IT IS TWO A.M. as Melissa Woodrow walks into the darkened hall of her home, a candle-stick in her hand. Her dressing-gown trails over the parquet floor as the sound of a key being jabbed inexpertly into the front door echoes through the house. Finally, after what seems an age, there is a distinct click. The key slots into the lock, and the door opens. A man’s hand slowly pulls back the heavy curtain that all but conceals the entrance.
‘Woodrow, is that you?’ she says in an urgent whisper.
‘Course it’s me, damn it,’ replies Jasper Woodrow, stepping a little unsteadily inside. His cheeks are flushed red with drink, his eyes decidedly bloodshot. ‘You think I’m likely to be burglarising my own house, eh?’
‘I didn’t know what to think,’ she says, her voice a peculiar mixture of anger and anxiety. ‘Where have you been all night? You said you would get a cab.’
‘Just for a little drink, my dear. Met up with your man Langley – thought we’d have a drop of something to celebrate.’
‘Langley? What, had you arranged it?’
‘After a fashion, my darling, after a fashion. Useless little milksop, mind you. Can’t take his liquor – wouldn’t think it to look at him. Or, come to think of it, perhaps you would. But,’ says Woodrow with a rather lopsided smile, tapping his nose with his finger, ‘his money’s good.’
‘You didn’t say anything,’ says Mrs. Woodrow, indignantly.
‘I needed a drink,’ says Woodrow with a rather angry emphasis.
‘But we thought you were coming home directly. Annabel and I were worried.’
‘Ah, the delightful Miss Krout,’ says Woodrow, rather slurring his words. ‘Where is she, my dear? Must kiss her good night, eh? Must be civil to Miss Krout. Her old man might lend us some money, eh? No need now, mind you. Good old Langley. Lucky I found him.’
‘Woodrow, hush! I have never said anything about money – Annabel is in bed. Don’t you know what time it is?’
‘It is,’ says Woodrow, pulling out the chain to his pocket-watch, and fumbling with the case, ‘it is . . . time for bed, eh? Don’t suppose you’d care to join me, Melissa?’
‘I really can’t talk to you in this state, Woodrow,’ she replies, ‘really, I can’t.’
‘Don’t have to talk, my dear,’ says Woodrow. He looks at his wife, but she deliberately avoids his gaze. ‘Damn you, then,’ he says. ‘I’ll just go and kiss Miss Krout good night, eh?’
With that, Woodrow walks purposefully towards the hall stairs, though almost tripping on the rug that lies before them. Melissa darts after him, a look of horror on her face.
‘Woodrow! You’ll do no such thing!’
‘Just a quick peck, my dear.’
‘Please,’ she says, grabbing hold of his arm.
He shakes her hand roughly free, with such force that he knocks it against the banister. Melissa, in turn, leans back against the woodwork, her mouth wide with surprise at the sudden blow; tears well up in her eyes.
‘Here now, enough of that,’ says Woodrow. ‘I was only chaffing you, woman. It’s your own damn fault, you know.’
Melissa Woodrow shakes her head, but offers no words.
‘I’m going to bed,’ says Woodrow, in a sullen tone.
Annabel Krout stands by the door to her room in her night-gown, listening to the raised voices downstairs. She can make out little more than the passing mention of her own name, and the distressed sound of Mrs. Woodrow’s voice. Then there is the sound of Mr. Woodrow’s heavy footsteps upon the stairs. Unconsciously, she holds her breath as he passes her room, and enters his dressing-room upon the opposite side of the landing. A minute or so later comes the lighter step of Mrs. Woodrow, the rustle of her dressing-gown. Annabel ponders for a moment whether she should open the door and talk to her; but she cannot quite muster the confidence to do so. Nor can she imagine what she might say that would not merely embarrass her cousin. In consequence, though she waits a minute or two more, to see if either party ventures forth from their respective bedrooms, she eventually returns quietly to her bed.
Pulling up the covers around her body, Annabel lies back and closes her eyes.
It is not long before she falls into fitful sleep.
At first she is conscious only of a cold sweat, soaked through her night-gown, the fabric sticking to her arms. It takes her a moment to recollect her surroundings. But then she notices, from the corner of her eye, a peculiar movement in the darkness; something quite out of place. Her stomach suddenly turns over inside her, as she moves her head to see a small figure in white, walking noiselessly past her bed.
For a moment, she is quite paralysed by the strange sight, the slow processional movement of what, for all the world, looks like a little ghost. She wonders if she is still dreaming. Memories of childish night terrors, tales told by nurses to scare their infant charges, rush unbidden into her half-waking mind. She watches in silence, struggling to reassure herself that she is quite awake, as the figure walks towards the window of her room, gently pulls aside the curtain, and taps its fingers on the glass.
Annabel reaches for the match-box beside her bed, and strikes a light, nearly setting fire to the entire box in her fumbling fingers. But then even the faint glow of the match, let alone the candle for which it is intended, is quite sufficient to dispel any mystery surrounding the figure by the window.
‘Lucy!’ exclaims Annabel.
The little girl says nothing. In truth, she gives no indication of having heard her name. Rather, she stands staring through the window, her hand still tapping insistently upon the pane.
Annabel calls her name again, but still elicits no reply. Taking the lit candle, she gets out of bed and walks over to the window. The child stands quite still, her feet bare, her eyes fixed upon the street below.
‘Lucy, what is it?’
Lucy gives no answer. Annabel reaches to touch her arm but she is interrupted by the sound of footsteps upon the landing, and the breathless appearance of Mrs. Woodrow at the door to her room.
‘Oh, Lord! I thought I heard her on the stairs. Don’t wake her,’ exclaims Mrs. Woodrow.
‘Wake her?’
‘My dear, I am so sorry, I should have said something – oh, I blame myself,’ says Mrs. Woodrow in a stage whisper, walking briskly over to her daughter. ‘Lucy has, well, a nervous condition . . . she is given to sleep-walking. I would have said, but she has been quite good of late.’
Annabel glances anxiously at the little girl. ‘I suppose there’s no harm done.’
‘No? Why, I expect she scared you to death. She can’t even hear us, you know. It’s such an awful trial – the doctors say she will grow out of it, but really, I don’t know.’
‘What should we do? What do you suppose she is looking at?’
‘Nothing, I am sure – it’s akin to a trance; she doesn’t actually see anything, I think, or at least nothing she remembers. One merely has to lead her back to bed and keep an eye on her. I suppose there is nothing for it. Jacobs will have to share her room again. And she won’t thank me for that.’
‘To watch over her?’
‘Yes, she might harm herself, or fall or anything, you see – they have no proper sense where they are, my dear, not in this condition.’ Mrs. Woodrow sighs, and bends down to address her daughter. ‘Lucy? Come on now, darling, this is cousin Annabel’s room, not yours. I’m taking you back to bed.’
Lucy gives no indication of hearing her mother, but when Mrs. Woodrow takes her hand, she silently consents to be led away from the window, and out on to the landing.
‘I’m so sorry, dear,’ continues Mrs. Woodrow as she walks, her voice low, ‘please, do go back to bed and get some sleep.’
‘There’s really no need to apologise, cousin . . .’
Annabel’s voice trails off, as Jasper Woodrow opens his bedroom door abruptly, dressed in his shirt and trousers. His balance appears unsteady, and he leans against the door-frame. He peers out on to the landing, which is lit only by the flickering light of Mrs. Woodrow’s candle.
‘What’s all this?’
‘Nothing, Woodrow. Go back to bed, dear.’
‘Don’t give me orders, woman. Damn me, not again?’ he says, gesturing towards Lucy, who stands quite oblivious by her mother.
‘It’s nothing, dear, really.’
‘Don’t tell me it’s nothing, when the child’s not in her right mind. Look at her. Give her to me.’
‘Woodrow, no, please don’t—’
‘Give her here, I said.’
Mrs. Woodrow’s protests go unheeded, as her husband grabs the little girl and shakes her. He is relatively gentle at first, but then takes her more violently by the shoulders. And if waking his daughter is the object, then Jasper Woodrow’s methods have the desired effect. Indeed, Annabel watches as the girl’s face changes from its peculiar blank serenity to consciousness, albeit a wakeful state of confusion and fear and, finally, choking sobs.
‘Woodrow, stop it! You’re hurting her!’
Woodrow looks down at his daughter, who stands limp in his grip, her cheeks burning red and wet with tears. He lets go of one arm, pulling her up with the other.
The little girl nods, though her face is still fearful.
‘That was for your own good. You must learn to control yourself. Do you hear?’
Lucy nods again.
‘If you do not, I do not want to but I will punish you. Do you understand me? Speak up.’
‘Yes, Papa,’ says the little girl.
‘Good. Now take her back to bed, Melissa, for God’s sake – let us have a night’s peace.’
Melissa Woodrow darts a glance at her husband, but says nothing, shepherding her daughter up the stairs. Woodrow himself is about to return to bed, when Annabel, having stood silently in the doorway to her room, steps out on to the landing.
‘I am sorry you had to see such a display, Miss Krout,’ says Woodrow. ‘I hope you can still get some sleep.’
Annabel takes a deep breath. ‘Sir, I doubt I can, unless I speak my mind.’
Woodrow frowns. ‘What do you mean by that?’
‘I think,’ she says, trying to keep a measured tone, ‘you were very harsh with your daughter.’
‘Do you, indeed?’
‘Surely she cannot help herself. I mean, though I do not know much about the condition . . .’
‘No,’ says Woodrow, firmly, ‘you do not. And, although it would not surprise me, Miss Krout, if the Yankees were to start breeding lady doctors, until that time, I’d be grateful if you’d keep your ill-informed opinions to yourself. I bid you good night.’
Jasper Woodrow steps back into his bedroom and slams the door behind him.
Annabel, for her part, takes a deep breath, trying to calm her nerves. She turns around and goes back into her room, where her candle still burns by the bed. It does not take her long to discover that she cannot sleep. She contemplates lighting the lamp and writing a letter home, but instead goes back to the window where Lucy stood a few minutes previously, and looks out on to the street.
But there is nothing to be seen.