The Ghost and the Rose

Chapter 8

Henry stayed with me until Meg returned. She didn't take long and neither of them mentioned anything more about the St George.

Rather than returning me to my bed, Henry had helped me curl up on the window seat. He's found a thick, woollen blanket in one of the chests and made sure I wrapped it around myself. The great hulking things seemed to be everywhere.

Then without another word, Henry left me only to return moments later. Meg continued to fuss.

"I'm honestly fine now," I insisted.

"Here, I thought you may benefit from a distraction." Henry handed me a thick book. It had no title or if it had, it had long since worn away. The cover was deep brown, nearly black with lighter patches. Turning it, I saw the words Sir Tristram inked beautifully in black.

"Thank you." I looked up at him. "I think I've read my Aunt Lily's copy over a hundred times."

"Aunt Lily?" Henry questioned.

I looked up at him, pushing my hair from my eyes. "I live with her. She isn't really my aunt, I think she is a relative of one of my parents, but it is what I have always called her."

My Aunt Lily loved to collect old books and stories. She even had a collection of four-hundred-year-old manuscripts. They were kept safe in her craft room where no one else was allowed to go. It was a room that coveted the whole of the loft space at the top of the house and was only accessible by a ladder. The room itself was a tribute to pastel, muted shades. A Singer sewing machine stood on a makeshift table, next to it, yards of folded flowery material were stacked up on the floor. Lace was strung up and draped on abandoned furniture like ghostly cobwebs. All around the edges standing side by side like soldiers were mismatched bookcases that contained Aunt Lily's precious books. I would sneak up whenever she went out and take one book at a time. I'd always replaced it before she even realised they were missing.

"This is one of my favourite stories."

"I know, I remember."

I looked up at him brushing my long fringe out of my eyes. Meg, who had been pottering around the room, straightening the bedcovers and tidying somewhat, snapped her head up, her hands hovered, frozen in position. Her whole body seemed to tense.

"I remember Eleanor telling me, that is," his words seemed rushed and his cheeks darkened.

"I don't remember saying anything to her about it," I said, trying to think back on all of my encounters with her. "Maybe Phoebe said something to her."

"Yes," he agreed. "That must be it."

Meg relaxed a little, her shoulders falling back to their natural position. "My lord, forgive my intrusion but I do believe it is time for us to take our leave. Mistress Anne has had quite an exciting morning."

Henry stood up straight. "Yes, of course," he seemed a little flustered. "I do have matters that require my urgent attention. Goodbye Anne."

"Goodbye," I said. "And thank you for the book."

He nodded at me before striding from the room.

Meg came up for one final check that I found the blanket warm enough and tucked it tight around me.

"Try to eat something, it may help you feel better," she said and then she was gone.

She would have been cross to see that immediately after she left, I broke free from my blanket prison to see what time it was. Just after midday. I wondered why Phoebe had not yet been to see me though I supposed Meg or Henry could have told her not to.