One

Sandy awoke to the racket of a lawnmower beneath his window, followed by the ear-shredding shriek of a leaf blower. Mhairi had said the gardeners came once a week, and as he pulled his pillow over his head, he would tell Overstrand that he could earn another fortune by inventing silent garden machinery.

He checked the time on his phone. Seven o’clock. He groaned; there was no way he could get back to sleep, so he decided to shower and make an early start on the diary. He stretched out and felt the nightdress slide across his skin. It felt so decadent as he slid his hands under the nightdress and rubbed his nipples, making him close his eyes in delight. He squeezed them harder and moaned out loud.

“Having fun?”  A voice said. Startled, he jerked open his eyes to find Samantha looking down on him.

“God, Sam. You nearly gave me a coronary.” He covered his crotch with his hands, which made Samantha squeal with laughter.  He blustered, “You can’t just barge in like that.”

“Oh, don’t be such a pussy,” she said. “Come on, stop playing with yourself and have a shower. It’s a busy day today, and I have work to do.”

Sandy emerged from the shower, nervous but more than a little excited about what Samantha had planned for him. He eyed the pair of filmy white knickers resting on top of the bed. Kiki De Montparnasse, he read on the label as he turned them over in his fingers, the soft lace making him shiver. He shook off his bathrobe and slipped one leg, then the other, into the knickers and pulled them slowly up his legs, until they settled around him with the gentlest of caresses. 

There were two other items of clothing on the bed: a white silk top and a pair of white trousers. The top was skimpy, with thin straps that crossed over behind, two rows of ruffles across the bodice and arms, leaving his shoulders bare. The amount of skin he was showing left him feeling exposed, and the wide-legged linen trousers gave him the hint of a waist. Sandy looked at his reflection in the mirror and gave a low whistle. The top was very feminine, and he was glad he had shaved his armpits, because they would be clearly visible. He fluffed up his hair and turned sideways, bending one knee forward and putting his weight on the other knee, watching the trousers shape his bum as one hand instinctively went to his hip. He obviously had nothing to cover up, but he narrowed his eyes and pushed out his chest, trying to imagine what he would look like with breasts.

The click of a camera startled him, and he whirled around to see Samantha holding a phone, obviously having taken a picture of him in mid pose.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Sandy yelled at her.

“Oh, keep your knickers on. I’m just taking a pic to show you how cute you look in that outfit.”

“You should have asked me first,” he complained.

“And would you have said yes?” 

“Maybe. If you had asked nicely.” 

She pulled a face. “Meaning no. Anyway, I’ve done it now. You look so sweet. See.”

She stood next to him and showed Sandy the picture. It was a shot of his reflection in the mirror, as he posed with his knee bent and his hand on his hip. 

“So pretty. Don’t you think?” Sam whispered to him.

Sandy’s head was spinning. The photograph showed a smiling woman, posing happily in the mirror, her auburn hair tumbling down onto her bare shoulders, the ruffles on the silk top, and the white trousers conspiring to paint a picture of sweet femininity. He felt his face redden as he stared at the photograph, and Samantha slipped her arm around his waist. She squeezed him gently and whispered, “You look gorgeous, Sandy. Good enough to eat.”

He felt tears forming in his eyes, and he ducked his head away so Samantha wouldn’t see. She knew what he was doing and kissed him on the cheek. “Come on, babe. We aren’t finished yet.”

She led him to the dressing table and made him sit down. “Close your eyes.” He squeezed them shut, his pulse racing as he wondered what she was doing. She moved behind him, fastening something around his neck. “You can open your eyes now.” He looked in the mirror and gasped to see a gold heart-shaped pendant sparkling with diamonds hanging from a delicate gold chain around his neck. 

“Oh my God, Sam. It’s beautiful, but I can’t wear it.”

“Why not? It looks perfect on you.”

“First, it's Lady Eleanor’s, and second, it must be far too expensive.”

He moved his head and watched the pendant glint and flash in the light. He thought it looked stunning, and he looked at Samantha, who smiled and whispered, “She would prefer somebody to wear it, not let it sit in a box.” Samantha’s face appeared next to his in the mirror, and she whispered, “It’s by Cartier and worth a small fortune.”

“Sam, in that case, I can’t wear it.” He put his hands behind his neck, trying to undo the clasp. Samantha slapped his hand to stop him before giggling and saying, “I’ll tell you a secret. It’s a copy. The original is in the safe with all the rest of Lady Eleanor’s best jewellery. Sir Robert had copies made.”

Sandy saw her eyes glisten. He whispered, “You were close to her, weren’t you?”

She nodded, and tears glistened in her eyes. “Yes, she had the most beautiful soul of anyone I have ever known. She was compassionate, gentle, and generous to everyone, and she would always help if you needed anything.” She sniffled, and Sandy laid his hand on hers and squeezed. 

“I’m sorry she’s gone, Sam. I would have loved to have met her.” 

“Thank you, sir. I think she would have liked you as well.” Samantha smiled and, looking him in the eye, said, “You are just like her.” 

“What was she like, Sam? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“No, I don’t mind. Lady Eleanor was a lovely woman. She was beautiful on the outside and inside. She was warm and generous to everyone she met.” Samantha grimaced. ”Well, maybe there were one or two people she didn’t like, but not that many.”

“I think I met one. A slimy little actor I met at lunch with Sir Robert,” said Sandy.

“Oh, him.” Sam almost spat the words. “Lady Eleanor despised him, but people like him were few and far between. She was private, kept out of the limelight, and was content for Sir Robert to keep her from that, but she was involved with a lot of charity work behind the scenes and made sure that Sir Robert donated to them.”

“How did they meet, Sam?”

“At school. Eleanor was born near Lindisfarne in Northumbria, but her family moved near here when she was still a baby. He went to an all-boys’ private school, and she attended a nearby girls' school. They met at a dance between the two schools, and after that, they became inseparable. Sir Robert’s father wasn’t too pleased. He thought Eleanor wasn’t good enough for his son. He threatened to disinherit Robert, but that made him more determined than ever to be with Eleanor. When Sir Robert made his own money, they were married, and he didn't invite his father. He died not long after that, breaking his neck when he fell from his horse after whipping it. Served him right, if you ask me. Did you know all the Overstrands are buried in a private graveyard over by the trees where the rooks live? A bit creepy if you ask me.” 

She furrowed her brow before saying, “It turned out Sir Robert was unable to have children, but secretly, I think he wasn’t too upset. He’d had a difficult relationship with his father, and he may have thought it would run in the family. But Lady Eleanor was heartbroken. She had wanted a big family.”

“That must have been a difficult time for them,” he said.

“Yes, it was. I think that was the closest Sir Robert and Lady Eleanor came to separating.” Samantha replied.

Something about the way she said it made him think it might not have been the only time they had a problem. 

“Thank you, Sam,” said Sandy, and he squeezed her hand again.

 She smiled. “Come on, sir. We both have work to do.”

“Sam, isn’t it time you stopped calling me sir? It makes me feel so old. Call me Sandy, please.”

She giggled and said, “Okay, Sandy. But not in front of Mhairi.”

“Okay, Sam.”

“I have one more surprise, Sandy. Close your eyes. When I say now, walk forward a few paces.” He shut his eyes, and when she said, “Now!” he walked forward into a mist of jasmine. His eyes popped open, and Samantha stood there with a perfume spray in her hand.

“It’s the best way to apply perfume,” she said. “It’s Bulgari Jasmin Noir.”

“Oh, it’s lovely, Sam. Is it what Lady Eleanor wore?”

“It was her favourite.” Samantha sprayed a little on his wrists and said, “Now rub your wrists together. There, that’s perfect.”

A wave of affection flooded through Sandy, and before she could move, he hugged Samantha. “Thank you, Sam. You’re a wonderful friend.”
Two

After breakfast, Sandy worked on the translation for a couple of hours, then got stuck on a passage he couldn’t make sense of. He decided to go for a walk to clear his mind and remembered Samantha talking about the family burial plot. Intrigued, he walked through the gardens towards the gate that led into the paddock beyond. He pushed it open and found himself much closer to the trees than he had expected. The burial plot lay between the walled garden and the copse where the rooks roosted. It appeared well-tended, with the grass cut short and small trees and low conifers softening the view. Sandy found a gate in the iron railings that surrounded the plot, and it opened easily on well-oiled hinges.

The plot was larger than Sandy had imagined, divided into distinct areas for each Overstrand generation. Sandy began with the first George Overstrand, whose area was by far the most elaborate. A large statue of an angel, looking skyward and carrying a limp body, stood guard over four gravestones: one for George and three others for one of his wives and two of his sons. Sandy wondered whether the angel was meant to be carrying George to heaven, but if only half the stories about him were true, George would have a hard time convincing St Peter to let him in. More gloomily, Sandy thought it foreshadowed the death of George’s son on the first day of the Somme, whose body, like so many of the boys who were slaughtered like cattle that warm July morning, was never found.

The areas for the Overstrands that followed George became less and less grandiose, but Sandy couldn't tell whether it was through cost or changing tastes. He finally came to the area for Sir Robert, in which stood a single, simple grey granite headstone marking Lady Eleanor’s resting place. On the headstone, picked out in gold lettering, was an inscription.

Beloved Wife & Daughter 

Lady Eleanor Alexandra Overstrand

Her middle name surprised him. Alexandra, he knew, like his own name, originated with Alexander the Great. Just a coincidence, he thought, yet again he felt the tug of connection between them. There was a space left beneath her name, and Sandy assumed it was meant for Sir Robert when he passed. For the first time, it occurred to him that if Sir Robert didn’t have children, there would be no next generation of Overstrands at Wychwood. 

There was a line of script at the bottom of the stone, and he read it aloud: ‘And Death Shall Have No Dominion.’ He recognised it as a line from a poem by Dylan Thomas. Was it in the hope that they would reunite after death?

Suddenly, the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, and he had the feeling someone was watching him. He looked around, but there was nobody there. From above his head, a single caw came from the trees, and he looked up to see a large rook perched on a low branch. As Sandy watched, the bird lifted its head and cawed three times, and he had the uncanny feeling it was talking to him. 

“Bloody rooks, they should all be shot,” The words of the taxi driver flashed into his mind. The man couldn't be more wrong, Sandy thought. They were intelligent, and the ones around Wychwood seemed to Sandy like part of the house. He wondered if it was the same individual he had seen in the garden the day before, but it was too far away for him to see the colour of its eyes. 

Sandy felt a shiver run down his back. For all its neatness, the burial plot had turned out to be a depressing place, and he wanted to get back to the house and the vitality of Veronica’s life. He carefully closed the gate as he left and walked back towards Wychwood, but he had the uneasy feeling he was still being observed. He turned around to look, but he could see nothing, not even the bird.
Three

He returned to the library, and to his surprise, the meaning of the passage he had struggled with earlier was crystal clear. How had he not seen it before? He supposed the walk must have cleared his mind. But he couldn’t shake the memory of the rook on the branch and the feeling that it was talking to him. He shook his head. That's crazy, he thought, and went back to the diary with renewed energy.

Lunch came and went, and he was making steady progress. The more he translated, the more he felt he was getting into Franco’s mind. He would have liked her if he had lived at the same time. No, that’s wrong, he realised with a start; he would have liked to have been her.

Samantha had left a change of clothes in the bedroom for Sandy when he had finished working on the diary for the day. He was puzzled by what he saw. Holding it up, it looked like a one-piece with a blouse and shorts combined. It looked short, but if he tried it on and didn't like it, he could always find something else, he thought. The outfit was undoubtedly pretty, decorated with autumn flowers and leaves in soft pastel colours. The top was a blouse with a pointed collar and wide, exaggerated sleeves. The attached shorts were loose and flared, and the whole outfit was cinched at the waist and finished with a fabric belt tied in a bow.

He looked in the mirror and gasped. The shorts flared from the waist and looked for all the world like a skirt, ending at the top of his thighs and leaving his legs completely bare. There was no way he was going to wear this, he thought. What was Samantha thinking? 

He checked, and she’d played the same trick as yesterday by locking the door to the dressing room. He was frustrated and angry with Samantha and felt like screaming, crying, or doing both. The only option he had was to go downstairs and confront Samantha and to make her find him something less revealing to wear. He slipped his feet into a pair of strappy sandals Samantha had left and made his way down the stairs. The sandals had the highest heels he had worn here, and he wobbled a bit, but he had worn higher heels before, albeit a good while ago, and he soon adjusted. He reached the door to the kitchen and pushed it open far enough to allow him to poke his head around the edge, while keeping the rest of him hidden. The three women were sitting at the table, presumably waiting for him.

“Sam,” he hissed. “Come here.”

Samantha looked up, shrugged her shoulders and mouthed, “What?”

“Come here, please.” He pleaded with her.

She frowned, but stood up and walked to the door. Mhairi and Allegra glanced over at him, but went back to chatting to each other.

“What do you want?  And why are you hiding behind the door?” Samantha asked. He grabbed her hand and pulled her through the door.

“Steady, tiger.” She looked him up and down. “Wow, you look super cute.”

“Are you mad? I can’t wear this.”

She looked confused. “Why not? It’s perfect for you.”

Sandy gestured at his legs. “It’s too short, and it looks like I’m wearing a skirt.”

“Firstly, it's not a skirt. How many holes are there for your legs? Two, in case you didn’t notice when you put it on. Skirts have one. Secondly, there are millions of girls out there who wouldn’t hesitate to sell their grannies for legs like yours. Your legs are to die for, and you should show them off. Don’t go all coy on me.”

“But it’s so short,” he whimpered, though he had felt a flash of pride at what she had said about his legs.

She grabbed his arm and said, “Do you trust me, Sandy?”

He hesitated for a moment, then nodded his head. Although he wasn’t entirely sure that was the truth.

“Good. Then stop being a wimp, and come and join us for dinner.”

Sandy still hesitated until Samantha yanked him through the door into the kitchen. He blushed furiously but let Samantha pull him along. Mhairi and Allegra looked up as he staggered into the room. Allegra’s face broke into a broad smile, and she said, “Oh, belle gambe, Miss Sandy. Oh, I mean lovely legs.”

Sandy’s face was burning, but he mumbled, “Grazie, Allegra.”

He saw Mhairi watching him, but as usual, he couldn't tell what she was thinking. Without breaking eye contact, she said, “You look lovely, Sandy. Come and sit beside me.” She pulled out the chair beside her. To Sandy, it sounded like a command, not a request, and he meekly walked over to sit beside her. He knew it was another sign of his submissive nature, and he hated it, yet he always found himself giving in.

Allegra and Samantha were cooking dinner, leaving Sandy and Mhairi alone at the table. “How are you settling in, Sandy? Do you have everything you need?”

Sandy nodded, not quite able to find his voice. She really did intimidate him, he thought, and his mind suddenly filled with what had happened in the dream. 

“Is there anything else we can do for you? Anything. You just have to ask.” For a moment, he wondered if there was a hidden meaning behind her question. No, he was being paranoid; she was asking to make sure he was happy, as a good housekeeper should.

“Um, no, thank you, Mhairi,” he said, breathing rather more heavily than he should have. “I think I have everything I need.”

“And how are you finding life at Wychwood? It was such a shame that the washing machine ruined all your clothes. I mean, are you happy with what we have been able to rustle up for you to replace them? I have to say you do look lovely in what you have been wearing.”

Sandy felt his face redden at her words. “Oh, yes, Mhairi. I’m thankful for what I’ve been able to wear, but I wish I could get some new clothes of my own.” Liar, liar, he thought to himself, but he wouldn’t let her know that.

“I’m afraid they won't be able to repair the bridge for a few days yet. It was in a worse condition than anyone knew. The builders will put up a temporary bridge in the next few days. Until then, I’m afraid you will have to continue putting up with what we have here.” She paused and looked him straight in the eye. “But I don't believe you find that a hardship, do you, Sandy?” 

He felt like a rabbit hypnotised by a Cobra, as she held his gaze, challenging him to disagree. Sandy stared at her, transfixed, unable to break away. He swallowed, his mouth suddenly bone dry. “Er, no, I mean, yes. I’m sure that will be fine, thank you, Mhairi.” His face was burning, and he was sure she knew exactly what he was thinking. 

“I’m glad, Sandy. We want to make sure you’re properly taken care of. Sir Robert was insistent that we should cater for all your needs.”

“Really?” Sandy squeaked. “That was kind of him.”

“Aye. Sir Robert holds you in high regard. He was very insistent. Even your personal needs, he said.” Mhairi’s voice was soft and hypnotic. “Do you have any personal needs that we can take care of, Sandy?”

Sandy’s mouth dropped open. Jesus, what was she saying? He began to hyperventilate, the edges of his vision started to darken, and he thought he was about to faint. Mhairi’s voice seemed to be coming from far away, and his mind began to drift. It was at that moment that he felt a hand on his leg, jerking him back to life. He looked down to see Mhairi’s fingers squeezing his thigh as she leaned close and whispered in his ear, “If there’s anything I can do for you, let me know, Sandy.”

At that moment, Allegra and Samantha put the food on the table, and Mhairi’s hand slipped away from his leg, unseen under the table. Sandy sat there stunned. What the hell had just happened? 

“Sandy!” Samantha’s voice made him jump.

“What? Sorry, what did you say?”

“I asked if you want Parmesan on your ragu?”

“Oh, yes, please. Sorry.”

“Are you okay?” she asked, concern in her voice.

“Uh, what? Yes, I’m fine, thanks.”

He glanced at Mhairi, who was talking with Allegra, and began to wonder if he had imagined the whole thing. After all, it wouldn't have been the strangest thing to have happened since he had been at Wychwood. He ate his food in silence, trying to process what had just happened, if anything had happened, that is, before excusing himself, telling the others he had a headache and wanted an early night. 

Once back in the apartment, he opened the window, hoping fresh air would clear his head. However, the air had felt heavy all evening, carrying the threat of a storm brewing to the west, from where Sandy could hear a distant drumbeat of thunder. Deciding to read something to settle his mind, he scanned the books on the shelves in the dayroom. He found English and French classics, contemporary women's fiction, English translations of Japanese novels, art books, and, most intriguingly, a collection of erotica. He skim-read the spines, following them with his finger: The Story Of O, Lolita, Lady Chatterley, Fanny Hill, Belle du Jour, Delta of Venus, Fingersmith, Tropic Of Cancer, The Kama Sutra, Oranges Are Not The Only Fruit, Myra Breckinridge, Orlando, and a good many others. 

It seemed Lady Eleanor had enjoyed an adventurous sexual imagination. He picked out Orlando, a favourite of his, and read a few pages, but found himself having to go back and reread them when he couldn’t remember what he had read. He sighed in exasperation. He came back to what Mhairi meant when she said that Overstrand thought highly of him. That sounded nice enough, but then Overstrand had told her that they should cater for Sandy’s personal needs. What the hell did that mean? 

He took a deep breath. Okay, calm down, he told himself. You’re overthinking this. Overstrand meant personal needs, like needing medicine or having a faddy diet, something like that. Even as he thought it, he realised how silly that sounded. And then there was Mhairi’s hand on his leg. It was all so confusing. 

The storm seemed to have passed them by, as he could no longer hear the sound of thunder. It was still oppressively hot, so he decided to take a cold shower to cool down. When he came back, he found Samantha had laid out a short pink silk nightdress with delicate lace edging, which he thought would look divine, but even that would be too hot, so he decided to sleep naked.
Four

Sleep proved elusive. Sandy was used to the sounds of a city at night: traffic on the street, people laughing or singing on their way home from the pub, the distant drone of an aircraft, the siren of an emergency vehicle, and the rattle of trains in the distance. The silence at Wychwood was disturbing. The only sounds were the creaks and groans any old house makes at night, until a fox barked close to the house, and an owl hooted somewhere in the distance, hoping to attract a mate. But there was no response. Sandy grimaced to himself, for he knew that feeling only too well. 

He must have drifted off to sleep because a loud clap of thunder jerked him awake. The storm must have doubled back and was now overhead. Even as a young child, Sandy hadn’t been afraid of thunderstorms. He would lie awake at the sound of the approaching storm and then be thrilled by its climax as the thunder rolled over his parents’ house and the lightning flashed behind his bedroom curtains before the rain arrived to scrub the air clean. 

He switched on the light just as the first heavy drops of rain thudded against the window. A flash of lightning ripped through the dark, and thunder crashed overhead almost at once. Knowing he would not get back to sleep, he got out of bed, wrapped a robe around himself, dragged a chair to the window, and watched the lightning flash across the night sky over the trees. As he watched, lightning struck a tree in a shower of sparks, and it caught fire like a gigantic candle. It was one of the trees where the rooks roosted, and he thought he could sense the terror the birds must be feeling.

A clap of thunder so loud it made him jump rattled the window, and the light in the room flickered once, then came back on. It flickered again before plunging the room into darkness. It must be a power cut, he thought. He wondered whether the house had a generator or whether he should begin searching for candles, like a heroine in a Gothic novel. The light stayed off, and the room was lit only by the occasional flash of lightning.

At that moment, in a lull between the thunder, a floorboard creaked inside the room, and Sandy whipped his head around to see where the sound had come from, but he could see nothing in the darkness. The temperature in the room had dropped. He was scared now, goosebumps erupting on his skin. He felt a puff of air kiss his face as if someone had moved nearby in the darkness, and fear squeezed his heart like a fist until he thought it would burst.

It’s your imagination, he told himself, over and over. There can’t be anything there. There just can’t be. He squinted into the darkness, trying to make out something, anything, but between the lightning flashes, there wasn’t even a glimmer. Then a sound rippled through the darkness, like a bird flapping its wings, stirring the air around him. He felt around, arms outstretched, his heart thudding, but there was nothing there. Then something brushed his arm, and he fell to his knees in fright. Oh, God. What was in the room with him? 

“Who’s there?” His voice shook with fright.

“Do not be afraid, Alessandra.” A woman’s soft voice came out of the darkness. 

“Fuck!” he screamed. He closed his eyes and, for the first time since he was five, he prayed. A crazy idea flashed into his head. “Is that you, Samantha? It’s not funny.”

“No, I am not Samantha.”

“Jesus, please,” he whimpered. “Whoever you are, please stop. You’re  scaring me.”

“Hush, sweet Alessandra. I mean you no harm.”

“Is this a dream?” he asked, his voice quivering.

“It is not a dream, Alessandra. And no harm will come to you, I promise.”

Adrenaline coursed through his body, making his heart race and spiking his senses into overdrive. A bolt of lightning lit up the room like an old-fashioned camera flash, freezing everything for an instant. In that microsecond of light, he caught a glimpse of a figure out of the corner of his eye, but when he turned to look, it was pitch black again.

“Is this a prank?” His voice quivered with fright.

“Not a prank, Alessandra, I want to help you.”

Despite his fear, Sandy thought he recognised the voice from somewhere.

“Help me? You’re scaring me half to death. Help me, how? And why are you calling me Alessandra? My name’s Alessandro.”

“What’s a name? It’s nothing but a label we can change if we choose.” 

“But I don’t understand,” He pleaded, his mind in turmoil.

“You will, Alessandra. In time, you will.”

“What do you want from me? 

“I want nothing from you, Alessandra; It’s what you want that matters most.”

“Me? What do you mean?”

Another flash of lightning lit the room, and this time it lasted long enough for him to see a cloaked figure standing by the window before the darkness returned.

“Shit,” he yelled, almost passing out with fear. But he thought he knew who it was. “Sam!” he squealed, “I know this is you. Stop fucking around, you’re scaring me to death.” Even to himself, he sounded unconvincing. A laugh came from the darkness, and he recognised it instantly as the same laugh he had heard on his first night at Wychwood. He was close to complete panic, fear robbing him of his senses.

“Alessandra, I have told you. I am not Samantha. Listen to me. I have only a little time. You will soon have to make a decision.”

“Decision? What decision? When?” he wailed.

“You will know when, but you must do what you feel is right. Much will depend on your choice. For you and others. Choose wisely.”

“But I don’t understand.” 

”Alessandra. I have to go now. Be brave and take the next step. Remember, do not be afraid to break the rules.”

“What do you mean? What is the next step?”

The lights flickered twice before coming back on, and he spun around, but the room was empty. He felt dizzy, and his head ached. He got unsteadily to his feet, his knees had turned to jelly, and he staggered backwards, falling onto the bed. 

His heart was thumping as if trying to escape his chest. What the hell had just happened? Was he dreaming? He sat up and looked around. No, he was awake. At first, he had thought it was Samantha playing a joke, but that didn't make sense. Why would she? If it wasn’t a prank or a dream, there was only one conclusion. He had always scoffed at the idea of ghosts, but it hit him like a thunderbolt that he had been talking to one.

To be continued