes, and was generally thoroughly vexed by the time I reached the ground. I found my shoes and went back to the cottage, carrying them in my hand. Once back at the cottage I removed my wet stockings and underskirt, giving me one less layer to encumber me. I wished I had dared to pack my bicycling bloomers. How much easier it would be if ladies were allowed to wear them on a regular basis. Then I found a small knife in the kitchen drawer and took a sheet of writing paper from the desk. Thus armed I recrossed the lawn. The sun was now coming up over the ocean, painting the water with lovely streaks of gold. I felt a renewed sense of urgency. Gardeners would be arriving. People in the house would be up and around. Young Sam might want to go fishing, if the shed was unlocked.

I reached the ivy unseen and slipped inside. The second climb seemed to take forever and I wondered at one point whether I had taken another route upward and missed the window. But there it was at last and I climbed through more easily with one less layer of clothing to hinder me. Up the stairs I went, slid the sheet of paper under the door and then used the knife to push out the key. I heard it drop with a loud clunk and hoped that I had positioned the paper correctly. I held my breath as I pulled it out carefully and was delighted to see the key lying on it. In a few seconds I turned the key in the lock and the door swung open. Before me was a good-sized, rather large Spartan room with bare floors, dotted here and there with braided rugs. It was lit by another arched window, this one paned with clear glass so that I could look out at the grounds and the gate. On the far wall was a fireplace but no fire was lit and over it was a painting of Jesus with the little children. In one corner of the room was a bed, unmade, with coverlets half falling to the floor and over it a large crucifix. The other furniture consisted of a small table with two chairs, an overstuffed chair—rather the worse for wear—a small wardrobe, and a cupboard with a doll and teddy bear sitting on top of it. In the middle of the floor there was a dollhouse and a big rocking horse in the corner. A child’s room. I felt a wave of fear run through me. A child’s room kept as a memorial to a dead girl? But the bed had been slept in and the dollhouse was open with a baby doll in a cradle sitting on the rug.

I looked around for an occupant but the room was empty. There was a door on the far side. I found myself tiptoeing over to it. The bare boards creaked as I crossed the room and I held my breath. But the door only opened onto a sort of anteroom with a sink, a tin bath, a small stove, and various foodstuffs on a shelf. That was all. So where was the person who lived here? Had she gone down the stairs to other rooms where she spent the day?

I came out of the anteroom and was about to walk back to the door when I heard a low voice.

“Otay wee awa n baba, Coween.”

“Wee awa.”

All my thoughts of ghosts came back to me. Then I realized that the sound was coming from under the bed. I crept toward it and lifted the comforter that was about to fall to the floor. Looking back at me was the face I had seen in the window, the face I had seen on the portrait in town. Her big eyes were staring at me in pure terror and I noticed that they were not bright blue, as in the portrait, but were greenish brown. I also realized, of course, that she was not four years old, but a girl of eleven or twelve with long light-brown hair. The hair was still plastered to her forehead the way it would be if she had been out in a rainstorm and had not dried or brushed since. She was still wearing a white nightgown but I couldn’t tell whether that had dried on her or was a fresh one. After her initial frozen shock the girl was now looking around like a trapped animal for a way of escape.

“Don’t be afraid. I won’t hurt you,” I said gently. “I’m a friend.”

She stared at me, silent, unblinking.