and in particular their different
reactions to heat. There were dozens of irons, some hotter than
others, some heavier, some bigger and some smaller. Too hot and the
fabric was ruined, too cold and the creases remained. On a
neighbouring estate a female serf had been flogged to death for
scorching some new Brussels lace. Usually the garments were hung in
the steam room while still wet and the creases fell out as the
garment dried but occasionally dresses would need ironing without
being washed, especially after being packed for long periods in
travel trunks, especially if they belonged to her peripatetic aunt.
Frequent washing was the ruin of garments. Everyone knew that. The
poor did not wash their clothes often because it wore the clothes
out. They had to make their garments last longer. Even the rich
understood it was better to air clothes and brush them and iron
them than to wash them. Things were folded carefully into chests or
rolled up so as not to cause creases. But sometimes they needed
ironing despite all these precautions. Xenia’s godmother used an
old linen cloth to stop the clothes from scorching. She never
ironed directly onto the garment itself, hence the Countess had
seen the effects of scorch marks on linen, she had smelled it, she
had remembered it, and this ghost shroud did not look or smell like
the cloth in the ironing room. Her hopes were dashed. Her Faustian
bargain lost.
“Do you mind if I ask what
you’re looking for?” said the fairy.
The Countess sat back on her
haunches. “I was trying to work out how this ghost image came to be
on the cloth.”
“Oh, that’s easy. It was made
by a ghost.”
The Countess sighed with
exasperation. “I don’t believe in ghosts.”
“That’s what everyone says
until they get the shivers. Take this house. If you don’t believe
in ghosts before coming here you’ll believe in ghosts by the time
you leave.”
The Countess was annoyed with
herself and her annoyance was transferring itself to the young
woman with the annoying sing-song voice. It was one thing to look
like a fairy but quite another to sound like one, especially after
the age of about six. “Really?”
“ Bien sur – it’s
haunted.”
“Is that so?”
“ Bien sur . Wait a few
hours and you’ll see what I mean.”
“I doubt I will see anything
you mean.”
“I mean you will start to feel
a ghostly presence.”
“I doubt it.”
“Some people are more receptive
than others.”
“I guess it’s the same with
angels and auras.” The facetious tone did not seem to discourage
the fee-fey-fairy.
“Exactly, bien sur !
There’s a ghost cat here. I saw it the first night we arrived. It
was sitting on the doorstep and we hadn’t even crossed the
threshold.”
“A black cat, no doubt – do you
mind lying down here next to this shroud for a moment.”
“What for?”
“I want to ascertain how tall
the ghost was.”
“Oh, yes, of course, bien
sur !” Obligingly, the ethereal creature stretched herself out
on the floor beside the shroud. She was about six inches shorter
than the Countess which put the shroud at five foot and two inches.
“How did you know?”
“Know what?”
“Know that the ghost cat was
black.”
“I’m psychic.”
The young woman ignored the
cynical refrain, or perhaps she failed to notice it. For someone
who claimed to be receptive she was not very perceptive. She simply
moved right along as children do who are telling a story and will
not be silenced before they get to the end, no matter how unengaged
the listener might be. “Madame Moghra saw a little ghost girl with
a porcelain dolly in her arms. She was crying because she had lost
her mother.”
“That was careless. She should
have taken better care of her.”
“Oh, yes, bien sur .”
That particular phrase was
beginning to rankle. The Countess decided she would throttle the
young woman the next time she employed it and then there really
would be a ghost at Marsh House. She bent down
reactions to heat. There were dozens of irons, some hotter than
others, some heavier, some bigger and some smaller. Too hot and the
fabric was ruined, too cold and the creases remained. On a
neighbouring estate a female serf had been flogged to death for
scorching some new Brussels lace. Usually the garments were hung in
the steam room while still wet and the creases fell out as the
garment dried but occasionally dresses would need ironing without
being washed, especially after being packed for long periods in
travel trunks, especially if they belonged to her peripatetic aunt.
Frequent washing was the ruin of garments. Everyone knew that. The
poor did not wash their clothes often because it wore the clothes
out. They had to make their garments last longer. Even the rich
understood it was better to air clothes and brush them and iron
them than to wash them. Things were folded carefully into chests or
rolled up so as not to cause creases. But sometimes they needed
ironing despite all these precautions. Xenia’s godmother used an
old linen cloth to stop the clothes from scorching. She never
ironed directly onto the garment itself, hence the Countess had
seen the effects of scorch marks on linen, she had smelled it, she
had remembered it, and this ghost shroud did not look or smell like
the cloth in the ironing room. Her hopes were dashed. Her Faustian
bargain lost.
“Do you mind if I ask what
you’re looking for?” said the fairy.
The Countess sat back on her
haunches. “I was trying to work out how this ghost image came to be
on the cloth.”
“Oh, that’s easy. It was made
by a ghost.”
The Countess sighed with
exasperation. “I don’t believe in ghosts.”
“That’s what everyone says
until they get the shivers. Take this house. If you don’t believe
in ghosts before coming here you’ll believe in ghosts by the time
you leave.”
The Countess was annoyed with
herself and her annoyance was transferring itself to the young
woman with the annoying sing-song voice. It was one thing to look
like a fairy but quite another to sound like one, especially after
the age of about six. “Really?”
“ Bien sur – it’s
haunted.”
“Is that so?”
“ Bien sur . Wait a few
hours and you’ll see what I mean.”
“I doubt I will see anything
you mean.”
“I mean you will start to feel
a ghostly presence.”
“I doubt it.”
“Some people are more receptive
than others.”
“I guess it’s the same with
angels and auras.” The facetious tone did not seem to discourage
the fee-fey-fairy.
“Exactly, bien sur !
There’s a ghost cat here. I saw it the first night we arrived. It
was sitting on the doorstep and we hadn’t even crossed the
threshold.”
“A black cat, no doubt – do you
mind lying down here next to this shroud for a moment.”
“What for?”
“I want to ascertain how tall
the ghost was.”
“Oh, yes, of course, bien
sur !” Obligingly, the ethereal creature stretched herself out
on the floor beside the shroud. She was about six inches shorter
than the Countess which put the shroud at five foot and two inches.
“How did you know?”
“Know what?”
“Know that the ghost cat was
black.”
“I’m psychic.”
The young woman ignored the
cynical refrain, or perhaps she failed to notice it. For someone
who claimed to be receptive she was not very perceptive. She simply
moved right along as children do who are telling a story and will
not be silenced before they get to the end, no matter how unengaged
the listener might be. “Madame Moghra saw a little ghost girl with
a porcelain dolly in her arms. She was crying because she had lost
her mother.”
“That was careless. She should
have taken better care of her.”
“Oh, yes, bien sur .”
That particular phrase was
beginning to rankle. The Countess decided she would throttle the
young woman the next time she employed it and then there really
would be a ghost at Marsh House. She bent down
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