That Which Was So Fair - A Ghost Story

By Tony Reynolds

The Fen country in the autumn of 1850 is dank and drab. A young woman, Catherine Greencliffe, comes from the other end of England to care for a small child who has been abandoned by his mother. On the surface all seems well but she soon becomes prey to mysterious compulsions and visions. She comes to realise that Southwell Hall holds a secret that she is not invited to share and at last makes a dreadful discovery.

• Language: English
• Publisher: MX Publishing
• Release date: Apr 7, 2016
• ISBN: 9781780929408

Book preview

Radice

Chapter 1

It was very early in the morning as John, our man, drove me in the trap beside the shores of Ullswater. I looked sombrely out across the lake, which the chill had covered with a low-lying mist. Beyond it, Barton Fell rose steeply; appearing dark purple and grey in the dawning light but with its topmost ridge lit by the sun. My journey had begun, but I was filled with misgivings. I had made a difficult decision regarding the course of my life: my instincts had urged me to remain at home with my dear parents and no doubt in a year or two as a personable enough young woman with some prospects make an advantageous marriage. Against this I had to set entrancing visions of the wide world and of the multitudes of peoples it contained and of the great happenings and discoveries that made such turmoil of our age - visions conjured up by the books that I had so eagerly devoured. I must not, I had told myself fiercely, resign myself to domesticity and a narrow circle of acquaintance until I had seen as much as was possible for me.

Practical considerations put limits to my ambition of course, but I had scanned the advertisements in the papers and had applied for and been awarded a position in the Fen Country. My adventures were to begin almost immediately, for I had never travelled on the railway, and now was about to take a journey by it almost to the other end of England.

At Penrith railway station John and I waited for a little time before the train from Carlisle came into sight. My first intimation of its arrival was a plume of steam in the distance; then there came a clattering noise from the rails, growing louder and louder. Finally the locomotive itself was upon us. I was almost overwhelmed by the noise and commotion that accompanied its advent. The deep-throated, repeated dull blows of the engine; the squealing of the brakes and the enveloping cloud of white vapour as it drew to a halt was both exhilarating and terrifying.

Immediately following this came a clamour from the passengers as those arriving collected their belongings and those departing said their farewells. John helped a porter lift my trunk onto the roof with the other luggage then returned to touch his cap and bid me goodbye. I thanked him sincerely for his help and assured him that I would mention him when I wrote to my parents.

At last I was able to clamber up the steps into the carriage. I found a seat by a window and facing the direction of travel where I would get the best view and composed myself for the journey. A few minutes passed; there was a warning shriek from the whistle and the train began to move. Slowly at first, as the locomotive took up the strain of moving the immense weight of the vehicle, then faster and yet faster until I was moving at a greater rate than I ever had in my life and the landscape flew past the window.

The tenseness of my body relaxed and I smiled openly. I am not one of those young ladies who affect incomprehension of progress and machinery. I pride myself on being a modern woman who is not over-fond of the unclean and superstitious days of old and is grateful for the gifts that Science has given us. About an hour later, with an increase in noise and swirling smoke, we plunged into the great cutting that runs through Shap Fell. A few years ago, I had read in my father’s Westmorland Gazette of the titanic efforts of thousands of navvies who had hewn through solid rock to complete the work. My carriage fell into near-darkness as we raced through that awesome gorge.

An hour passed until on my right I saw appear the peaceful waters of Morecombe Bay and a further hour went by before we drew into Lancaster station, where it was necessary for me to change to a train operated by the London and North-Western Railway company. I became a little flustered trying to find a porter to move my trunk, but he was extremely helpful and led the way to another platform where stood the locomotive that would take me on the long run to London. This engine was an even more tremendous sight than the one from which I had just alighted, being much larger and towering above me. Painted a glossy black and gently hissing steam it seemed like a powerful but presently quiescent beast. I paid the porter and again found a seat by a window where I settled myself for the next part of my journey.

A little time had to pass before our departure which I waited out with as much patience as I could muster. I heard the ‘five minutes’ bell rung and subsequently wondered at how long such a short time could seem. Finally, at the piercing whistle, we were on the move; as before initially slowly but then with increasing velocity until I could almost believe I was flying. Fields, towns, woods and hills speeded by for hour after hour. Sometimes we mounted great viaducts and I saw a river far below; sometimes wooded banks rose above us and shielded the view. I must confess I grew rather blasé as time went on and fancied myself quite the experienced traveller!

As my initial exhilaration abated, so my appetite, suppressed for some time, increased. In the past, in the rare and exciting expeditions to see friends and relatives in distant places, we used the stage-coach or the fly-wagon, and these stopped regularly for both the horses and the passengers to take refreshment. There was no such provision on the railway, where speed was King. My mother had given me a small packet of refreshments, which with her characteristic forethought were chosen so as to be easy to eat with decorum on a moving vehicle. Turning my head towards the window I was able to satisfy my hunger with adequate discretion.

The other passengers in my carriage came and went at each station. There was no-one as young as myself travelling unaccompanied; although at Runcorn a lady and her daughter, who was of about my age, joined us. Most of my fellow-travellers in a first-class carriage seemed to be well-dressed men of business, sometimes talking to one another, sometimes silent and often hidden behind a copy of the morning paper. At one point two gossipy older ladies boarded. Perhaps fortunately, the noise of our progress made it impossible to overhear most of their conversation. I could not help but notice that by the time we left Crewe, none of those that had boarded with me at Lancaster remained. I was the only one - at least in my carriage! - making the entire journey of over two hundred miles from the terminus to the capital.

It was mid-afternoon when the locomotive slowed as we began to enter London. The weather had taken a turn for the worse and a fine rain was falling. I cannot say that my first impression of our foremost city was a happy one. I looked in some dismay at the endless vistas of dull-yellow brick in the drizzle and could not but compare them unfavourably with the scattered grey stone buildings of my native home.

To the accompaniment of a triumphant screech of metal we entered under a great shield of wrought iron and glass and reached our journey’s end at Euston station. We all climbed down to the ground and there was much to-and-fro as the tarpaulins were taken off the luggage and everyone tried to summon a porter. I identified my trunk and asked my man to lead the way to the cab rank. The route led through the central hall and I stared around me awestruck at the dimensions of that great space. Never before had I seen - no, nor imagined - a single room of such a size. I realised that I was gaping like a rustic and took firm hold of myself.

After feeing the porter and giving my cabman his instructions, I sat back in the hackney and prepared to enjoy the sights of the metropolis. In this, unfortunately, I was disappointed. The way from Euston to Bishopsgate railway station, the next stage of my travels, was by the New Road, curving to the north and east of the City and far from the famous sights of the Tower, St. Paul’s cathedral and the other great buildings with whose images I was so familiar from my reading. I vowed that on my return journey, when I would doubtless have more time, I would take a longer route through the town or even find myself an economical lodging for the night so as to make some acquaintance with the greatest city in the world and have some stories to tell my neighbours in Glenridding!

At Bishopsgate, I purchased my ticket from the booking clerk with an air of studied nonchalance and followed my trunk onto the platform, where there was already a crowd of people. We had some time to wait before a great locomotive steamed into the station. The company that ran this line had chosen to paint its engines a bright green, which I felt appropriate as being evocative of the lush pastures of the Fens. There was turmoil as the passengers from the east streamed off, some calling for porters and others greeting the friends that had come to meet them. Ten minutes or so later, the new arrivals were gone and with my fellow travellers to Norfolk I was able to take my place in a compartment. Once more, I experienced the slow but relentless increase in speed as we began our journey. How amazing, I thought, that an expedition that even as recently as the time of my birth would have taken over a week could now be made within a single day!

The train was bound for Norwich, but I was to alight at the intermediate station of Wymondham and I was anxious not to miss my stop. On my earlier transits this had not been a problem as on both occasions I travelled to the terminus, but this was not the case on the current occasion so I had frequent recourse to my Bradshaw, counting off the stations as we reached them. The locomotive was not of the fastest and made frequent halts so it had grown dark by the time we reached my destination. I alighted quickly, apprehensive that my luggage would be carried off while I stood on the platform. The porters knew their business, however, and I was reunited with my trunk in short order. There were only a few other passengers about and I found myself uneasy and almost alone in the autumn chill and twilight. I need not have troubled myself: outside the station stood a smart trap and a liveried servant who came up to me and touched his cap.

Miss Greencliffe? he enquired.

I am she, I replied.

I am Abrahams, madam, he said. One of the coachmen at Southwell Hall. May I help you up?

He courteously handed me into the vehicle and after loading my trunk at the back, whipped up the horses. We jogged along at a sharp trot, but it was a long way, perhaps five miles or more, before my driver announced that we were close to my new home. In the gloom I saw a large and imposing building looming before me. We pulled up by the entrance and Abrahams leaped down from his seat and gave a couple of sharp knocks at the door. It opened to a welcome glow of light and a middle-aged and obviously competent woman bustled out.

Welcome to Southwell Hall, Miss Greencliffe! she said, smiling. We are very pleased to have you with us. I am Mrs Rawson, the housekeeper.

I am most happy to meet you, Mrs Rawson, I replied.

Kindly follow me, Miss, and I’ll take you to the master.

She ushered me into the spacious entrance hall, and then into the parlour, where my new employer awaited me. He rose as we entered, and I saw a tall and well-built man, with dark hair and a very ruddy complexion. I advanced to meet him and he grasped my hand warmly.

Miss Greencliffe! he said. It is indeed a pleasure to meet you in person at last.

I am honoured to have entered your service, Mr Uttridge, I returned.

I would offer you tea or wine, but as it is late and you have had a long journey perhaps you would prefer to be shown directly to your room? Mrs Rawson will bring you any refreshment you require and we can meet tomorrow after breakfast, when I will also introduce you to your charge.

I was most gratified by his courtesy in placing my comfort over the usual social niceties. That is very understanding of you, sir, I replied. It has indeed been a long journey, especially to one who is not an experienced traveller. I will, if you please, take my rest and look forward to meeting you and young Thomas tomorrow.

Then I wish you goodnight, Miss Greencliffe, he said with a bow.

And goodnight to you, Mr Uttridge, and my thanks, I replied. The housekeeper led the way, showing me up a grand oak staircase to the next floor.

Your room is all prepared, Miss, she said. A fire has been lit; the sheets aired and I’ll send one of the maids in just a moment with some hot water for your basin.

We walked along a passageway and entered a bedroom. The shutters were closed, and a pair of wax candles, as well as the firelight, gave the room a comfortable glow. As soon as I saw the bed, I felt myself longing to lie down. Mrs Rawson left me with good wishes for the night and very shortly afterwards the maid brought my hot water. I made a thorough, though rather swift, toilet

Reviews for That Which Was So Fair - A Ghost Story

[dtchantel-1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

"That Which Was So Fair" by Tony Reynolds is a wonderful novel in the gothic tradition that builds slowly and seductively and totally immerses you in the atmospheric surroundings of the bleak Fenn countryside and the claustrophobic Southwell Hall.

When young Catherine Greencliffe arrives at the Hall as tutor to the Master's young son, she is immediately informed that his mother abandoned the child over a year ago and took off with a band of traveling gypsies, with one of whom she formed a romantic liason.

From this auspicious beginning, events begin to unfold as Catherine tries not to succumb to strange compulsions and horrific visions. Throughout her ordeal Catherine is shaken, but remains stalwart, and slowly and inexorably we are drawn to the sad and compelling conclusion.

Mr. Reynolds has done a superb job with this little gem of a ghostly, gothic tale. This book ranks right up at the top of the finest in this genre.