The Ghost of Crutchfield Hall by Mary Downing Hahn Page B

caring whether he hurt me or not. “Go away, I tell you,” he shrieked. “Go away!”
    Afraid of making him truly ill, I shrank back from the bed. At that moment, the door opened and Aunt entered the room.
    At the sight of me, her face lit with joy. Holding out her arms to embrace me, she cried, “You’ve come back to me! I knew you would. I’ve saved all your things. I’ve waited and prayed for your return.”
    When I recoiled from her touch, Aunt realized her mistake. Immediately her happiness turned to rage. Seizing my shoulders, she shook me so hard, my head bobbled on my neck like a rag doll’s. “Where did you get that dress? It’s Sophia’s, not yours. You have no right to help yourself to her things.”
    James cowered in his bed, his anger at me forgotten. “Stop, Aunt—you’re upsetting me. Do you want me to die too?”
    Pushing me aside, Aunt ran to him. “My poor lamb. What has Florence done to you?”
    She reached for his hands, but he pushed her away. “Leave me alone! Florence has done nothing to me.”
    Aunt drew back, rigid with anger. “How dare you speak to me like that! After all I’ve done for you! Have you no gratitude?”
    â€œCan’t you ever leave me alone?” James cried. “I hate you! You wish I’d died instead of her. I heard you say so when you thought I was sleeping.”
    Unable to bear any more, I ran out of the room. The things I’d imagined in my days at Miss Medleycoate’s mocked me. Sisters and brothers were jealous and hateful; they didn’t love one another as I’d thought. Aunt was mean and spiteful. Sophia had despised her little brother. James claimed he’d killed his own sister.
    After locking myself in my room, I stripped off the blue silk dress, ripping a sleeve in my haste. Buttons popped off and rolled across the floor. Without pausing to think about what I was doing, I stuffed Sophia’s dress into the fire.
    It smoldered for a moment and then burst into flame. Fire shot up the chimney. Seizing a poker, I did my best to keep it contained. As unhappy as I was, I had no desire to burn Crutchfield Hall to the ground.
    With relief, I watched the fire subside. The smoke made my eyes water, and the room reeked of burnt silk. Wearing only a thin slip, I ran to the window and let in a torrent of cold fresh air.
    As the casement swung outward, I saw that the constant rain had turned to snow. Trees and shrubbery, roofs and walkways, everything blended together in a sparkling white. Sharp lines disappeared, square shapes softened, hills and flat land merged.
    If I’d been in a happier frame of mind, I might have thrilled to the snow’s beauty. I’d certainly never witnessed its like in London’s crowded, dirty streets.
    But today I stared at the snow without really seeing it, too angry and scared by the morning’s twists and turns to appreciate it. I’d reached a point so low that I almost wished to return to Miss Medleycoate’s establishment. Perhaps the food was worse and the beds less warm and comfortable, but no ghosts roamed the orphanage’s halls. I had Miss Beatty to comfort me and friends to laugh and talk with. I was often sad but never lonely or frightened. Here I was all three.

E ight

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    F INALLY THE COLD DROVE ME to close the window and put on my own dress, rough and brown and scratchy against my skin. Afraid to stay in my room alone, I took my book and ran down to the sitting room and made myself comfortable in the big leather chair by the wood fire, much warmer than my coal fire.
    I was so deeply immersed in
Vanity Fair
that I didn’t notice Sophia until she exhaled her cold breath on my cheek. Startled, I dropped my book. “Go away,” I begged. “I’ve had enough of you.”
    â€œBut I haven’t had enough of you, dear Florence.” She perched on the arm of the chair and