bottle that had inconsiderately rolled off the tablecloth. “Ben, we can’t do this!” I was making frantic attempts to button my cardigan back to respectability. “We are being watched.”
“Nonsense!” He made a grab for me, but I managed to elude him and stagger to my feet.
“I tell you”—I pointed a finger at the upper portions of Tall Chimneys showing through the trees—“I can see someone at the top window. It’s … it’s a woman in a black frock, with long hair—or maybe she’s wearing a veil.”
“Then it’s not the ghost of Hector Rigglesworth. Or did you forget to tell me that he was a transvestite?”
“Legend does not say anything to that effect.” I took a couple of steps towards the thicket separating us from the house, hoping for a clearer view of the apparition. “Besides, as far as I know, he restricts his hauntings to the Chitterton Fells library. Doesn’t it seem more likely that this is one of the seven daughters watching from the window for the man of her dreams to come driving up in his curricle?”
“What I think is that you’re not making any sense.”Ben spoke with ill-concealed irritability while making no attempt to get to his feet. “It is either a real live woman at that window, or you are seeing a shadow caused by the way the curtain is looped.”
Indeed, when I looked again, the figure at the window was gone. Perhaps I had imagined her, or perhaps she was one of the present-day occupants of Tall Chimneys. It did not matter. There was no way for me to recapture the moment of passion with my husband. And he was, I thought defensively, partly to blame for continuing to lie prone on the grass, hands folded on his chest, as if awaiting interment. Suddenly I could not think of a more unsettling spot for a picnic, let alone lovemaking. It was clear to me that an unspeakable evil lurked within the walls of Tall Chimneys. An evil that reached out to permeate the thicket and even the island of green grass on which I stood shivering.
“I have the creepiest feeling that beech tree could tell some harrowing stories of what it has seen and heard in its time,” I told Ben. “Who knows? Perhaps one of the seven Rigglesworth daughters occasionally interrupted her reading of romance novels to trudge out into the gloom of night and bury an unsuitable suitor? One who tried to make a virtue out of his warts and the fact that he never took a bath. There are men who won’t take no for an answer—even when a slammed door is staring them in the face.”
“I think I get the message.” Ben shot to his feet and began repacking the basket with a ruthless disregard for the life span of china and glass. “All it will take to put a lid on this ill-fated adventure”—he banged one down on the butter dish—“is for us to hear a spectral hound howling among the trees.”
Foolish man! It was made hideously apparent that one did not sneer at the forces present on this unhallowed spot, for we immediately heard a series of unearthly woofs. Before I could grab up the two broken pieces of twig that Ben had used in his attempt to uncork the wine and form a cross with which to protect myself, a huge animal—more wolf than dog—came careening onto the grass. Fur bristling, stalactite fangs exposed, the monster rushed towardsus in a blur of black—and attempted to crawl, whimpering, under the tablecloth.
“Why, blow me down!” Mr. Babcock stepped out of the lane and onto the grass. “If it isn’t Mr. and Mrs. Haskell!”
“And isn’t that Heathcliff?” Ben glumly addressed the tablecloth that was lumbering around his feet.
“Your missus very kindly gave the dog to me this morning.” The milkman sounded decidedly nervous. “And already we’ve become such mates, you wouldn’t believe! You don’t want him back, do you?”
“You must be joking!” My husband was looking at me with rekindled affection.
“Speaking of spouses … is Sylvia happy about the new addition to the
“Nonsense!” He made a grab for me, but I managed to elude him and stagger to my feet.
“I tell you”—I pointed a finger at the upper portions of Tall Chimneys showing through the trees—“I can see someone at the top window. It’s … it’s a woman in a black frock, with long hair—or maybe she’s wearing a veil.”
“Then it’s not the ghost of Hector Rigglesworth. Or did you forget to tell me that he was a transvestite?”
“Legend does not say anything to that effect.” I took a couple of steps towards the thicket separating us from the house, hoping for a clearer view of the apparition. “Besides, as far as I know, he restricts his hauntings to the Chitterton Fells library. Doesn’t it seem more likely that this is one of the seven daughters watching from the window for the man of her dreams to come driving up in his curricle?”
“What I think is that you’re not making any sense.”Ben spoke with ill-concealed irritability while making no attempt to get to his feet. “It is either a real live woman at that window, or you are seeing a shadow caused by the way the curtain is looped.”
Indeed, when I looked again, the figure at the window was gone. Perhaps I had imagined her, or perhaps she was one of the present-day occupants of Tall Chimneys. It did not matter. There was no way for me to recapture the moment of passion with my husband. And he was, I thought defensively, partly to blame for continuing to lie prone on the grass, hands folded on his chest, as if awaiting interment. Suddenly I could not think of a more unsettling spot for a picnic, let alone lovemaking. It was clear to me that an unspeakable evil lurked within the walls of Tall Chimneys. An evil that reached out to permeate the thicket and even the island of green grass on which I stood shivering.
“I have the creepiest feeling that beech tree could tell some harrowing stories of what it has seen and heard in its time,” I told Ben. “Who knows? Perhaps one of the seven Rigglesworth daughters occasionally interrupted her reading of romance novels to trudge out into the gloom of night and bury an unsuitable suitor? One who tried to make a virtue out of his warts and the fact that he never took a bath. There are men who won’t take no for an answer—even when a slammed door is staring them in the face.”
“I think I get the message.” Ben shot to his feet and began repacking the basket with a ruthless disregard for the life span of china and glass. “All it will take to put a lid on this ill-fated adventure”—he banged one down on the butter dish—“is for us to hear a spectral hound howling among the trees.”
Foolish man! It was made hideously apparent that one did not sneer at the forces present on this unhallowed spot, for we immediately heard a series of unearthly woofs. Before I could grab up the two broken pieces of twig that Ben had used in his attempt to uncork the wine and form a cross with which to protect myself, a huge animal—more wolf than dog—came careening onto the grass. Fur bristling, stalactite fangs exposed, the monster rushed towardsus in a blur of black—and attempted to crawl, whimpering, under the tablecloth.
“Why, blow me down!” Mr. Babcock stepped out of the lane and onto the grass. “If it isn’t Mr. and Mrs. Haskell!”
“And isn’t that Heathcliff?” Ben glumly addressed the tablecloth that was lumbering around his feet.
“Your missus very kindly gave the dog to me this morning.” The milkman sounded decidedly nervous. “And already we’ve become such mates, you wouldn’t believe! You don’t want him back, do you?”
“You must be joking!” My husband was looking at me with rekindled affection.
“Speaking of spouses … is Sylvia happy about the new addition to the
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