‘Well, if she had been a relation of one of us, I should say she would have had good breeding,’ says Mrs Avery thoughtfully. ‘My own mother died some years ago,’ she adds. Esme Bullington gasps.
‘Do you think it was your mother who spoke? Do you think the warning was for you, Mrs Avery?’ she whispers, eyes wide in her face.
‘I shall certainly be on my guard if I receive any unexpected house guests.’
‘I think we all owe Mrs Dunthorpe our thanks for such a compelling display of her psychic abilities,’ Hester says, suddenly desperate for the lights to be switched back on and the shadows chased from the corners of the room.
‘Oh, yes! It was quite remarkable!’ Esme agrees, her colour returning.
Gradually, the atmosphere in the room eases, and conversation rises again as each compares her experience of the visitation with her neighbour. They sip their brandy and eat crystallised fruit, and swap polite gossip.
‘Mrs Canning, I hear tell you have a new maid of all work, come down from London,’ says Mrs Avery, cutting across the circle to Hester. It is not a question.
‘That’s correct, Mrs Avery. Cat Morley is her name. She’s beginning to settle in, although she’s not quite as quick about her work as I would have expected for one trained in a grand house,’ Hester replies.
‘I heard that she had been imprisoned until lately. Is this true?’ their hostess asks, her face pressed into flat lines of disapproval. Hester feels the blood rush to her cheeks. How on earth has it got about? Only from Sophie Bell, and Hester asked her most explicitly not to speak of it to anyone.
‘Well, I… ah…’ Hester stammers.
‘Well, was she or wasn’t she?’
‘Indeed, most unfortunately, she was, it is true… not for very long, I understand… a short sentence…’
‘And you are happy to have a felon living under your own roof with you? Is that wise?’ Mrs Avery asks, peering along her nose, pinning Hester with the question.
‘My… my husband and I thought it an act of charity to give the girl a livelihood, and a chance to regain a place in society… After all, she has repaid her debt, in the eyes of the law,’ Hester manages.
Mrs Avery grunts, twitches the ends of her shawl into a neater shape, tucks her chin into her chest. The light shines from the iron-grey swathe of her hair. ‘Indeed. That may be the case. Very commendable, I am sure; and the least one should expect from the household of a clergyman, I suppose. Tell me, what was her crime?’ she asks.
‘That… that is… the details are known only to the girl… to Cat Morley. I have not pressed her for the particulars. I thought it better to let-’
‘Oh, come now! I won’t have it – you must have known what crime she committed before you took her on! No one but a fool would not have found it out! What if she were a murderer?’
‘If she was a murderer, her sentence would have been very long indeed, and she would hardly have come out of it still young enough to come here to the vicar’s house,’ says Sarah Vickers, sensing Hester’s unease.
‘I… I have undertaken not to speak of it. I do apologise, Mrs Avery,’ Hester says, her pulse racing and her cheeks flaming crimson. She squirms a little, longing for the woman’s spotlight glare to move away from her. ‘Whatever she did, it is between her and God. I hope that… by coming here she is able to leave it all behind her.’
Mrs Avery’s eyebrows arch coldly, her mouth flattens even further. ‘Commendable discretion, I’m sure,’ she says, the words like a whip cracking.
Suddenly, Esme Bullington gasps, her hand flying to her mouth.
‘Mrs Canning! What if the warning was for you? What if this new girl of yours is the one the spirit meant – the source of evil that has entered your home?’ she asks, grasping Hester’s arm with her short, bony fingers.
‘Oh! Surely not… I’m sure the spirit can’t have meant Cat…’ Hester smiles uneasily.
‘Have you any elderly female relatives, recently crossed over?’ Mrs Dunthorpe asks her seriously. The eyes of all twelve women fix upon Hester.
‘Well… my great aunt Eliza, I suppose… She passed away four years ago, of the palsy,’ Hester admits.
‘That’s it, then! That was her – it must have been!’ Esme cries. ‘Oh, Mrs Canning! Do be careful – do heed what was said, won’t you? That a source of evil has entered your house, and will bring dark times upon you… Poor Mrs Canning! Do be careful!’
‘Now, now, Esme. Calm yourself,’ Mrs Avery admonishes the woman, who is dabbing at her eyes with the corner of her handkerchief. ‘I am quite sure that nothing truly evil would take root in the house of a man of God. Isn’t that right, Mrs Canning?’
‘Yes, of course,’ Hester says. For the rest of the evening she feels glances aimed in her direction, and catches expressions of pity and wonder on the faces of her peers. She smiles more often than she might usually, to make light of it, but the party is ruined; and beneath her façade lies a kernel of deep unease. She thinks of Cat Morley’s black gaze, and the way her shadowy thoughts stay so well hidden behind it; the smudges under her eyes and the painful thinness of her body, as though some blight is indeed eating her away from the inside.
As Hester walks home, she wonders anxiously if she will ever be asked back to Mrs Avery’s. Twice she has lied, in one evening – but surely this second time it was the right thing to do? She had decided not to divulge details of Cat’s past – and she does know more than she said, although not much more – and she stayed true to her vow. Thunder is thudding across the sky, sounding like heavy stones rolling, and the wind comes in powerful gusts, making the late spring branches flail, dashing pollen from the blossoms, sending petals flying into the air. A spattering of rain begins to fall. Hester pulls her coat tighter, and struggles with her umbrella for a while before giving up when the wind threatens to tear it.
With the sky so heavy and low, the road is near invisible. Only the faint yellow glow from the windows of houses lights her way as she passes, and this dwindles to nothing as she comes to the far end of the village, and walks the last stretch to the vicarage. Hester finds herself peering into the darkness beneath the trees and hedges, straining her eyes as she had strained all her senses at the seance. The black depths seem watchful, the wind seems to carry voices, whispered words. Shivering, Hester pauses. Her knees feel weak and unsteady. The wind curls around her, unpins her hair, threatens to carry off her hat; she clamps one hand upon it, eyes screwed up against the onslaught and the stinging rain. There is a large horse chestnut tree just outside the garden wall of the vicarage, its leaves already full out, broad and young and softly green by daylight. A flicker of lightning lights the tree with the grey tones of the underworld, and there, against the trunk, a figure stands quite still. Hester catches her breath in a gasp. No more than a black shape, a motionless outline, but quite definitely watching her with an implacable patience. Hester tries to cry out but her voice is strangled. She stands frozen, thinking of the violently angry spirit they had conjured that night, and the dire warning of evil which might have been for her. For a moment she can’t think or move, and is wholly seized by a spasm of shock. Then, with a small cry of fear, she bolts for the safety of home, heart beating fit to burst.
Cat waits until she hears the front door slam shut before she relaxes again. She pictures Hester with her back to the door, eyes shut, panting; and she smiles. From behind her back she lifts her cigarette to her lips, takes a long pull. The smoke makes her lungs burn, and she coughs, but perseveres. The doctor whom The Gentleman took her to see upon her release encouraged her in the habit, told her that the hot smoke would help to dry out her lungs. The first taste of tobacco in weeks. She came outside to smoke it to be away from Mrs Bell, and to watch the storm. Never before has she stood beneath a tree whilst the wind throws it about with such violence. Never before has she heard the terrific roar that it makes – a hissing, rushing sound like waves crashing ashore. She shuts her eyes and listens, lets the sound swirl around her, until she feels like one more leaf on the tree, one more helpless, insignificant thing. Like she might fly away in the next second. When thunder hammers out, right over her head, Cat smiles in the dark.