Lady Aysgarth detested breakfasting with the Tiltmans. She only did it because she considered it the polite thing to do. Her new tenants, however, were unaware of her benevolent sacrifice. In fact, they were utterly unaware of her existence at all, due to what she tended to think of as her condition. It had been sixteen years since the Tiltmans chose the house in a quiet courtyard off Fleet Street as their new home, and yet Her Ladyship still considered them new tenants. She had watched their daughter Clara grow into an unruly fifteen-year-old girl who, in Lady Aysgarth’s opinion, needed taking in hand.
The Tiltmans, with their money, garish wallpaper and modern ideas, were a daily reminder that Lady Aysgarth’s death had signified the end of her own much nobler bloodline. The large chandelier that hung in the hall was just about the only original feature that remained after Mrs Tiltman got to work demonstrating what she laughingly referred to as her flair for interior design.
How Lady Aysgarth longed to hear the Knocking. How frustrating it was that her application was routinely refused by that awful McNally woman on the basis that ‘the house needs a spirit’. To which Lady Aysgarth always responded with another question: ‘Yes, but why mine?’ When Mrs Tiltman’s mother had moved in, sick and clearly on the way out, Lady Aysgarth had suggested that the old lady’s ghost could take her place. Doris McNally had explained that it didn’t work like that and Lady Aysgarth had been forced to watch the old lady die and her spirit disappear through the Unseen Door.
Lady Aysgarth sat miserably watching the Tiltmans eat.
‘I shall be late back this evening, darling,’ said Mr Tiltman. ‘It’s to be one of those days at the exchange, I fear.’
After all these years, Lady Aysgarth still had no idea what it was that Mr Tiltman did for a living, beyond it having something to do with money. But then, as far as she could tell, nor did Mrs Tiltman, who was content to spend his earnings while glossing over the exactitudes of how he came by it. Occasionally, Lady Aysgarth wondered whether even Mr Tiltman himself knew precisely what it was he did.
‘I hope you have remembered we have guests this evening,’ said Mrs Tiltman.
‘Oh, we don’t, do we?’ replied her husband.
‘I reminded you yesterday and twice on Monday.’
‘I do hate guests,’ he said, winking at his daughter mischievously.
Clara sniggered.
‘George, you shouldn’t speak in such a way in front of Clara,’ scolded Mrs Tiltman. ‘Besides, my sister is bringing one of her people.’
Mr Tiltman groaned. ‘Oh, spare us from Hetty’s people.’
‘She says this one is completely unique. She says we’re in for the most amusing evening.’
‘She said the same about the one-eyed dwarf.’
‘Well, he was amusing.’
‘He stole our cutlery.’
‘You don’t know that for sure. Anyway, this isn’t a dwarf.’
‘What is it this time? A giant? A bearded lady? A Spaniard? It’s sure to be some monstrous freak on loan from the circus.’
‘I don’t know what exactly, but if Hetty says it’s going to be diverting I believe it will be.’
‘It’s difficult not to be diverted when there’s a diminutive cyclops making off with the silverware.’
This time Mrs Tiltman was unable to hide a smile as well, but it did not stop her from chastising her daughter for giggling.
‘Please can I stay up and meet Hetty’s person?’ asked Clara.
‘No,’ stated her mother. ‘Children do not attend dinner parties.’
‘I could write an article about it.’
‘You won’t be writing any such thing,’ said Mrs Tiltman.
‘But—’
‘I’ll hear no more about it.’
Mr Tiltman smiled indulgently at his daughter. ‘If the person seems appropriate, I’ll ask Hetty to bring them round again to meet you one day soon,’ he said kindly. ‘But we are probably doing you a great favour by keeping you out of sight. I should prefer to be upstairs hiding away too.’
Mrs Tiltman stood up angrily. ‘You are as bad as each other.’
Lady Aysgarth stood too. She remembered as a child being given in church a vivid picture of Hell. Burning flames, fire and brimstone. She recalled sitting up one night reading Dante’s account of each layer, filled with sinners, toiling away for eternity. This was worse. Sitting at a table, listening to this family, planning a dinner party of vulgarity, spending their money on vile objects that seemed specially designed to uglify the house that bore her family name. She stepped through the wall into the hallway, turned to Ether Dust and drifted up to the attic.