Page 8 of Whispers of Shadowbrook House

Oliver wasn’t sure how long he stood outside Maxwell’s room, but when he realized he was leaning quite near the door hoping to overhear Pearl and Maxwell discussing their game, possibly discussing him, he made himself move away.

He didn’t want to go back to his own bedroom and its soulless walls, but neither did he have any wish to cross paths with his uncle unprepared.

There was no place within this old house Oliver felt he belonged.

He’d planned for months how to discuss the future of Shadow-brook with Uncle Arthur, and now he needed to make sure his presentation was solid enough to withstand any possible argument.

His uncle would ask many questions. Oliver would be ready with answers.

Arthur Ravenscroft clutched jealously to his land, but Oliver had no intention of being the same kind of landowner.

No, he was not interested in the building or its property at all.

What Oliver wished for was a way to leave a lasting mark on the world.

To make a change that would benefit someone.

His idea of selling Shadowbrook to the Campbell Clothing Company was a nearly perfect plan.

The opportunity would employ many of the families around the New Forest. The clothing the Campbell Company produced would see more children dressed with far less inconvenience to their parents.

He’d noticed women, including his mother and her serving girl, sewing late into the night.

Imagine their leisure hours if they did not need to sew their own clothes—what they might do with so much extra time.

Additionally, bringing industry to the area offered prospects for many young people coming into their majority to be employed by a successful local business.

He’d enjoyed his time at Cambridge, but that was an opportunity not everyone could embrace or afford.

He recognized his privilege in receiving such an education.

Now he could be part of offering a viable alternative to many others. And if he did, when he did, someone might remember him as more than the disappointing, awkward orphaned nephew of Arthur Ravenscroft.

Lingering in the shadowed hallway outside Maxwell’s room reminded Oliver of his childhood, of those evenings he’d lurk outside rooms where his uncle sat, hoping the man would come out and speak with him or invite him inside.

Even the imagined conversation would have been optional; Oliver was a child who could sit in quiet.

If only his uncle had ever extended him the invitation.

But he was no longer a child, and tonight he wasn’t waiting outside a closed door for his uncle.

How long would Miss Ellicott stay in Maxwell’s room?

She must leave when the boy was no longer awake, mustn’t she?

Surely she didn’t sleep in the nursemaid’s closet attached to the bedroom.

Maxwell was far too old for such babying.

Given the vast hallways full of unused rooms, Uncle Arthur must have offered her a place of her own in the house.

Oliver checked the time on his pocket watch. He told himself he’d wait no more than five more minutes for her to appear. He wanted to speak with her, but he didn’t want to appear to be the kind of man who lurked in hallways all night.

A draft whistled down the hall, the contours of Shadowbrook’s strange angles lending it a familiar musical note.

When he was a boy, he imagined the ghostly violin was accompanied by singing and whispering, in turns comforting and frightening.

He was grateful not to imagine such silly things anymore.

Each moment waiting for Miss Ellicott lasted half an hour, but every time Oliver pulled his watch from its pocket, the reliable timepiece showed him less than half a minute had gone by.

Four minutes passed this way, and Oliver decided perhaps he could wait ten minutes for her.

It would never do for him to stand and stare at the door, so he moved between two of the hallway’s gaslight sconces to study the painting hanging there.

It was a village scene in a strange and slightly spooky primitive style, and each figure seemed to have a bit of demon in them.

The smiles were too toothy, the postures loose-jointed as if the people would, at any moment, join together in a midnight dance.

Oliver thought each hat pictured must be covering a set of horns.

He stared at the young woman painted in the middle of the scene, the only figure not smiling. Her golden hair framed a face so pale it practically glowed from the twilight scene, her eyes wide and as blue as Dutch-painted saucers.

Oliver felt a surprising sense of worry for her, though she was not even the painting’s primary subject; the girl was smaller than the grinning peasants surrounding her. What would happen to her? And why did he feel he could prevent something disastrous if he stayed here and kept watch?

He didn’t hear the door open behind him, but suddenly Pearl was standing beside him.

Without turning from the painting, he asked, “Why would anyone paint such a horror as this? And why hang it near a child’s bedroom? This must terrify Maxwell.”

Pearl gave a whisper of a laugh. “On the contrary. He loves it. He chose it to put here.”

“But it’s so disturbing.”

Her hum of assent didn’t sound disturbed.

“What will happen to her?” Oliver pointed at the golden--haired girl.

Pearl looked at Oliver. “Don’t you know?”

“Why would I know?”

“It’s the ‘Goblin Market.’”

Oliver heard her matter-of-fact tone, but the words meant nothing to him. He shook his head.

“The poem by Christina Rosetti.”

As if that was any kind of explanation. He gestured toward the picture, still feeling like he needed to keep his eye on the frightened girl near the center of the chaos. “This is supposed to be a poem?”

Only a patient teacher could have heard his sarcastic question without a sign of annoyance. “Obviously not. This is a painting. Of a story. A story told in a poem.”

“Looks a bit of a horror.”

When he glanced at Pearl, he saw her gazing at the painting, a small smile playing at the corner of her mouth. “Indeed. A delightful one.”

“I don’t understand. What’s pleasant about it?”

Pearl turned fully to face Oliver. “Perhaps you should read it.”

He suddenly wished he was a man who had ever willingly read a poem.

“I don’t dare turn away from her,” he said, pointing to the girl in the painting. “She seems to need my protection.”

“Lizzie is the strongest and bravest person in the story. She’ll be fine.”

“You call her Lizzie?”

“The poet calls her Lizzie, and she’s here to save her sister.”

“She doesn’t look capable of fighting off these people.”

Pearl shook her head and dropped her arms from where they’d been crossed over her stomach. “Her fight isn’t against them. It’s within herself. But she must travel into the danger to prove she can best it.”

Oliver dared a look at Pearl’s face. She seemed filled with patience when the opportunity to teach presented itself.

“Will you tell it to me?”

She glanced from the painting to his face. “The poem? It’s quite long.”

“The story, then? I’d like to understand.”

The way her forehead softened suggested he’d said exactly the right words.

“Two sisters, doing their chores, hear the call of the goblin men at nightfall. Of course, they resist as good girls must. One night, brave Laura follows the invitation and tastes the most delicious fruits the goblins offer. When she returns home, a change overtakes her. She grows old and gray and sad and never hears the goblins call again. Frightened Lizzie still hears the goblins hawking their perfect fruits, and chooses to wander into the night when she’s sure it’s the only way to save her beloved sister.

She makes a dangerous sacrifice, and Laura is saved by her sister’s uncharacteristic bravery.

It’s a tale of love and resistance, of daring and withholding.

Mostly it’s an exploration of the dangerous world and an inevitable homecoming. ”

“So everyone is all right in the end?”

Pearl tilted her head. “Everyone is changed in the end. But both sisters survive, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Survival is good. The story’s still frightening. And it doesn’t make the painting any less gruesome. But now I can see the fruit I didn’t notice before.” He pointed at the baskets in the painting.

Pearl hummed in agreement. “Some would argue that all of life is frightening. And that we don’t always notice certain elements surrounding us until someone points them out.”

Oliver thought if he’d ever had a teacher like Pearl, he might have been a far better student. He’d like to listen to her speak for hours. “Which sister are you? The brave or the frightened?”

Pearl’s eyes met his again. “Both sisters are brave. And both are frightened. And this may be what appeals most about the poem, as bravery stronger than fear is required of all of us who dare to love someone.”

“Do you have sisters to protect, then?” Oliver asked.

She gave a small shake of her head, her voice low. “Once I had a brother. I didn’t protect him. He’s passed on.”

Oliver wished to lighten the sudden sadness in her face but worried anything he might say would worsen her renewed grief. Instead, he faced the painting again, giving her a moment to collect her thoughts.

“I can see how the story would appeal to an ill boy,” he said in a gentle voice.

From the corner of his eye, he saw her nod. “And to anyone who must stay at home, the goblin’s cry will always be tempting. Tempting, but no less dangerous.”

“But the point of the story, if I understand it, is that both girls did leave their home. They faced the danger and survived.”

Pearl turned to him with a half smile on her face. “And do you suppose one writes a story only as a means of instruction? The characters in a novel did a thing, so you, reader, ought to do it as well? That theory doesn’t hold up for many of the novels I’ve read.”

“Perhaps only the Bible,” Oliver assented.

A ringing laugh escaped Pearl’s lips. “Have you ever actually read the Bible, Mr. Waverley? It’s far more often a warning than it is a suggestion.”

Oliver joined in her laugh. “I seem to have entered this battle of wits unarmed.”

“Sir, I assure you, we have not been doing battle. You would be in far worse shape if I’d been on the attack.” Pearl’s lips pressed together in a visible effort to suppress her smile.

Oliver nodded. “I surrender. I bow to your superior knowledge in all matters of art, literature, language, and history.”

“And in all matters of what’s best for Maxwell.” It was not a question. She was simply adding his cousin to the list of what she understood better than he ever would.

Pearl Ellicott undoubtedly had gained significant knowledge in her years working at Shadowbrook, teaching Maxwell and caring for him.

But Oliver was the boy’s family. They shared history.

Relatives. This house, and all they both learned here by growing up beneath the alternately watchful and neglectful eyes of Arthur Ravenscroft.

Pearl may know many things about teaching children, but Oliver knew what it was to be a male member of the Ravenscroft family.

He was confident he knew a thing or two that might surprise her.

Not that he’d say any of that to her tonight.

He could disagree without being disagreeable. He inclined his head in a bow.

“Are you at all interested in a cup of tea and a piece of toast, Miss Ellicott?”

She tilted her head up toward his in the most charming way. “Almost always. And you?”

“I think it would be a perfect way to change the topic of our conversation. I feel I’ve been behindhand too much since I arrived this evening. With a visit to the kitchen, perhaps I can regain my confidence. I am, you might be surprised to know, an expert on the topic of toast.”

He extended his arm, and Pearl placed a hand near his elbow. As they walked down the dark staircase, Oliver hoped he could turn their discussion toward far more pleasant paths.