2

Upstairs, the parlour was barely recognisable. The room he’d earlier made so comfortable was now as dark as a dungeon. Felix wasn’t scared, not like Agatha had been. But he could, as he glanced about him, see her point. The only light came from the fire itself. Shadows stretched up to the ceiling and along the walls. At the windows the shutters remained open, making the huge floor-to-ceiling casements gape like the mouths of caves. It wasn’t the slightest bit welcoming. Yet it was the perfect setting for telling ghost stories.

The guests formed an untidy half-circle around the fire. Mrs Shelley sat on a floor cushion, her feet tucked beneath her. Mr Shelley, white-faced and uneasy, occupied a chair. Miss Clairmont lay sprawled on the red chaise longue, and next to her, his foot propped on a stool, sat Dr Polidori. Agatha said the doctor was sweet on Mrs Shelley and had hurt his ankle jumping from a window to impress her. It was the sort of thing people seemed to do for the Shelleys.

Silently, Felix moved between the guests with the port. Neither Dr Polidori nor Miss Clairmont looked up as he refilled their glasses. He was glad they didn’t notice how his hand shook.

‘Do you have a story for us, Mary?’ Dr Polidori asked, addressing Mrs Shelley over Felix’s shoulder.

‘No, sadly,’ she said. ‘I’m too exhausted tonight even to think.’

Even so, she sat very upright, very tense. If this was exhaustion, then it seemed to be the kind that quivered like catgut pulled tight.

‘It’s Clara – again,’ said Miss Clairmont, by way of explanation. ‘That girl is an annoying little wretch. Why Mary and Percy had to adopt her I’ve no idea. She does nothing but tell lies, then gets into a sulk when no one believes her. She’s impossible!’

Felix recalled the girl with white-blonde hair he’d seen at the window that morning. So her name was Clara. He didn’t think she’d looked sulky; there had been something about her that seemed almost sad.

‘I’m sure she’ll settle eventually,’ Mrs Shelley said, though she didn’t sound convinced. ‘She’s tired. It’s been a long journey for her – for us all. I left instructions with the maid to put her to bed early tonight.’

‘Ha! That’ll stir up a tantrum,’ said Miss Clairmont.

Mrs Shelley glared. ‘When I want your advice on child-rearing, Claire, do remind me to ask.’

‘Don’t be cruel, Mary dear,’ said Mr Shelley, as Miss Clairmont winced at the jibe.

Mrs Shelley turned back to Dr Polidori. ‘Forgive me,’ she said, in softer tones. ‘I have had a trying day, but it’s not my daughter’s fault. And now my brain feels quite empty of ideas.’

Behind those silver-green eyes of hers, Felix felt certain there was nothing but ideas. Yet the guests were restless for another ghost story. And so Lord Byron rose from his seat and stood before the fire, elbow resting on the mantel. He cleared his throat dramatically; he did so enjoy addressing people.

Felix retreated to the back of the room, eager for the entertainment to resume.

‘Who will be our next storyteller? Who will dare to freeze our blood?’ His lordship’s gaze travelled the group, coming to rest on Mrs Shelley. ‘Mary, do you really have no story for us?’

Mrs Shelley held up her hands in defeat.

‘Please, don’t ask me again. I cannot think of a single ghostly thing,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you take my turn?’

Yes, do! Felix pleaded silently, for Lord Byron was brilliant at telling stories. He did voices and actions to enthrall his audience. It was bound to be too good to miss.

‘Very well.’ Lord Byron sighed, as if this was all a huge inconvenience and he’d rather be left alone to sip port. But there was a playful glint in his eye – Felix saw it. His master was enjoying himself.

Moving away from the fireside, Lord Byron took a seat near the windows. Lightning darted across his face, making his skin look a deathly, bluish white. Almost corpse-like, Felix thought, and felt a churning sensation in his stomach. By the fire the rest of the group had gone very still.

The spell was cast.

‘My tale is of a girl named Christabel who, one dark and stormy night, takes a stranger into her home,’ Lord Byron said. ‘That stranger, my dears, is not all she seems.’

So Lord Byron began his story, his voice rising and falling like the sea. The way he paused, eyes wide with fear, drew Felix in till he’d quite forgotten himself.

‘… Christabel carried the stranger inside, unlocking the huge front gate and staggering across the courtyard. The woman in her arms was so bloodless and weak, she began to wonder if what she’d brought in from the forest was, in fact, a dead …’

Someone cried out.

Felix jumped in alarm. The guests did too, gasping then laughing when they realised it was only Miss Clairmont.

‘Don’t mock me!’ she cried. ‘I know this tale won’t end well, I sense it in my bones.’

So did Felix. His heart was already galloping. But taking a deep breath, he told himself not to be foolish. The story wasn’t that frightening. Yet.

‘… As they passed the family dog asleep in its kennel, the animal suddenly awoke. It leapt to its feet, teeth bared white in the moonlight. Christabel was horrified. This dog was known to be as soft as butter. She’d never before heard it so much as growl. Now, though, it snarled at the sleeping form in her arms. Terrified, Christabel hurried indoors.

‘In the safety of the house …’

A great crash of thunder made his master stop. Felix glanced nervously at the rest of the group. The firelight made their faces look shadowy and hollowed-out. Mr Shelley was struggling to keep his knees still. Sat at his feet, Mrs Shelley held her chin in cupped hands. Next to her, Miss Clairmont’s eyes were very large and very dark. And in the chair opposite, Dr Polidori’s expression had frozen like a mask. Their fear hung heavy in the air, and it was catching. Felix felt his pulse quicken again.

The thunder done, his master took a sip of water, ready to resume. But as he uttered the first word, the drawing-room door opened and a cap-topped head poked around it. Lord Byron’s arms fell heavily into his lap.

‘What on earth is it, Frau Moritz?’ he said, his irritation clear.

Felix groaned inwardly. She’d come looking for him, hadn’t she? There was still work to be finished in the kitchens; he’d been up here far too long.

Lord Byron stared at her. ‘Well? Out with it!’

Frau Moritz shuffled into the room, wringing her hands. ‘My Agatha’s taken a poorly turn. I wondered if the doctor,’ she nodded at Dr Polidori, ‘could come and tell me what to do for her.’

She was, Felix realised, not cross but upset. It alarmed him.

But Lord Byron was looking thoroughly fed up. It was clear he wasn’t concerned for Agatha or Frau Moritz; he wanted only to get on with his story.

He nodded to Felix. ‘Take him, would you?’

Though badly wanting to stay and hear Christabel’s fate, Felix bowed his head. ‘Very good, my lord.’

Down in the kitchen they found Agatha grey-faced and shivering by the stove. An hour ago, Felix would have got some small satisfaction from the sight of her. Now it unsettled him. Agatha was an irritating, lazy toad of a girl but she didn’t deserve to be scared witless.

‘Go back upstairs,’ Frau Moritz said to him, once he’d settled Dr Polidori in a nearby chair. ‘Someone still needs to attend the guests.’

Felix was glad to be gone. He didn’t like it when people got sick. He’d seen too much of it in his life – in his own family – and he didn’t want to think of those memories tonight. As he fumbled his way along the dark hallway, he willed his mind to fill up once more with the Christabel story. Was the stranger a villain? A ghost? Would she kill poor Christabel, who in kindness had given her a bed for the night?

He was too late.

On entering the room, he realised the story was over. Lord Byron, slumped in his chair, looked as lifeless as a doll. His master often fasted for days at a time; today was probably such a day. Going to the table where the supper still lay, Felix began putting food on a plate for him.

Miss Clairmont screamed.

Not just once – it went on and on. The plate in Felix’s hands trembled violently. He put it down for fear of dropping it and turned to see what was wrong.

‘There! At the glass! I saw it!’ Miss Clairmont cried. She was pointing at the middle window.

‘Saw what?’ asked Mr Shelley.

‘A person. All in white. It pressed its hands against the window!’

Mrs Shelley rolled her eyes. ‘Is this another of your fancies, Claire?’

Felix glanced at the window. There was nothing to see but darkness and rivulets of rain. Miss Clairmont was crying hysterically now, yet no one seemed to believe her. Lord Byron put his head back and closed his eyes. Mr and Mrs Shelley shared a glance.

‘Why won’t you listen?’ Miss Clairmont sobbed.

‘Because you’re overwrought.’ Mrs Shelley put an arm stiffly round her shoulders. ‘Shall we go to bed? I’ve still not thought up a story to tell, and you’ve clearly had quite enough.’

The two young women got to their feet. As they made for the door, a noise stopped them dead.

‘What’s that?’ gasped Miss Clairmont.

‘A tree tapping against the glass, I suspect,’ said Mr Shelley, though he didn’t sound sure.

The noise came again, louder this time. A thud thud thud. A pause. Then another thud thud thud, though it wasn’t coming from the window.

Felix knew it exactly. It was the sound a fist made when thumped against wood.

Someone was at the front door.