Hartford-upon-Adley, England.

May, 1818.

 

          The sensible man is well aware that ghosts do not exist. No matter the subtle movements of the shadows in the gloaming, or the distant ghastly wailing of the wind across the moors, one must keep the knowledge firm in his heart that the Earth is not made frightful by specters, but by the childish fear that such specters may exist. Real ghosts—true horrors of the night—are only a figment of the imagination. I had always considered myself among the numbers of the sensible; and so, I believed this my entire life, faith unshaken, until the fateful events of the Summer of 1818.

          Rumors of hauntings plagued the Browning Estate for the entirety of my existence within its grounds. Visitors of the estate would be kept awake at night by their own fear of some otherworldly spirit traversing its halls, convincing themselves of hearing rattling chains and seeing the face of some long-forgotten soul in the frosted window panes at night. Maids would claim seeing shadows darkening the windows of the manor and blame crop failings and other inadequacies on the ghostly chill of death.

          Most were sorely mistaken; the only ghost they ever saw was my father. He was the once-formidably esteemed Lord Richard Browning, the head of the estate. He was no spirit, still breathing within the manor’s stone walls, but after my mother’s passing in childbirth, he had shut himself up in his study in grief and rarely emerged. The twenty years of darkness and solitude had bleached him a dreadful pale color, sunk his eyes blearily into his head, and made him easily mistakable as a ghost. Even I could hardly recognise him, when I caught odd glimpses of him in passing, and had to remind myself of his identity so I would not be frightened by his countenance.

          Those visitors and servants who feared him did not last long, and most people feared him. Most are not sensible men.

          It was the beginning of May and we were in need of extra hands at the estate for the Summer when I went to seek him out. Fletcher, the butler and groundskeeper, had once overlooked the hiring of servants and all those workers who tended to the grounds, ensuring that they received their wages and kept their quarters tidy But since I had become of age, the task of hiring help within the manor was left to my devices, selective as I had become about who I allowed entry to my home. I was very particular about those with whom I cared to share quarters. Fletcher and the housekeeper, Mary, were all I had permitted, a staff whittled down over the years to the bare minimum, but in the coming season, would not be enough.

          I rapped succinctly on the door of my father’s study for his attention. “Father?” I called, “I am hiring a new maid today for the manor’s upkeep. Do not be frightened by a new face within our home, alright, father? She will be new but she will have been chosen by myself. You will not be frightened, will you?” There were long moments of silence behind the door, which was customary. It was heavy oak and nearly always locked; even to me. I hadn’t seen my father’s face since Winter.

          Having alerted him politely, I began to make my way down to attend to things, when I heard the rasping of a long-dormant voice, barely audible, behind the oak: “Do what is right, my dear girl. Do what is right.” My dear girl. My father’s most tender term of affection. As a girl, I had swelled with pride and joy at hearing him address me so, but then, at twenty years of age, a woman raised by nannies and governesses, it jarred me. Affection, when granted freely, softens; when granted rarely, curdles.

          On the manor’s lower floor stood Mary and Fletcher, conversing in low voices. At the sight of myself, coming down the stairs, they straightened and dipped into polite greetings. “Must I tell you both again? No need for this decorum. Do not bow for me, I beg of you.”

          “Lady Browning—!”

         “Just Eleanor has always sufficed, Mary,” I insisted, exasperated, “Woman, you raised me. To bow for me is an insult to your years of child-rearing.” To Fletcher: “And it is an insult to your years of schooling and bringing-up. The moment I became eighteen, you have both held me at an arm’s length.”

         “Oh, Eleanor,” Mary cooed, her round jowls trembling, “you know as well as I how dear you are to us both. Oh, dearie me, oh, dear—but you are the Lady of the manor now. We must report to you.”

         “You have always reported to me. I have long since overtaken my father’s affairs and run this estate since he has been so… indisposed. You did not mistreat my affections then.”

         “Still, you are no child now,” Fletcher decided, his hands clasped firmly behind his back. He had the air of a chief-of-arms reporting to a King, with his emotionless eyes staring blankly ahead without meeting mine. “And our Lady you now are. There can no longer be hand-holding between us.” By his side, sweet Mary wrung her hands and quivered, still whimpering ‘oh, oh,’ as though cooing at a babe. In private, she was easily convinced to set aside her newfound formalities and speak with me as before. Often, we would chat like family when Fletcher was not within earshot, although in front of him, we were strictly Master and servant, though it pained me. Still, I steeled myself before their wall of forced distance. One learns to protect herself, eventually.

         “Fine. Tell me of your news; why are you standing here so listlessly? Where is the maid we are hiring?” Mary sent another worrying glance at the underside of Fletcher’s chin, which was all she could see from her height.

         “She hasn’t arrived yet, my Lady,” he announced.

         “I believed she was meant to come this morning? Perhaps she has no sense of punctuality. Such an improper girl may not be a suitable fit for an establishment such as ours.”

         “Lady Browning—!”

         “Mary.”

         “Eleanor, I’m sure she is no such thing; oh, I am bosom friends with her prior Lady, and she had only kind things to say about the girl. Oh, lordy me. I am sure her tardiness is of no personal defect.”

         "I hope you are right, Mary. For our sake as well as hers.”

         The maid did not arrive that morning, nor that afternoon. I had not the leisure of anticipating her arrival, busy as I was tending to the estate on my father’s behalf—a task which had fallen to me since my coming of age, with my father in no state to be the Master of the house. I was hard at work for the better part of the day, putting aside my papers to read before the fire only when the evening had softened into damask hues and settled, red, over the moors.

         I was in the sitting-room with my Bible, reading placidly from Revelations. Around me, the manor was quiet and dark, Mary and Fletcher having retired to their own quarters after supper. Outside, a storm beat steadily against the windows in a muffled, drumming pattern, and the darkness of the world made my sitting-room appear dark and sinister despite its beauty. My home was elegantly furnished, everything a burnished bronze or rich mahogany in color, the paintings on the walls decadent and the tall windows sparkling with shine. I prided myself on the excellent upkeep of both my living quarters and my work; the condition of my father’s estate, after all, was only enviable due to my own involvement.

         Before my mother died in childbirth that long lifetime ago, my father was an esteemed and well-respected Lord who oversaw a sprawling estate teeming with life and potential. My mother lived here enamored, pampered by his adoration. It was joyous, or so they say, a true Paradise translated into soil and hearth. After her passing, however, the estate fell sadly into disrepair. My father retreated into himself, shut up coldly in his study like a haunting, and the lands fell to ruin. As a girl, I grew up always peripherally aware of the inadequate state of my family affairs, and as soon as I was capable, took over my father’s business and built the estate back up from its wretched remains on the ground. It may not retain the same splendor it once had, but I returned our establishment from the brink of bankruptcy to a state of wellbeing in my father’s stead, and protected the Browning name from scorn.

         One learns things when she grows up lonely and responsible. She learns that knowledge and schooling is the most formidable weapon within her arm span, and grabs hold of the most excellent education she is offered, poring over texts to chisel her mind into a powerful sharpness. She learns to be self-sufficient, having no soft hands nor loving affections to coddle her from girl to woman. She learns to be serious, and proper, and most of all, brave. Courage, after all, was what changed me from Eleanor to Lady Browning. Courage with its sturdy, bracing hands.

         The grandfather clock had chimed nearly a full dozen times when there came a subtle knocking on the door. At first, I dismissed the sound as the distant rapping of the birch trees in the rain, Mother Nature begging for entry. But it persisted, a little louder, and it struck me like lightning that I had, at last, a long-awaited visitor.

         “Mary!” I called as I prepared for company, slowly setting aside my book and straightening my skirts, “Mary! I believe she is here!” A moment passed, then her thundering feet came from within the house, followed by her round, red face and excited blustering.

         “Oh, is she here? Oh, dearie, at last, and in all this rain! Come, come, Mary, let us go and see!”

         Mary opened the heavy front doors and received a wet, bundled delivery from the tempest. Toppling from the storm came a small figure—an animate cloak, threadbare and faded red—over whom Mary began to fuss, brushing cloth away from the stranger’s face with a heavy hand.

         “Oh, dear, oh, come in, come in! Come in out of the cold, you’ll catch your Death!” She brought the rain-soaked bundle into the sitting-room, and divested it of its sopping cloak before depositing it in the armchair by the fire which I had just evacuated. “Wait here a moment, allow me to bring you some tea—or some brandy—or both, to warm you up. Come, oh, come, warm up, be well!” And she hobbled off, presumably to ply our guest with the promised medicine. An awkward air laid thickly between us. My sudden companion—for sudden indeed was her appearance in my life, manifesting abruptly as though between heartbeats—was momentarily silent, save for the chattering of teeth. Divested of the offensive red garment, I could see that it was the girl I had anticipated. She wasn’t quite a woman, perhaps not yet seventeen, and small where she huddled, dripping rainwater onto my stuffed and polished armchair. She was narrow in shoulders, narrow in waist, and spindly like some delicate, fine-boned creature, a dragonfly with gossamer wings. Her wrists were narrow; her fingers long. When she shivered, water sluiced from her hair, unprotected by bonnet, which was long and plaited into a thick brindle rope and wound over one shoulder, coming lastly to a rest, sopping, in her lap. Her skin, although blanched by the cold, retained a honeyed Summer flush, fire-gold in the lighting, and the apples of her cheeks looked bright and accustomed to smiling. Her nose was short but straight; her ears exceptionally large; her stature short: altogether new and immediately interesting to me.

         “So, you are the long anticipated maid,” I deduced, turning away at last from the fireplace and drawing the newcomer’s attention to myself. I imagined I seemed to her, in that moment, like a terrible figure from some Gothic horror novel, emerging from the darkness to accost her, half-shrouded by shadow, my face barely outlined by firelight. When the girl looked at me, her eyes widened in fear. It was then when I noticed the curious color of those eyes, pale gray and moonlike, staring curiously at me like beacons from her warm and comely face. Something about those eyes entranced me. I couldn’t bear to look away.

         “Lady Browning,” the girl stuttered, moving as though to stand, but stopping at my placating gesture to remain where she sat, “I apologize that our first encounter is under such unseemly circumstances. I—I am making a terrible mess of your armchair.” When she spoke, her voice had to it a subtle, musical lilt which suggested that flat speech, devoid of song, did not sit comfortably in her mouth. She rolled the vowels with her tongue as though trying them for the first time.

         “Such unseemly circumstances indeed,” I agreed, “For we were expecting you late this morning, and here it is nearly the next day.” The stranger coloured in shame.

         “Miss Browning, I beg your forgiveness for my tardiness. I assure you, it is not customary of my character, and such a mistake would not have befallen me under normal circumstances.”

         “You must understand how difficult it is to trust a tardy stranger, when that stranger insists her vice is not a regularity; how is one to know any better?”

         “Surely one as generous and accomplished as yourself can acknowledge man’s inherent goodness, his innate wish not to wrong others, and place faith in those who falter—forgiveness is a virtue, Miss, as much as tardiness is a vice.”

         “One mustn’t speak of virtue when one still believes in inherent good.”

         “Miss?”

         “You are no longer a child; you must learn that man sins without reprieve. We are not beholden to one another as we are beholden to God. Tell me, do you know the Bible?”

         “I’m afraid I haven’t had much in the way of schooling; but I have faith, as much as any good Christian.”

         “Faith in God?”

         “And in mankind.”

         “Yet only one will save you, in the end.”

         “It seems a lonely life to live, my Lady.”

         “But it is a Godly one,” I countered, feeling a sudden rush of anger at being questioned so brazenly by this challenging girl, and demanded sharply: “Is yours?”

         The maid blinked at me, not in hurt, but rather, it seemed, in offense. For a moment, those curious pale eyes of her seemed to spark in challenge, something behind them swelling with some incomprehensible power to which I was not privy; it seemed to gather itself behind the sweetness of her impassive little face, something beyond the abilities of one bird-framed girl. And then, as suddenly as it swelled, that power sank down into some quieter place within my companion, leaving her gray eyes soft and naturally submissive.

         “It is, Miss Browning. If you still find it within yourself to keep me on, I promise to never be tardy to my duties again. If you do not have faith in me, I beg you, have faith in our God who led me through the storm to you.”

         Had I been capable of clearer thought in that moment, I would have refused her services then and there. I confess I had been a cynic, and had I better presence of mind, would have turned her away, disbelieving of her abilities. But I was so rattled by what I had seen—so overwhelmed by the surge of power, like lightning, I had seen in those eyes—that I merely acquiesced, resigning myself to be Master of this strange otherworldly creature henceforth.

         “There we are,'' came Mary, blistering, into the room, “Here, have a drink, dearie, oh, get something hot in you and warm yourself up.” She set down a tray with the promised beverages—the maid selected the tea, forgoing the brandy—and stoked the fireplace until it was roaring again, crackling uncomfortably high. The girl was smiling and sweet under the old maid’s scrutiny, and took her fussing in good humor.

         “Thank you, thank you, Ma’am,” she kept repeating, which made Mary exceedingly happy, even as she half-heartedly corrected the girl to call her by her name. I watched, half-annoyed at the fuss, and half-intrigued, until eventually the girl stopped shivering, the tea was finished, and Mary went off to prepare the girl’s quarters for the night. Alone again, the two of us eyed one another subtly. Resuming a seat across from her, I feigned reading my Bible, watching through my lashes as she looked from the fireplace to the furnishings to me.

         There was something thrilling about her eyes on me that I could not shake. A part of me was tempted to snap at her for her insolence, berating her for rudely staring at the Lady of the house, thereby ensuring she would not cause such discomfort in the future, but I could not. Perhaps it was the earnest curiosity of her stare, which flicked from the rich silk of my evening gown to the gold glint of the cross around my neck, or the warmth it left wherever it touched; whatever it was, it compelled me not to say a word. I let her watch me quietly until her interest wavered and she began turning her curious gaze elsewhere, at which point I spoke, intent to drag her attention back.

         “Mary tells me she was bosom friends with your prior Lady,” I began, and her gray eyes met my brown, “Why did you leave her?”

         “She married, my Lady, and moved elsewhere to live with her husband and his servants. She had no need for a serving-girl anymore.”

         “And are you prepared to work, instead, for me? I am no gentle Master; I have an estate to upkeep and expect the best from those who serve me, just as I expect the best from myself.” The girl bowed her head in assent, supplicating.

         “Yes, Miss Browning. You may expect the utmost duty and loyalty from me.”

         “You must obey me, and Mary, and tend to the house and its inhabitants. And as we grow busier in the summer, you must not falter.”

         “Yes, Miss.”

         “And you must take care never to be this tardy again.”

         “Yes, Miss Browning,” the maid replied, “Permitting I am not waylaid by any more specters such as today.”

         This shook me—it had been a long time since I had heard such complaints, and never had I heard of a servant putting forth such a story before their work at the manor even began. An infinitesimal spark of doubt and a pinprick of fear struck my chest. When I demanded an explanation, the girl bloomed in excitement at the prospect of reciting her tale.

         “It was on the moors, my Lady,” she began, her pale eyes wide and enchanted, “this morn as I braved the trek from my prior Master’s abode to your own. My Lady lived nearer the city; I was obliged to beg a farmhand to allow me to travel with him on his horse from the market to the edge of the moors, where he delivered me. Then we parted ways: him, to the estate of your nearest neighbor, and myself, to the horizon which he indicated, eleven miles North.

         “It was barely dawn then. My voyage had an early start. I made quick work of the first many miles, Miss, but soon, the hills rose up out of the ground like the broad, hunched back of a giant, and the fog descended over the moors. It was thick as cotton for as far as the eye could see. Soon, I could not find the path beneath my feet and was left stumbling blindly over the undulating knolls like a woman drowning.”

         “It is unwise to travel under such conditions,” I interrupted, “A later start would have been wise, to prevent wandering in such unseemly circumstances.”

         “I’m afraid I had no idea, my Lady,” the maid replied, “Unaccustomed to the countryside weather as I am. Ill-informed but well-intended, I wandered the moors for hours, losing my way

         time and time again, until at long last, near noon, the fog began to lift, and I found myself stranded, completely lost. No help was in sight. Around me on the moors was nothing but tall grass and that ubiquitous purple heather which smothers the English countryside and spills blossoms over the greenery. I was abandoned, lost, wandering the hills for miles, losing strength and the will to continue, my bonny whistling reduced to great pants of air.

         “And then, suddenly, it began to rain.” Dense thunder drummed outside the windows. I jumped; in my fascination with the maid’s story, I had nearly forgotten the storm outside and the puddle of rainwater her hair was cultivating on the decadent sitting-room rug. The girl continued, “It started as a few drops of ambrosia from above, but alas, in time, the gale winds began, and the rain came down in a torrential downpour. I was all but drowned in the tempest; I could scarcely breathe through the water, and the terrible winds ripped the luggage from my hands—” For, indeed, she had arrived empty-handed, “—and tore the bonnet off my head. At this, I thought myself to be imminently dead, in all but body.

         “But then, something incredible occurred. Through the crash of thunder and the veritable sheets of water coming down above me, I heard in the gale a voice—light, soft, and incongruous to the cacophony of my surroundings—singing somewhere in the distance. A woman’s voice, sweet and welcoming. I thought I was imagining it at first. Or that I, perhaps, was hearing an angel. But there, in the distance, outlined by a flash of lightning, stood a woman.”

         At this, I was entranced. I leant into the girl across from me, engrossed in her story, completely forgetting that I did not believe in ghosts. For a moment, swept up in the momentum of her tale as I was, I had abandoned myself to her words, her beliefs, her lovely, musical little voice. I was gripping my Bible with the strength of iron. The maid’s eyes were wide moons, twin celestial objects pulling me closer like the tides.

         “She was tall and handsome, with the fabric of her sheer white gown floating and whipping about her in the wind, and long, pale hair, which she wore loose and ethereal. She flashed in and out of my vision, a specter electrified by the cerulean lightning that fizzled around her like magic. She sang to me, and smiled, and then she disappeared.

         “Confused, freezing, and half-mad with desperation, I stumbled after her, until I heard her voice again—just yonder, over that hill!” The maid embellished her storytelling with exuberant gestures, pointing over my shoulder as though seeing the strange woman again. Her face was flushed with the excitement of her tale. “I followed her over the knoll, and once again, she disappeared.

         “Thus, the mysterious specter led me across the moors, and I followed blindly, as all desperate fools tend to follow, not thinking of whether she may be malicious or untrustworthy, simply clawing my way through the tall grass after her, entranced. And one last time, she beckoned to me with her voice, and disappeared. Then the music stopped, and on the inhaled swell of the next hill was your marvelous estate. And thus, I arrived.”

         When the maid finally finished her tale, I sat there breathless, half frightened, half delighted by her tale. I was a sensible woman; I was certain that the poor girl had simply imagined some benevolent figure on the moors, dreamt up a savior before stumbling, herself, to her destination. But in that moment, a thrill of doubt overcame me: what if it truly was a specter? What if it was the remnants of some kind soul left imprinted on this land that extended a helping hand?

         What if it was my mother?

         “What a day you have had,” I breathed instead, “Surely you must be exhausted.” Indeed, now that her story was done, the girl was sagging wearily in her chair. “In the morning, well-rested, you will think this all a terrible dream. Perhaps a hallucination.” Sluggishly, she shook her head.

         “I believe not, Miss Browning. I know what I saw. It had to have been a ghost.” I had just opened my mouth to respond when Mary came rushing back into the room, announcing breathlessly that she had drawn our newcomer a hot bath to fight the chill and readied her bed in the servants’ quarters for her stay here. Bustling about my companion, she first put away her tea, then hung up her cloak to dry, then practically carried her out the room, but not without first wishing me a pleasant night and begging me to call for her if I needed anything at all. Then, in a flurry of nerves and words and wringing hands, Mary was halfway out the door, the new girl in the clutches of her warm, motherly arms.

         Before they disappeared out the door, I stood and called out for them to pause. “Wait!” The two serving-women stopped short and looked back at me: Mary, red-faced and earnest, and the girl, her head tilted just enough to expose the vulnerable pale skin of her throat, her gray eyes tired but alert. I swallowed before confessing, “I never did get your name.” A smile bloomed across the girl’s face at that, charming and pure. Firelight glanced off the soft planes of her face, and her cheeks were ruddy and glowing. I was correct—she seemed so accustomed to smiling that it appeared to be her natural state.

         My eyes were on the curving gleam of her straight, pearlescent teeth as she responded, “It’s Jane, Miss Browning. Jane Wright.” And she was gone.

 

About the Author: Amritha Selvarajaguru

         I have always been a writer, from as long as I can remember. It has been my deepest passion my entire life, and I hope to continue pursuing that passion and passing it along to others as a future English teacher.

         This chapter is a section from my 2022 Nanowrimo piece, which centers on a lesbian love story set in rural England in the early 1800s. In this scene, Eleanor Browning, a wealthy noblewoman, is introduced to her quirky and intriguing new maid, Jane Wright, who might be more alluring than Eleanor originally anticipated.

         Full of gentle, saccharine romance, family-centric period drama, and the ever-present threat of the supernatural, this story reckons with the vulnerability of allowing yourself to love someone, which is terrifying and sweet, no matter the time.