Except that Twygrist’s doors were not shut against the world at all. They were standing open.
George slowed his footsteps, and then stopped, uncertain whether he needed to do anything about this. It might be that Mr Josiah was in there, attending to some unexpected task, although there were no lights showing anywhere. The door’s lock was not a very strong one–Mr Josiah was always intending to have it replaced, but no one was very likely to break into the place because there was nothing that could be removed. But it was unusual to see the door standing open like this, and George thought he had better look inside to make sure nothing was wrong. At least he could close the door to stop animals getting in.
He reached the threshhold, but then paused; it was rather forbiddingly dark inside, and perhaps after all this was not such a good idea. It was then that the sounds reached him, and he glanced uneasily over his shoulder. The wind in the trees, was it? But there was hardly any wind, and whatever he was hearing came from inside the mill itself. He waited, and presently it came again: a thin keening sound, it was, rising and falling, as if the bones of the mill were moaning in pain. George felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. There had always been rumours about Twygrist, just as there were rumours about any really old building. In Twygrist’s case they hinted that the women who came to sort and husk the corn–most of them local farmers’ wives or daughters–dabbled in witchcraft. It was absurd, but understandable: the women always wore black because of the constant dust, and were not allowed lighted candles or oil lamps in the husking room. It could not be denied that as they sat bent over their work, at the long wooden table, they had the uncanny look of a group of witches mumbling and mowing over incantations.
Supposing the sounds he could hear were something to do with that–supposing those women really were witches? That was ridiculous! It was an animal–an injured animal. Holding resolutely onto this notion, George went inside. As he walked across the wooden floor, the old joists creaked under his weight, and something moved in one of the corners near to the bottom of the wheels–something that had been huddled into the darkness, and something that was too large to be an animal.
George did not quite cry out, but his heart came up into his throat. Then the darkness shifted, and he saw the shape was human and female: a youngish girl with fair fluffy hair. Relief washed over him, and he was able to say, ‘Who is it? Is something wrong?’
At first she shrank back into the shadows, both hands thrust out as if to ward off an attack, but George had already recognized her. Miss Rosen, Louisa Rosen, from Toft House–the mellow old house that had formed part of that wild pipe dream.
He said again, ‘Is something wrong? It’s Miss Rosen, isn’t it? You know me, surely? George Lincoln from the rectory.’
Now he was nearer he saw her face was streaked and swollen with tears, and her gown was ripped. He was not very used to young ladies, but he took off his jacket and put it around her shoulders, then knelt down on the wooden floor and took one of the small hands, trying to warm it between his own. He asked if she was ill. He was not sure what family she had, so he just asked if he should go along to Toft House and fetch someone for her.
‘No!’ cried Miss Rosen. ‘No, you mustn’t do that. I shall be all right presently. There’s only my grandfather, and he mustn’t be distressed. He has a–something wrong with his heart.’
George said, ‘You came to live at Toft House last year, I think?’ At least she had stopped crying.
‘Yes. My grandfather wanted new surroundings after my parents died in a carriage accident. We like Amberwood. But he mustn’t know what’s happened to me–he hasn’t got over my mother’s death. And if he found out about the man this afternoon—’
‘What man? Miss Rosen, has someone hurt you?’
‘He was from–that place,’ said Louisa, shuddering and starting to cry again.