Pansy leaned forward, her breath smelling of cider and cloves. “Madness. Death. Scandal. Tragedy. And a curse,” she said. “People die there.”
“People die everywhere,” Viola said. “Death is a fact of life.”
The word madness made Isabella’s stomach clench and her thoughts swirl to Mr. Christopher’s revelation about St. Jude’s. The asylum’s wired panes flashed across her memory, and she pictured Rhys Caradoc’s gray eyes staring through them. What had he endured in that place?
But she had not the opportunity to ponder because Pansy leaned closer still and said, “A maid from Harrowgate was found dead in the woods two years ago, her eyes open wide in terror, her mouth full of dirt.”
Isabella’s fingers curled into fists in her lap as the terrible image took shape, lodging cold and heavy in her belly.
Viola gave her sister a long-suffering look. “She took a fever, poor thing. She was not in her right mind and slipped out in the night, unnoticed. She was found the next day. It was very sad, a tragedy to be sure.”
“They say you can see her ghost in the woods whenever there is a full moon,” Pansy whispered. “That you can hear her cries of terror.”
“I have never seen her ghost,” Viola said to her sister. “You have never seen her ghost, either. Because there are no such things as ghosts.”
“There most certainly are,” Pansy said with a pout.
The two women stared expectantly at Isabella, as though waiting for her to side with one or the other. Instead, she looked to the window and said, “It seems the sky is clearing.”
“It does,” said Pansy.
“It certainly does,” said Viola.
But Pansy was like a dog with a bone. She pressed her lips together, then said, “There is more to the tale. More death, more tragedy. The house is cursed, as is the house’s master. Everyone knows it.”
Isabella looked back and forth between the two women, certain that Pansy would have her say regardless of her sister’s protests.
“The fire had nothing to do with any curse,” Viola muttered.
“Fire?” Isabella asked, thinking of her dream, the roar of the flames she had heard but not seen.
“There was much death even before that. The curse taking all of them, one by one,” Pansy whispered.
“Gossip and hearsay,” Viola snapped.
“Then please tell me the facts,” Isabella said.
“She still screams, Viola,” Pansy said, her expression mulish. “When the wind is right. When the moon is full like it was that night. Her screams echo through the woods, but no one comes.” She leaned forward and patted Isabella’s hand. “I doubt you’ll last longer than a fortnight.”
“Pansy!” Viola sounded truly aghast now. “Enough. You should not say such things to Miss Barrett when she is on her way there. That is unkind.”
“It would be unkind not to warn her,” Pansy said and flounced back against the seat with a huff.
Viola made a dismissive sound and cast a quelling look at her sister. “Pansy enjoys a good tale.” Her expression grew somber. “But Harrowgate has long been a place of sadness and death.”
“It is cursed,” Pansy insisted.
“It is not,” Viola said, firm.
“I don’t believe in curses,” Isabella said. She didn’t want to believe in curses. They were the province of frightened children. But then, most people didn’t believe in ghosts either, did they.
Isabella glanced at Viola, who sat ramrod straight, staring out the window, jaw set. Her gaze returned to Pansy, who stared at her with pale blue eyes wide and unblinking as she gave a tiny shake of her head. And so, they sat in silence as night fell, leaving the sky so black it looked like spilled ink across the heavens. The stars glittered sharp and bright, diamonds strewn with careless beauty. Never had Isabella seen the like. She had not imagined that the sky was different in London than it was elsewhere, but now she could see that London’s sky was dull and closed. Here, the heavens stretched, open and unguarded, vast enough to swallow her whole.
After a time, the wheels struck stone once more. Marlow’s streets wound narrow between low brick buildings and shuttered shops. The chaise entered the town square and drew to a halt. A sign for The Crown Inn hung above the door of a nearby public house, creaking in the wind. Oil lamps guttered on their brackets, sending an amber glow pooling on the cobblestones. Just beyond, the slender spires of a church pierced the darkened sky.
The coach rocked to a stop and after a moment the driver opened the door. “Marlow.”
The sisters descended from the chaise first, their cloaks fluttering like dark wings. Isabella followed. A moment later, with a creak of wheels and the sharp jingle of harness, the chaise lurched forward and disappeared into the dark.
