Open Writing

Then Christmas was over and the family departed for London, taking with them their personal ladies' maids, Mr. Dennison, the two footmen and Sir Edward's valet. Hester was as good as her word, and after getting Mrs. Hargreave's permission, took her on a tour of the hall. It was enormous, one great room after another. Hester told Mary-Ellen that if she was ever in the house and any of the gentry were there, she must stand against the wall until they passed by, and must never speak to them. Mary-Ellen nodded and solemnly promised.

The long gallery was the most beautiful room in the house. It was over a hundred and twenty feet long, panelled in oak with intricate walnut carvings. There was no feeling of envy; the young girl thought herself privileged to work for such wealthy and important people.

Because the Mastersons were away, life was easier and the servants caught up with other work. One afternoon Mrs. Hardy sent Mary-Ellen to the housekeeper's rooms with a sponge cake and scones, as Mrs. Hargreaves was entertaining visitors. After delivering them she decided to return to the kitchen by way of the long gallery, hoping to look at the carvings and ornate ceiling at her leisure.

It was a warm day for January and pale yellow sunlight streamed in through the windows in the long room. Mary-Ellen strolled along touching the beautiful woodwork and savouring the scent of beeswax.

Suddenly she stood quite still, realising she was not alone. Looking round she saw a lady, in great distress, standing with her head in her hands and sobbing as though her heart would break. Long, dark wavy hair hung round her pale face. The young woman wore a white, flowing dress. 'Almost like a nightgown' Mary-Ellen thought. This must be a member of the family she didn't know about. Someone who hadn't gone to London with the rest of them.

The young girl stood rigid against the panelling and watched, hardly daring to breathe. The lady commenced to walk along the whole length of the gallery, weeping and wringing her hands. She passed within a couple of feet of the little kitchen maid, and the girl longed to put her arms about the sorrowful figure and comfort her, but remembering Hester's warning, lowered her head until the sad figure had passed her by. She watched the poor woman till she disappeared out of the door at the end of the gallery.

Knowing that Mrs. Hardy was alone and would be wondering what had happened to her, she ran all the way back to the kitchen, not seeing a soul. Quietly opening the kitchen door she slipped in. Mrs. Hardy turned and said sharply, "Well you took your time, Miss!" Then she caught sight of the child's face and her voice softened. "What's the matter, my chuck? There's no need to look so down-in-the-mouth."

"Mrs. Hardy, as I came through the long gallery, there was such a poor lady. I've never seen anyone so upset. It made me sad to see her and not be able to help her."

The cook slowly sat down. "Come here my dear," and taking hold of Mary-Ellen's hands she looked closely into the young girls face. "You've seen something none of the rest of us has seen. You've just seen the White Lady. Was she wearing a white dress?"

"Yes, it looked like she was wearing her nightie. Who is she, Mrs. Hardy? Is she one of the family? Why didn't she go to London with them? Is she sick?"

"Mary-Ellen, the White Lady died over two hundred years ago. She had smallpox powerful bad and her face was left badly scarred. She sorrowed over it until she went into a decline and died. What you've just seen, my little lass, was her spirit crying for her lost beauty."

"Mrs. Hardy, she looked as real as you or I. She passed so close to me, I could have touched her and I wasn't frightened. I felt sorry for her and wanted to help. She didn't look ugly to me, just unhappy."

Still holding her hands, Mrs. Hardy smiled. "You're what they call a 'sensitive'. There are some as call people like you 'fey' but I think that's a daft word. Being a sensitive means you've got an extra sense - able to see and hear what others cannot. There's nothing bad or wicked about any of it. That poor soul wouldn't hurt anyone. Don't worry about it. Think yourself luckier than most. For the present, my little lass, let's keep this a secret between the two of us."

Mary-Ellen nodded, and Mrs. Hardy stood up, "Come along now. I think it's time for a cup of tea and a couple of scones, don't you?"

This story concerned my grandmother Mary-Ellen. She died at the age of eighty-four, when I was three years old. My mother told it to me many years ago. The name Harton Hall is fictitious, as are all the people, gentry and servants. Only my grandmother was real, and the incident of the penny-farthing bicycle, and of course 'The White Lady.'