came to visit?” she asked playfully.
“I felt Arabella was guiding my hand,” I prevaricated, “but she didn’t make an appearance.”
“Shall we turn on the telly? I heard Raventhorpe’s taken a turn for the worse. He might be dead by now. Not that it’ll make any difference to our ghost, but it makes the case interesting somehow. The past and the present all mixed up.”
We watched the news. Raventhorpe was not dead, but had recovered somewhat. It showed a tape of him at Ascot a few years before, but the picture was not clear. I could see he was tall and well enough built, with some trace of his ancestor’s charm in his smile.
“Since Vanejul had no son and heir, who inherited the title?” I asked Mollie.
“It was a cousin. A forgettable man. None of the rest of the family are poets. A pity Vanejul hadn’t had a son.”
“I imagine Italy and Greece were littered with by-blows. Little Fitz-Vanejuls, if he acknowledged them at all.”
“I don’t suppose he did, though. Shall we have a cuppa before bed?”
We had tea and toast, and went to bed early. Exhausted, I sank into a deep sleep. After thinking of Vanejul and Arabella all day, it was natural that I should dream of them. But was it normal that the book should continue writing itself while I slept? This robbed me of any control, and frightened me when I awoke in the morning with the memory of my night’s doings. But then what could be considered normal in the whole affair? I had passed far beyond normalcy, into another realm. I had allowed myself to take the great leap into the unknown, and now I must ride the whirlwind.
Chapter Eleven
Mollie continued on with me for a few days. I have some vague memory of her comings and goings, but very little recall of her actually being in the house. I remember her worried eyes peering out from that halo of Titian frizz, asking me if I was all right when she returned from work. When I assured her I was, she must have gone out again, since I wrote in the evenings, too, and I would not have done so if Mollie had been there. Most of my waking hours were spent in a frenzied storm of writing, writing, writing. It seemed of the greatest urgency that I write the tale Arabella revealed to me as I sat at the deal table, mindless of the spring sunshine at the window, of the sink filling with dishes, of the world beyond the cottage.
Sappho stopped in the second afternoon about three and invited me into town with her. She looked stunning in a simple black dress, very tight to show off her well-toned body, and short to reveal her shapely legs. She was wearing red sandals. A black kerchief with white polka dots the size of half dollars hid her hair, but revealed enormous gypsy earrings.
“I’ll show you the best places to shop,” she said. “You want to avoid the tourist traps on the main street. Their prices are exorbitant in the summer."
“It sounds tempting, but I’m pretty busy at the moment, Sappho. Thanks anyway for the offer.” I could hardly take my eyes from my work, even to thank her.
Undismayed and uninvited, she sat down at the table, picked up a sheet, and began glancing at what I had written. “Emily mentioned you’re doing an article on Vanejul and Arabella,” she said. “Must be a long article.”
“It seems to be turning into a novel. It’s just loosely based on the story, since I couldn’t find out much about her.”
She lifted her witch black eyes from the page and smiled coolly. “So I see. I suggest you not use the names Vanejul and Arabella at all. You’re quite off the track, to judge by this bit.” She tossed the page aside.
“What do you mean?”
“You haven’t given this much thought, Belle. This tragedy occurred in the early eighteen hundreds, when girls were reared like nuns. They weren’t allowed out unchaperoned. You know what Vanejul was like.” Her eyes slid to the paperback I’d bought in Lyndhurst. “You’ve read his poetry. He despised women. In
“I felt Arabella was guiding my hand,” I prevaricated, “but she didn’t make an appearance.”
“Shall we turn on the telly? I heard Raventhorpe’s taken a turn for the worse. He might be dead by now. Not that it’ll make any difference to our ghost, but it makes the case interesting somehow. The past and the present all mixed up.”
We watched the news. Raventhorpe was not dead, but had recovered somewhat. It showed a tape of him at Ascot a few years before, but the picture was not clear. I could see he was tall and well enough built, with some trace of his ancestor’s charm in his smile.
“Since Vanejul had no son and heir, who inherited the title?” I asked Mollie.
“It was a cousin. A forgettable man. None of the rest of the family are poets. A pity Vanejul hadn’t had a son.”
“I imagine Italy and Greece were littered with by-blows. Little Fitz-Vanejuls, if he acknowledged them at all.”
“I don’t suppose he did, though. Shall we have a cuppa before bed?”
We had tea and toast, and went to bed early. Exhausted, I sank into a deep sleep. After thinking of Vanejul and Arabella all day, it was natural that I should dream of them. But was it normal that the book should continue writing itself while I slept? This robbed me of any control, and frightened me when I awoke in the morning with the memory of my night’s doings. But then what could be considered normal in the whole affair? I had passed far beyond normalcy, into another realm. I had allowed myself to take the great leap into the unknown, and now I must ride the whirlwind.
Chapter Eleven
Mollie continued on with me for a few days. I have some vague memory of her comings and goings, but very little recall of her actually being in the house. I remember her worried eyes peering out from that halo of Titian frizz, asking me if I was all right when she returned from work. When I assured her I was, she must have gone out again, since I wrote in the evenings, too, and I would not have done so if Mollie had been there. Most of my waking hours were spent in a frenzied storm of writing, writing, writing. It seemed of the greatest urgency that I write the tale Arabella revealed to me as I sat at the deal table, mindless of the spring sunshine at the window, of the sink filling with dishes, of the world beyond the cottage.
Sappho stopped in the second afternoon about three and invited me into town with her. She looked stunning in a simple black dress, very tight to show off her well-toned body, and short to reveal her shapely legs. She was wearing red sandals. A black kerchief with white polka dots the size of half dollars hid her hair, but revealed enormous gypsy earrings.
“I’ll show you the best places to shop,” she said. “You want to avoid the tourist traps on the main street. Their prices are exorbitant in the summer."
“It sounds tempting, but I’m pretty busy at the moment, Sappho. Thanks anyway for the offer.” I could hardly take my eyes from my work, even to thank her.
Undismayed and uninvited, she sat down at the table, picked up a sheet, and began glancing at what I had written. “Emily mentioned you’re doing an article on Vanejul and Arabella,” she said. “Must be a long article.”
“It seems to be turning into a novel. It’s just loosely based on the story, since I couldn’t find out much about her.”
She lifted her witch black eyes from the page and smiled coolly. “So I see. I suggest you not use the names Vanejul and Arabella at all. You’re quite off the track, to judge by this bit.” She tossed the page aside.
“What do you mean?”
“You haven’t given this much thought, Belle. This tragedy occurred in the early eighteen hundreds, when girls were reared like nuns. They weren’t allowed out unchaperoned. You know what Vanejul was like.” Her eyes slid to the paperback I’d bought in Lyndhurst. “You’ve read his poetry. He despised women. In
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