Of course, it is perfectly marred by the ghost.
Odette runs her finger over the surface, tracing the outline of her mother’s face.
She appears there, in between George and Lydia, eyes closed and face blank, just as she did in that final photograph they took together after her death. It is as though she has refused to leave the bounds of her marriage and now presents herself as the irrefutable third party to an unspeakable act.
Claudine has come to and is clutching a bottle of smelling salts as she is carefully manoeuvred upright. There is a tightness around her mouth that conveys a real fear, and her hands are white at the knuckle where she holds the bottle.
Interesting.
Claudine seems to sense Odette’s eyes on her and she turns, face narrowing in anger. ‘Spiteful, horrible child. You did this. I know it was you.’
‘Now, that is a little much,’ says George. ‘It is a mistake at the photography studio, surely.’
‘Oh, you dismiss me too easily, George,’ says Claudine. ‘You make all sorts of excuses for her when this so clearly oversteps the mark.’
‘IfOdette did this, then yes, it does, but for goodness’ sake, everyone, you take it far too seriously.’
‘Don’t you dare defend her. This is beyond some servant’s trick.’ She rounds on Odette. ‘I suppose that was you last night as well.’
Odette stares at her blankly. ‘What do you have to fear from my mother’s ghost?’ she asks. ‘If you have not wronged her, then she has no business with you.’
‘Howdareyou—’ Claudine surges up, but George restrains her with a hand on her shoulder.
‘Easy now. You should rest.’
‘If you are hiding something,’ says Odette, ‘then there is nowhere you can hide from the dead.’
For a moment, Odette thinks Claudine will push past George and corner her where she kneels by the photographs, but it seems that Claudine is mollified, at least for the moment, by the press of George’s hand and the gesture of care.
‘You are right. My nerves have been too greatly taxed these last days.’ She gives George a dark look. ‘I have had quite enough.’
She takes the smelling salts upstairs, and George repairs to his study.
Odette watches them go.
She witnessed real fear in Claudine’s face. It was subtle, yes, but it was there.
Alone in the dining room, the cold of the floorboards seeping up through her stockings, Odette examines the picture again. The photographer did a fine job. It took most of the money shehad in her purse when she slipped out to the studio yesterday to persuade him to create a double exposure with the plates from Lydia’s death portrait, but his work has been far more effective than she could have imagined. The image is uncanny, the half-formed shape of her mother so like a spirit, like an angel.
Claudine saw something more in it. A pointed finger. An accusation.
There was fear – and guilt.
It is only a matter of time before she slips. One more push, and she will go over the edge.
Odette is sure, for a moment, that she can feel icy fingertips against her throat – then her cheek. A caress.
Her mother is with her. Her mother is pleased.
7
Cecilia
WHENCECILIA HAS STEADIED HERSELF, hours later, and she has cried herself hoarse, she dresses to go out, taking care over the setting of her hair and the touch of red on her lips. Her earlobes are red and tender; she hasn’t dared change the studs, and her skin is hot to the touch.
She must speak to Odette. It is past time.
Cecilia does not know if it is still possible for them to have any meaningful exchange, so far gone do things feel, but she must try. She will present Odette with the things she has learnt and make a final bid for their escape. Surely if she sees the true threat Claudine poses, she will be willing to listen, to leave.