We walked beyond the formal gardens and through a bare orchard that ended at paddocks and a horse barn. As a child I had thought I was luckier than Ashley because my parents and I lived in one of the employee cottages, which was near the horse bam and, better yet, an empty cow barn with lofts and ladders, where Ashley and I had liked to play. Between the horse and cow barns was Ashley's favorite place, the pond.
Surrounded by a thick ring of trees, mostly cedar and pine, it was reached by a narrow path. Round, about half the size of a soccer field, the pond looked as it had twelve years before, but the collar of vegetation had tightened around it, the circle of evergreens growing inward, encroaching on its edge, casting long shadows on its half-frozen surface. Dying things and living things mixed together here. A rush of feelings came back to me with the distinctive smell-a smell that was both fresh green and thick with decay. Alone with Ashley, knowing no one could see us, I had found the pond a frightening place. Ashley could think of a hundred forbidden things to do.
"Want to play hockey?" Patrick asked.
"Here?" After what had happened to Ashley, surely someone had taught him "We can pretend we're on skates and use branches for hockey sticks."
"Patrick, the ice is too soft! When it's dark and slushy, you can't skate. It will never hold your weight."
"Yes, it will."
"Sorry, but-" "Ashley said so."
The breath caught in my throat. "What did you say?"
"Ashley told me it's okay."
I felt a finger of ice along my spine. "Well, she's wrong." I crouched next to Patrick. "Are you listening? She's dead wrong."
I looked out at the thin ice, at the hole in it, a circle of black water lying off-center in the pond. There is a scientific reason that area doesn't freeze well, I told myself. Perhaps the pond's spring was located beneath it, or the temperature was warmer because of the amount of sun it received. Though even now, it wasn't hard to believe Ashley's explanation. I had seen the brown and black water snakes basking On the shore and could easily imagine other creatures with serpentine limbs, which Ashley had said hid beneath the pond's dark surface, waiting to pull us under.
I turned to Patrick, who was gazing toward the watery circle. I guess Ashley is your imaginary friend," I said.
He nodded. "Only she's not imaginary."
"Oh? What does she look like?"
"She has brown hair. It's very pretty, brown and curly. She wears a pink coat. She always wants to wear her purple shoes."
Another chill went through me. Ashley had loved her purple sneakers and would wear a pink snowsuit. But most little girls love pink and purple, I reminded myself, and a lot of people have brown curly hair. And though I had seen no pictures of her displayed in the house, it was very possible someone had shown him one.
I debated whether to tell him that I had played with a little girl named Ashley, then decided against it. It was a big leap to think he was talking about the child I had known. My job would be simpler if I didn't admit to him that I had once lived here.
"Where is Ashley's home?" I asked.
"I don't know. She's here a lot."
"Here-where?"
"The pond," he said, his voice betraying exasperation.
"I don't see her."
He thought a moment. "Maybe she is hiding from you.
I scanned the trees uneasily, then once again turned my eyes to the dark water where Ashley had drowned. I remembered the day she had died, how she, my mother, Joseph, and I had been looking everywhere for her favorite rabbit. Thanks to Ashley's carelessness and Brook's deliberate efforts, many of her pets escaped, not only their cages but the house. Searching outside, Ashley and I kept calling to one another, then after a while, no one heard her voice. The adults found the ice broken through and dragged the pond to recover Ashley's body. When they drained the water, they found her rabbit and reasoned that she had chased her pet onto the ice and had fallen through.
"You see her!" Patrick exclaimed. He had been watching my face.
"No. No, I don't."
He looked disappointed. "Maybe next time."
"Patrick, I don't understand," I said. "Is Ashley a ghost?"
He was silent for a moment. His frown told me he was seriously thinking about the question. "Can ghosts be alive?" he asked at last.
"They were alive once."
He shook his head. "Ashley's alive now."
This was getting too creepy for me. "Why don't you show me some other places?" I suggested. "Do you have swings?"
"And monkey bars," he said. "The best ones are by the cottages."
"Let's go see them." — As Patrick and I left, he glanced over his shoulder. "We'll be back later," he assured whatever he saw in the wintry air.
Friday morning I drove to Wisteria Country Day School, muttering to myself all the way.
"Why do you keep saying, 'To the right'?" Patrick asked as we motored along.
"So I remember to drive on that side of the road."
"Why would you drive on the other side? There are cars coming."
"Good point."
After dropping him off, I arrived back at the house in the middle of a family quarrel, the subject of which was money-who was spending how much on what. I paused in the hall, picking out the voices of Trent, Robyn, and Emily. Two women carrying cleaning equipment, part of the estate's day help, nodded to me as they passed. They either pretended not to notice the raised voices or were so used to it, they weren't interested. I headed upstairs, glad that I had eaten breakfast earlier and that my room was two floors above those where the family gathered.
The bright day made the white room cheerier than it had seemed two days ago, and the slanting roof made it snug, though no warmer. Outside the wind was gusting up and the temperature dropping. The plaster walls of the room were cold to the touch, the old glass panes in the windows frigid. Mrs.
Hopewell had provided me with a wool blanket, quilt, rug, and what appeared to be old kitchen curtains-thin panels of yellow fabric with red teapots all over. I stuffed towels at the base of both windows, pulled a chair closer to the radiator, and settled down to read. My only company was the photo of my father that I had set on my bureau.
About eleven o'clock I heard a car drive up to the house and a flurry of activity downstairs, indicating that Adrian Westbrook had arrived home. An hour later, though I had not asked for lunch, I was informed by intercom that it would be delivered. My offer to fetch it myself was rejected. Henry, the older gentleman who had first answered the door for Amelia and me, served me in my room and instructed me to leave the dirty dishes outside my door. I wondered if the situation downstairs was tense.
Over lunch, I studied my U.S. atlas, focusing on the Maryland area, calculating the distance from the Eastern Shore to Washington, D.C. It appeared short enough for a day trip. I finished my soup and sandwich, put on headphones and a CD, then flipped through another book, looking for sites both Patrick and I would enjoy; after all, I was supposed to be introducing him to things that "a well-bred person should know."
I didn't know how long Mrs. Hopewell was standing inside my room, observing me read. With my music on, I hadn't heard her open the door.
"Mr. Westbrook will see you now."
I pulled off the headphones. "I'm sorry, did you knock?"
She ignored the question. "He hasn't a lot of time to waste."
"Please tell him I'll be down in five minutes," I said, wanting to wash my face and retrieve the ring from my drawer unobserved.