“Excellent! Thank you so much for rounding up this little lost lamb, Reverend,” Hecate said cheerily, taking her friend by the arm and steering her away. “We will go and see the master of the library and brighten his day. Come along.” She strode off, allowing no time for dithering, eager to move away from the confusing mixture of the vicar and the ghost. Glancing back, they made a curious tableau; the keen-witted clergyman in his long black cassock standing beside the sorrowful soldier in his scarlet uniform. Both were young men who had been called to their vocations. Both were now part of her new life.
Clemmie was whispering urgently in her ear.
“Goodness, Hecate, I can see why you are taken with Reverend Forsyth! I know what I said about marrying a vicar, but he is rather lovely and quite charming. I might make an exception for him.”
She giggled then, her laughter infectious, so that by the time they encountered the librarian Hecate had shaken off something of the sadness of the corporal’s story.
Hecate was kept so busy beneath the watchful eye of Reverend Thomas that she was not for one moment on her own in the library. This meant she had no opportunity to study the Mappa Mundi closely, let alone touch it. Nor was she able to speak at any length with Brother Michael, though she had twice spied him drifting up and down between the bookshelves. She applied herself to her small tasks and did her utmost to prove her worth to her superior. She had, at least, been able to spend time in other areas of the cathedral and, to her great delight, had encountered more of the ghostly family who resided there. She met again the phantom cleaner, who fussed and fretted about not getting the cathedral ready for a visit by King George III. Hecate quickly realized that some souls had less awareness of their own state or the time in which they found themselves than others. If she mentioned the modern date, Mrs. Nugent became at first confused and then dismissive, as if it was Hecate whose mind was not to be relied upon for facts.
It was during this time that she made the acquaintance of another ghost, whose story touched her deeply. On her way back from an errand for Reverend Thomas she had stopped at the shrine of their local saint, Thomas Cantilupe, to light a candle of remembrance. It was while she was dropping the spent match into the tin receptacle provided, its narrow plume of smoke drifting heavenward, that she had become aware of a presence to her right. Turning, she found a slender woman of late middle years dressed in a gown of so soft a blue it suggested she had stood too long in the sun. It was not the paleness of the woman’s skin, nor the whisper of her voice, nor the silence of her footsteps that alerted Hecate to her otherworldliness. Indeed, to begin with the stranger’s physical peculiarities seemed to her to speak of aristocratic frailty, perhaps, or the hothouse delicacy common to many women of a certain type. Instead, it was the profound sadness emanating from her that had caused Hecate to realize she was somehow significantly different. So affecting, so pitiful, was the stranger’s demeanor that Hecate stepped toward her at once, her hand outstretched, as if she might lend her strength by way of the warmth of her own touch. The ghost, unaccustomed to any manner of connection with the living after so many years of drifting lost and sad, hesitated, not moving beyond Hecate’s well-meant reach. So it was that Hecate’s vital hand grasped at the insubstantial one of the ghost. She experienced a coldness against her palm and a tremor that ran through her very soul.
She gasped aloud, finding her voice seconds later.
“Tell me … what is your name?” she asked, watching as the ethereal lady drifted minutely away from her, the hem of her trailing gown moving ever so slightly above the tiles of the cathedral floor.
“I am Lady Elenor Rathbone,” the ghost replied, quite matter of fact. “Of Berrington Hall. Do you know of it?”
“I—yes. Yes. It is a fine house, with notable gardens, I believe.”
At this Lady Rathbone’s sadness had lifted a fraction, a smile accompanying a happy memory. “Oh how I loved the rose arbor in the walled garden,” she said. “It was at its best in late spring.”
Hecate glanced this way and that but there was no one else nearby. “My name is Hecate Cavendish,” she told her new acquaintance in her brightest voice, “and I am delighted to meet you. Truly I am.”
Lady Rathbone looked at her more closely. She reached out as if she might touch her hair. “Such pretty coloring,” she murmured. “So … charming.” She sighed then, her icy breath raising the hairs at the nape of Hecate’s neck. “Had I such flaming locks … he might have loved me better,” she said.
“Who?” Hecate asked.
But the specter put her finger to her lips and shook her head, as if to speak his name was too much to bear.
And then this poignant, mysterious moment had been shattered by the sudden ringing of the cathedral bells summoning the faithful to communion. Hecate jumped, her hand flying to her heart, the jarring volume of the bells’ peals shocking after the whispered conversation. Instinctively she looked up toward the bell tower, and when she looked down again, Lady Rathbone had gone. Hecate had asked Brother Michael about this soul that seemed more lost than any of the others she had encountered to that point. He told her the story. She had been engaged and planning her wedding when her fiancé had betrayed her. She had run mad with heartbreak, fleeing her parents’ home, taking refuge in the cathedral. Well-meaning people had tried to help but she would not be comforted and fled from them, escaping to the belfry, from where she tragically fell, plummeting to her death. Ever since, in times of crisis for the city, she was believed to toll the bell.
7
On the Tuesday, Hecate’s father had taken her for sandwiches in the Green Dragon Hotel. After their lunch they had returned early to the cathedral and seated themselves upon a central pew in the nave. Reverend Forsyth was giving a short organ recital, so that the space resounded to the sublime music of Bach, expertly played.
Edward leaned close to Hecate as he spoke. The sonata gave them some cover for their conversation, but even so he did not want to risk being overheard by the handful of music lovers who had come to hear the recital.
“It is irksome that the master of the library insists on spending quite so much time in it,” he said, knowing how restricted she was by the librarian’s presence. “We can only hope he comes to see you as a trustworthy custodian and takes advantage of the increased freedom that will grant him.”
“To be perfectly frank with you, Father, I believe it more likely Reverend Thomas is governed by his preference for large luncheons than anything else. Or possibly, his gout, which troubles him increasingly.” She quickly added, “Not that I wish him ill health … I would do far better in so many ways were I to be furnished with my own set of keys.”
“Perhaps you could encourage him to take afternoon naps, in view of his condition. That way you could speak to your spectral monk more often and more freely. I feel he has so much to tell you regarding all the spirits in the cathedral.”
“They prefer the term ‘souls.’ At least, the ones I have met so far.”
“Tell me again … Brother Michael, Corporal Gregory…”
“Mrs. Nugent, the cleaner, though I have spoken to her but briefly. She is so desperate to have the place gleaming for King George, it’s hard to persuade her to pause long enough to talk. And then there’s Lady Rathbone.”
“Ah, yes! The heartbroken beauty! Such a tragic tale. Have you encountered her more than once?” Edward asked.
“Three times, including this one.”
His eyes widened. “This one?”
“Yes, Father. She is sitting beside you.” She smiled at him as he turned to scrutinize the pew to his left. She knew he could not see what she could; the pale lady in her delicate blue gown listening to the stirring music. She felt a pang of pity for her father. His own experiences of sensing or seeing ghosts had been very real and important to him, yet he had not her gift. He could not see the lost souls around him now. He would have to rely on her to describe them.
Edward reached out a hand as if to touch the invisible person next to him but then withdrew it. He glanced back at Hecate, smiling a little sheepishly.
“I would not wish to do something … inappropriate,” he said. “Can she … can she see me?”
“She can. And hear you. Shall I introduce you? Lady Rathbone, this is my father, Edward Cavendish.” She watched as her father turned to face the empty space once again. The phantom regarded him with polite interest.
“What a handsome man,” she said, her cool, ghostly breath falling against his cheek as she spoke.
Her father flinched as that phantom exhalation reached it, his hand quickly going to his face.
“Good Lord!” he exclaimed. He turned and beamed at his daughter. “I … I sense her presence!”
Hecate put her hand on his arm.
“She is very pleased to meet you, Father. Come,” she said, getting to her feet. “It will not help my cause with Reverend Thomas to be late returning from lunch.”
Edward stood, unable to help himself staring once again at the spot where he knew Lady Rathbone to be sitting. As Hecate led him away he shook his head. “These are wonderful endeavors you are engaged in here, my daughter. Wonderful endeavors indeed,” he said.
Not more than an hour later, Hecate had cause to feel guilty about her careless wish for the recurrence of the librarian’s gout. He returned from his own lunch in a mood that had shifted from the region of the taciturn to the territory of the ill-tempered. His progress up the stairwell and even across the floor of the room was significantly more effortful than usual. While Hecate attempted to complete her work, Reverend Thomas puffed and fidgeted in his chair, unable to find a position that afforded him comfort. At last, he gave up the struggle.
“Miss Cavendish, I find I am indisposed,” he told her, closing his ledger and picking it up from his desk as he hobbled toward the door. “I shall retire to my rooms. I may yet send for Dr. Francis.” He looked at her levelly. “I leave the library in your care for the remainder of the afternoon. Continue with the task in hand. Should anyone require access to the collection ask them to call again tomorrow.”
