THE GHOST OF WARBOROUGH HALL

"Reality is a question of perspective; the further you get from the past, the more concrete and plausible it seems—but as you approach the present, it inevitably seems incredible."

– Salman Rushdie, 1947-

CHAPTER FOUR:

"You should rename this house," I mumbled.

"Oh?" Miss Hofferson replied, amused.

"Yeah. It should be called: Sleepless Hall."

She laughed. "I gather you did not sleep well last night?"

"I hardly slept at all, since your cranky housekeeper woke me up far too early this morning."

"And here I thought you did not sleep because of the ghosts."

I tried to give her a wry look, but my exhaustion took over my senses and I found myself trying to stifle a yawn instead. Miss Hofferson smiled as she delicately drank her breakfast chocolate. "Not a morning person, I see," she murmured.

"I was never a morning person to begin with."

My stomach decided to growl then, reminding me that I had not eaten dinner the previous night. I looked at Miss Hofferson apologetically, and she gestured for me to eat. She watched on amusedly as I helped myself to some toast and jam.

"I looked for your mother's portrait last night," I said unthinkingly, biting my toast.

"Did you?"

I nodded. I quickly wished that I had not mentioned it. I feared that she was going to tease me about it once more. "She's very beautiful," I quickly said instead.

Miss Hofferson laughed. "Lady Hofferson was the most beautiful woman in her youth. She was also celebrated for her quick wit, her grace, and for her blessed figure. Every man wanted to be her husband, and every woman kept away for fear of being outshone. But all these people only saw her as the lady her family polished her to be. Scratch the painted surface and you would have found a very different Bertha underneath."

I grinned in anticipation.

"She," Miss Hofferson said with a twinkle to her blue eyes, "was many things. But, most importantly, she was a great thief. If you asked anyone who had witnessed her growing up, she would have been described as competitive, a great pest, and a thorn to her governesses' backsides. And so it should come as no surprise that I, her daughter, inherited all of those qualities too. You know, I was a pretty good burglar, when I was younger."

I sniggered. I remembered the fun my brother and I used to have as thieving little monkeys.

"So what did you steal?"

She shrugged. "A great many things. I could steal a visiting lady's jewellery without her realising it. I always gave them back though. I had no use for them. I was also very good at blending in the shadows and being invisible. You see, people begin to be unguarded when they think that shadows cannot hear. That was how I managed to know so much about my family's secrets."

"I wish my brother and I had thought about spying when we were younger," I said. "All we ever did was wrestle and wreck things, and try to think up ways to make everything faster and louder."

Astrid Hofferson laughed. "As a biographer whose main goal is to look over other people's shoulders and spy on their lives, I am sure you are making up for lost time. Women are the best creatures to spy on, don't you think? Try it on your mother while she is gossiping with her friends, and you will see what I mean."

My mouth suddenly went dry. I put my toast down. "My mother is… she is no longer here."

Miss Hofferson's smile disappeared. "Oh! I… do beg your pardon."

I shrugged and offered her a small smile. "That's okay. I'll try spying on my brother next time he's in town." I winked at her.

She gathered her shawls about her and smiled. "Just remember to keep your ears open. Not everything we hear is uttered with words, for even shadows have stories to tell."

"Whoah. How do you know these things?"

She shrugged. "I have had a lot of practice. I had no choice. Besides, I would not have been the author you see before you now if I had not heard, and sometimes even witnessed the lives and hardships of so many people. That was how I managed to know every delicious detail of my mother's life, even though I never actually knew her. There was one particular interest of hers that I found to be completely fascinating, and while this interest was a little common amongst ladies of leisure in my mother's time, I believe it is deemed rather scary and unusual for ladies of your generation." She inclined her head in my direction.

"It takes a lot to scare me, Miss Hofferson."

"Good. Perhaps I shall show you once we are finished with breakfast. You might even like to investigate it."

My drowsiness immediately dissipated. "I've finished, I've finished!" I exclaimed excitedly as I jumped up from my seat with renewed energy.

"Settle down, child. I said you may investigate after we have finished eating. I am still enjoying my chocolate, and I would prefer not to be rushed."

I sat back down with a huff, cheeks hot with embarrassment. I looked at her to make a trivial comment, but I found her suddenly sitting alertly, silently - as if she was listening intently to a call in her inner ear. I remembered what she said, about the walls of this manor house speaking to each other if you listened closely enough, and so I mimicked her and tried my hardest to listen.

I closed my eyes.

A shower of rain was suddenly tossed by the wind against the windows. The clattering sound was calming. I found myself breathing evenly, but I really was never any good at conjuring images and sounds in my head without the aid of another's voice. And so all I heard was the rain. I could not hear the walls speaking.

All I could hear was the rain.

"What do you hear, Miss Thorston?" She asked curiously.

I sighed and opened my eyes. "Nothing."

"But you were listening to something."

"I was listening to the rain."

"And what did the rain tell you?"

I blinked. "Pardon?"

"What did the rain tell you?"

"Um… I did not realise that the rain was, er, speaking to me…?" The statement sounded like a question even to my ears.

She shifted in her seat, and it was then that I realised that she was sitting on a wheelchair. "I, too, was listening to the rain. For the rain carried a voice within it, clutched between the hands of mist and water that…" she trailed off, as if she was hearing something once again.

"What is the rain telling you now, Miss Hofferson?"

She chortled. "No, the rain did not tell me anything. It was simply carrying the echoes of a cry. It sounded like a cry for attention, actually..."

"From who?"

"The dragons. More specifically, mine," she said without batting an eyelid, as if this was the most natural response to my question. I tried to look for sarcasm in between her words, but I found none. I wondered if she was as mad as some of the biographers made her out to be.

"You do not believe me, do you?" She asked sadly.

"I… confess I do not know what to believe, Miss Hofferson."

She hummed. "Uncertainty is more than what I could have asked for from you. I am just glad that you are at least trying to believe. I am glad you have not outright doubted my sanity, though I am sure it has crossed your mind more than once. Perhaps it is crossing your mind right now."

My cheeks were burning once again at the truth of her words. I turned back to my toast and bit a mouthful so that I did not have to respond.

"No matter," she chuckled, "we shall continue with our story, so that you may go on your merry way to investigate my mother's collections." She settled more comfortably in her seat before she once again picked up the threads from where we left off last night. I brushed the crumbs from my hands and opened my notebook, my pen at the ready.

"Lord Hofferson decided that the ghost was more tolerable than another night of squabbling children," she began. "Well, at least the ghost did not vex Astrid so much. At least the ghost did not cause too much trouble and, for the most part, at least the ghost brought relative peace in the household compared to Lord Haddock's son.

"Astrid's governess, however, did not like it that her employer was indulging the idea of Astrid having a ghost friend. Nellie Mayfair, Astrid's first governess, was level-headed and was definitely not given to fanciful imaginings. She had, after all, read Henry James' popular novella with derision, and had tossed The Turn of the Screw aside with a snort. She thought the governess in that tale an utter ignoramus for coddling the idea of the supernatural without first looking at the events - and at the 'ghosts' - through an objective lens. Nellie believed that the fictional governess thus infected the minds of her charges with visions of ghosts rather than protected them from these villains, as was supposed to have been her duty.

"No, Nellie was determined not to do the same mistake with her own charge. And so whenever Astrid made mention of her ghost friend, Nellie would quickly correct her. If Astrid said: We saw a bird take flight, Nellie would correct her with: I saw a bird take flight. When Astrid said: We were hiding behind the curtains, Nellie would say: I was hiding behind the curtains, not we, for you were hiding there alone.

"At first Astrid repeated what she said, word for word, like a parrot. Nellie was, after all, her educator and was thus the point of authority on all things grammatical. But Astrid was not a stupid child of seven, and she very soon caught on to what Nellie was trying to do. Astrid did not like it one bit, for the ghost was as real as real could be. Why was the governess trying to stamp out her existence?

"And so, to spite Nellie, whenever Astrid said things such as: We stole some bread from the kitchens, and when Nellie corrected her with: I, not we, stole some bread, Astrid would respond with: Well that's not very nice of you to steal bread! The governess would growl in frustration, and then explain the difference between 'I' and 'we', with Astrid feigning idiocy, humouring her for a little while. But when she finally tired of the game, she would simply revert back to saying 'we', and watched on with glee as her governess' face contorted with annoyance.

"One beautiful sunny day, on one of those rare occasions when Astrid was free from the schoolroom and was wandering the grounds as she pleased, Nellie decided to take a refreshing walk to the village. Her employer was not in residence: He had left a few days prior to visit a neighbouring estate, and so the atmosphere in Warborough Hall was a little more relaxed. She told the housekeeper as she donned her hat where she was going, and to not expect her back until sundown.

"She stepped outside in the sunshine, her boot crunching in the gravel as she made her way to the gates. She saw Astrid in the distance to her left. She had already climbed a very high tree, and her nursemaid was crossly yelling for her to get down this very instant! The governess rubbed her temple at this scene, but a smile crossed her lips. Astrid may be the most difficult, unladylike little girl she had ever come across, but she still endeared herself to Nellie's heart.

"She decided to leave Astrid to her fun for now. Astrid was not her charge for today – at least, not until she was back from the village to resume her duties. For now, Astrid, with her torn dress and dirty face and skinned knees, was her nursemaid's problem.

"Nellie hummed a tune as she walked. It was such a beautiful, clear, miracle of a day. There was a spring to her step and a curl to her hair. She felt that nothing could possibly go wrong on a God-blessed day such as that day.

"She walked out of a grassy path, onto a sheep-laden meadow, with the edge of the woods to her right. The hill that overlooked the village was just ahead of her, but just as she crested the top, she felt a pair of eyes on the back of her neck. She paused.

"She saw a flash of movement in the shadows of the green woods to her right. She whipped her head around to catch who it was that was haunting her footsteps. She squinted through the trees, trying to make sense of what she thought she had seen.

"Finding nothing, Nellie shrugged and continued on. But just as she started walking once more, she saw a child in a blue dress dart across the meadow, wild curls flying as she ran towards Warborough Hall. The child turned to glance at her, and the sight nearly made the governess stumble. Those eyes, those ears, that round face – Nellie would recognise those features anywhere.

"Astrid! Nellie bellowed furiously. How did that child get ahead of her so quickly? And so far away from the house too – and where was Hettie her nursemaid? Nellie shouted for her to stop, but the child kept running, and soon disappeared amidst the tall grass in the meadow.

"Sighing that she would not be able to go to the village after all, Nellie stayed a few minutes longer in the fields. Astrid did not appear again. In fact, it seemed like she had disappeared into thin air. Preposterous! Nellie thought. The little nuisance had simply sneaked back to the house from under your nose! And so she rushed her way back to the Hall, a furious reprimand to Hettie already forming in her mind. She ran through the gates, barely acknowledging the groundskeeper's surprise at finding her back so soon. She entered the house breathlessly and called for the nursemaid. She walked to the other side of the house, out the balcony, down the steps, and… stopped dead in her tracks.

"Impossible! She hissed. For there, at the gazebo, sat Hettie and Astrid. One of the gardener's boys was raking the leaves not far away.

"She slowly made her way to them, trying to make sense of what she had just seen in the meadows.

"At the gazebo, Astrid was sitting upon Hettie's lap as her nursemaid wiped her dirty face with a washcloth. But it was not this that shocked Nellie into silence. She reached out a hand to steady herself, leaning against the gazebo entrance to keep her from falling.

"Astrid and Hettie both looked at her with interest as she looked back at them in shock. Her mouth was agape, trying unsuccessfully to form words… Any words! Any at all… but she could find none. For Astrid's hair was in a braid, not in a mess of tangled curls that she very clearly saw in the sunshine.

"In addition to this, Astrid was also not wearing a blue dress. Rather, she was wearing a red dress – the same dress that Nellie herself picked out for her that morning.

"Astr… Astrid? She finally managed to choke out.

"Hettie and Astrid looked at each other, then back at her. Are you alright, Miss? Hettie ventured.

"I'm… she… she has not left your side all this time?

"No Miss, this pesky nomad did not want to get down from her tree until I pointed out a beehive above her. Hettie tickled Astrid's cheeks and the child wrinkled her nose. But when Nellie did not reply, Hettie looked back at the governess with increasing concern. Are you sure you're alright, Miss?

"I… I am not sure. Nellie tried to turn the facts over her head. Astrid had been with Hettie all this time. Unless the nursemaid was lying? No, Hettie would not have looked so confused if she had been lying. And why would Hettie allow Astrid to chase after Nellie in the first place? Besides, Astrid would have needed to have jumped off the tree and swooped through the woods in order for her to arrive at the meadows before the governess. And… and Astrid could not have changed out of her dress, unbraided her hair, run past Nellie, changed back to her red dress, and re-braided her hair in the very short time that had passed!

"Could she?

"No! It was absolutely impossible!

"Nellie felt very faint indeed.

"Miss, you are very pale, I think you need to sit down, Hettie said as she stood, placing Astrid on the chair that she had just vacated. I will call for water. You look like you have seen a ghost!

"Astrid gasped. You have seen the ghost? Where is she now?

"A rebuke was ready at Nellie's tongue, but she stopped. How could she rebuke the child when she could not even rebuke herself?

"There was no two ways around it. She had seen a ghost.

"I have gone mad, she whispered, her eyes clouding with tears. She felt her knees give way underneath her as Hettie cried to the boy raking nearby for help.

"Everybody knows that all great houses have ghosts. Warborough Hall is no different. The spirit that manifested itself that sunny day chilled Nellie to her very bones, for she could make neither head nor tail of it. She could not rationalise what she saw. The ghost had shattered her entire conviction with just that single backward glance.

"When Lord Hofferson returned a few nights later, Nellie Mayfair's bags were already packed. She handed a letter to her employer, explaining why she could not work at the house any longer. It explained everything that had happened, and described everything she saw in detail.

"It was a swift but painful goodbye. Astrid did like Nellie, even though she did not like the fact that Nellie tried to force Astrid to not believe in the existence of the ghost. And now that she had finally seen for herself that the ghost was real, Astrid was saddened that her new ally would not stay. Truth be told, she felt a little betrayed.

"Nellie, meanwhile, was crying in the coach as it lurched away from Warborough Hall. She had just realised that she had very nearly become the physical representation of Henry James' silly, fictional governess – the very person she had sworn she would never become.

"Nellie left Warborough Hall that night without a backward glance.

"The ghost of Warborough Hall had claimed her first victim."

A sudden wind rattled the windows in the drawing room. Miss Hofferson and I turned in the direction of the noise at the same time. An icy chill settled at the back of my neck.

"How are you feeling, Miss Thorston?"

"A little spooked, I must say," I replied. It wasn't the ghost that spooked me so much. It was the fact that Nellie, the rational governess, saw the ghost for herself. It spooked me because she was the rational voice that should have debunked the ghost myth forever, yet she ended up confirming its existence in the end.

Miss Hofferson was holding out an envelope to me, and for a second I was afraid that it was my letter to Fishlegs. And then I remembered that my letter was still in my pocket. With a quiet sigh of relief, I took the envelope from her and read the script at the back.

"Nellie's resignation letter," she looked at me shrewdly. "Your proof that the tale I have told you was true."

I smiled at her gratefully and slipped it in my notebook. "Thank you," I murmured. As she quietly finished her chocolate, I suddenly remembered my list of questions. "Miss Hofferson, may I ask you something?"

She immediately stiffened.

"I mean, it's probably not important, but I just wanted to ask you why you keep using third person whenever you delve into your story. Why distance yourself from your past self?"

Astrid was silent for a long time. I did not realise it was such a difficult question for her. Or maybe she was judging whether she could cry foul and if she could classify my question as cheating.

"Miss Hofferson?"

"I use third person, Miss Thorston, because I did not use to be Astrid," she finally replied. "Rather, I became Astrid Hofferson – that is, the Astrid Hofferson you see now, the Astrid Hofferson that wrote those famous novels, and the Astrid Hofferson that the world knows. The Astrid in my story is not me, even though all along I had been her since birth, and she me. Do you understand, Miss Thorston?" She pressed her lips together to stem the torrent of words that further threatened to spill from her mouth.

But I did understand her, and I told her that I understood her completely. I can sort of relate – damn if anyone thought that I was the same Ruffnut as the Ruffnut from before my mother died. I mean, come on. My career choice is proof of that.

She seemed to wither in her chair with relief when she realised that she did not have to explain further. After a moment Missus Parsons entered and murmured something in her ear. Astrid nodded, and the housekeeper stepped back to wait for her next instruction.

"I am afraid that I cannot show you my mother's collections myself, Miss Thorston," she said. "It seems that my solicitor has arrived a little earlier than we anticipated."

I looked at her, crestfallen.

"Oh, don't look so upset. I shall have Molly bring it up to your room at noon when she brings in your lunch."

And so it was with higher spirits that I took my leave and left the drawing room. I searched for Paul the gardener and found him smoking by the kitchen door with a cup of tea. I gave him my letter to post and urgently swore him to secrecy.

"Not a word," he promised me as he tapped the side of his nose and winked at me as he pocketed the envelope.

"Thanks, I owe you one." I was about to leave when I doubled back to ask him another question. "By the way, is it just the two of you here with Miss Hofferson? I mean, does she have any other servants besides you guys?"

"In terms of permanent servants who reside here?" He asked, "Yes, we are the only ones. There's the gamekeeper too, Sam, but he lives in a cottage with his wife and dogs nearer to the park. Molly here does the cooking and all, and I do the gardening and other general things that need to be done, like drive to the village to fetch important people such as yourself, or post our mail in the village. We also hire cleaners to help out with cleaning and all that, but they don't live here. It's just us. There's only Miss Hofferson to take care of, after all, and she never liked the fuss of having a full house of servants just to serve her. She's obsessed with independence and all that. Oh, I forgot Lisa. She's her nurse, so I guess she also counts…"

I thanked him before he could utter another word, and as I walked away I turned this information over in my head. Miss Hofferson said that all great houses had ghosts, and that Warborough Hall was no different…

So which of Warborough Hall's servants did I see in the portrait hall?

Just like Nellie Mayfair, I did not believe in ghosts. At least, not until I could prove their existence. There had to be a rational explanation to these supernatural events. Perhaps I could interview Missus Parsons, Paul, and Lisa the nurse. Ask them about their experiences in Warborough Hall…

Suddenly, a light bulb turned on in my head. What a great idea! Actually, I had Miss Hofferson to thank for for this one. Because rather than ask them, why don't I just spy on them?

Even shadows have stories to tell.

I started to walk aimlessly as I thought my plan through, barely realising that I had already started to hum the lullaby that I heard as I fell asleep this morning until I turned the corner to the portrait hallway. I stopped humming when I realised this.

"Oh shit."

And the hair on the back of my neck stood when, faintly, I heard another voice take up the tune after I had stopped humming.

AUTHOR'S NOTES:

The story is starting to get darker! Which is perfect since it's almost winter here in Australia, and the days are growing shorter and colder, and there is fog outside clouding the street, so I'll be living in almost the same atmosphere as Ruffnut. In fact, I can hear the wind whistling and the windows rattling as I write here in my living room. All as I drink a pot of English Breakfast spiked with a generous helping of Baileys. A William Boyce symphony is playing in the background. It is nearly midnight.

Never fear, the story will still have a few light moments here and there because, well you know, it's Ruffnut. But it will also be dark, and mysterious. The kind of atmosphere I am aiming for is similar to the ones found in Jane Eyre (Charlotte Bronte), Wuthering Heights (Emily Bronte), Turn of the Screw (Henry James), Woman in White (Wilkie Collins), any of Elizabeth Gaskell's tales… I think you get the picture. Haven't read any of these novels yet? Well, what are you waiting for? Go and read them now! Go go go!

Special mention to LizzyLori, who has been reviewing every single chapter without fail. I, too, think Ruff is cheating, but after thinking long and hard about it this week, and after drafting what would happen if she didn't send the letter, I decided that there really was no two ways about: She needed to write that letter otherwise the wheels of destiny would not turn ;)

And to my anon readers: The Cannibal Can (hah I love your name!) Thanks for the review! Don't worry, I don't plan on stopping anytime soon :) RedLavender08 I hope this chapter was right up your alley too :) glad you like my writing style!

Next Chapter: In which Ruffnut bumps into a certain green eyed gentleman with red-brown hair. Could he be…?