The Ghost of Crutchfield Hall Read Free Page B

even though I saw no one, the sensation persisted. A chill raced up and down my spine, and my scalp prickled. “Is someone there?” I whispered fearfully.
    I heard a faint sound like muffled laughter.
    â€œNellie, is that you?”
    The laughter faded. The watcher was gone and I was alone.
    Almost tripping over my own feet, I ran downstairs as if I were being chased.

T hree

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    B Y THE TIME I REACHED THE dining room, my heart had slowed to its normal speed. I told myself sternly that no one had been watching me. No one had laughed. I’d been a silly child scared of my own shadow.
    Uncle rose from his seat at the table and greeted me warmly. “It will be just the two of us tonight,” he said. “Eugenie is indisposed and will not join us.”
    â€œOh, dear, I’m sorry to hear that,” I said as graciously as I could. “I hope it’s not my fault.”
    â€œNo, indeed,” Uncle assured me. “It’s merely a spot of dyspepsia. Nervous stomach, Dr. Fielding says. She’s high strung, you know. Nervy.”
    I nodded sympathetically, but even though I knew it was uncharitable, I hoped Aunt’s condition would cause her to miss many meals.
    The two of us sat across from each other at the end of a long table covered with a spotless white cloth and set with fine china, crystal, and silver. A blazing candelabra illuminated the table, but the rest of the room lay deep in shadow.
    I’d never eaten in such surroundings, and I was suddenly nervous about my manners. Which fork to use first? Which spoon? There were so many utensils to choose from.
    Nellie brought our meal. Giving me her usual quick, curious look, she served us each a plate of roast chicken, potatoes, and carrots. With a nod to Uncle, she left the room.
    Watching my uncle closely, I chose the same utensils he did and tried my best to demonstrate I knew proper etiquette.
    While we ate, Uncle told me about Crutchfield Hall. “It was built in the early 1700s by my great-grandfather, not so old or so big as some country houses, but more than ample for our needs at the present.”
    He paused to eat a forkful of potatoes and then went on. “Not many servants now either. Mrs. Dawson does the cooking, and Samuel Spratt tends the grounds. Nellie is the maid—a jack-of-all-trades, you could call her. Once a week Mrs. Barnes comes in from the village to do the heavy cleaning. We used to have a larger staff, but we get along fine without them.”
    As Uncle helped himself to more chicken, I summoned the courage to ask what I really wanted to know. “When will I meet James?”
    â€œI can’t really say. Your aunt doesn’t think he’s well enough for you to visit him. It would tire him, she claims.” While he spoke, Uncle rolled his silver napkin holder back and forth on the tablecloth.
    â€œWhat sort of illness does he have?” I asked. “Will he always be an invalid?”
    Uncle shook his head. “Dr. Fielding is as puzzled as I am. It’s as if the boy wants to be sick. He told me once that it suits him to lie in bed all day.”
    â€œHow sad.” I wished I could think of something else to say, but I couldn’t imagine why any child would prefer sickness to health. I hated staying in bed. I detested fevers and aches and pains and upset stomachs. I abhorred coughing and sneezing and blowing my nose.
    â€œYes, it is indeed sad.” Without looking at me, Uncle continued to roll his napkin holder back and forth, as if it were a little wheel engaged in an important task. “After his sister’s death, the boy went into a long decline. Sometimes I think he blames himself . . .” Unable to go on, he pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose.
    Embarrassed by his obvious distress, I lowered my head. Despite my earlier promise to myself, I’d asked the wrong questions, upset my uncle, and had no idea what to say