chapter 2

A few months after my death our family lawyer Mr Jacobson came to settle my affairs.

"As you are aware your wife's family is quite wealthy. As the eldest daughter Rebecca was to inherit 75% of her father's fortune as well as the family estate." Mr Jacobson explained. "It is a sad state of affairs that a father should outlive his daughter but Mr Millbank feels it is appropriate that Rebecca's inheritance should fall to you in the event of his death. His only stipulation is that, as you are childless, Mary should inherit the estate so that it might stay in the Millbank family."

William nodded gravely. My dear, sweet husband. He cared not a thing for money.

"Your wife's death was tragically premature," he said. "I can only hope that she will be at peace knowing that you will be able to live comfortably."

William got up and turned to the fire place, covering his face with his hands and I can see his shoulders begin to shake with emotion.

"I will, er, give you a moment, sir." Mr Jacobson said, getting up to leave. "I understand that this must be difficult for you."

"My dear wife, my dear wife," his voice cracks with emotion but when he uncovers his face I see that it is contorted in an ugly, mirthless laugh. "My dear wife died doing what she loved best: stuffing her face like the fat sow that she was."

How does one experience shock or pain without a body to feel it? Cliches like "my heart lurched" or "my stomach clenched" already so trite in life are completely meaningless and ineffectual in death. And yet I still feel like I have a heart that can break. But no, he is not content with breaking my heart for he did that every day of our marriage with a thousand tiny slights. Now he must pulverise it with his fists.

It seems that he only lingered in London to hear of my inheritance for the next day the servants are loading the carriage with heavy trunks and he is gone. I try to keep track of time while he is away but the days quickly become innumerable.

When I finally hear his boots on the doorstep and his voice calling to the servants I curse myself for almost feeling happy. But he is not alone: a girl lingers shyly in the doorway until he ushers her in and the servants begin to fuss over her. I realise he is not done with me yet: my heart must now be ground to dog meat under the heel of his boot.

Her name is Lucy. She is the daughter of some Glasgow ship builder or another. McSomething or other. Some grasping new money nobody no doubt. I can do nothing but scrutinise the imposter and seethe with rage as my servants address her as Mrs Sitwell. Her voice is soft as the rustle of her skirts as she moves around my house but her accent is common and vulgar. Her hair is a beastly, unfashionable red and though I must admit her features are delicate and finely turned, when I look at her closer I notice the dusting of freckles on her nose that she has vainly tried to conceal with powder. She has the pallid, sickly complexion and gaunt cheeks of a slum rat but he dotes on her like some exquisite porcelain doll, coos over his little dove.

At dinner he regards her approvingly as she picks disinterestedly at her plate. He devours his own food with gusto and relishes every bite in a way he never did when I was alive. He smiles at her wolfishly between bites as if he would like to gobble her up with his dinner. His little lamb.

I realise then how much he must have hated me and how much I hate him. I try to seize up the heavy candle stick at my side to dash it against his head but my fingers slide through it ineffectually and I remember that I am nothing.

I curse loudly, a word a lady of good breeding such as I could never have said in life. To my surprise Lucy's head snaps up suddenly and her gaze is fixed exactly where I stand. Her eyes narrow a little, puzzled and then lower back to her plate. I test the girl further, sliding my fingers through the precise spot where I know her little bird heart flutters in her chest. She shivers and pulls her shawl around her tighter.

"Is there something wrong, my love?" William asks.

Lucy shakes her head and utters a little nervous laugh. "Nothing at all, darling. I only feel a chill all of a sudden."

"Put another shovel of coal on the fire, Nicholas," William demands impatiently. "Do you wish for your mistress to freeze?"

Nicholas scurries forward to please his master and the other servants begin clearing away the main course and setting out tea cups and stands of delicate little cakes.

I notice that Lucy has a child's taste for sweet things. She furtively drops two sugar cubes into her tea cup when she thinks William is not looking and her doe eyes shine with delight at the brightly coloured fancies before her.

"Shall I be mother?" William smiles, offering her one of the sticky ginger cakes that I know he is fond of.

Lucy chews her bottom lip for a moment and then shakes her head. "No thank you, William. I am quite full already."

Full! I am outraged. How can she claim to be full when she is presented with so many delicious and tempting treats? It is she who is the spectre at the feast, not I. I look longingly at a cake stand full of French fancies, colourful and pretty. I could have crammed them all into my mouth.

Lucy reaches out a tentative hand and takes one of the French fancies. I cannot believe my eyes when, instead of taking her usual tiny nibbles, she stuffs the whole cake into her mouth at once. Her eyes are bulging almost as much as her full cheeks as she chews the cake as if she is as shocked by her actions as I.

Then something miraculous happens. I can feel the sweet fondant melting in my mouth, the faint taste of marzipan. I feel as though I am chewing the soft, buttery cake. I try to focus on another cake but she is unmoved and I fear that it was just a fluke. And yet that familiar, comforting feeling of fullness in the pit of my stomach tells me otherwise.

When they retire to their bed chamber I watch them. Do I shock you? Should my cheek be colouring at the sight of flesh? Should I be falling into a swoon at the very idea of sex? You forget that I am a ghost and not some blushing maiden.

As he undresses her I think of funeral lilies: still, white, open. She is so small that I think he might crush her and, though he caresses her with tenderness, his hands seem so big and clumsy compared to her that she flinches and trembles at his every touch. She barely moves and only utters a soft sigh as he kisses the tight little buds of her breasts and a barely audible gasp as he enters her.

I think of all the times I tried to please him. All the times I tried to be less than myself for him. And it was all for naught. He never wanted me, only this pretty and fragile ornament.

When he has reached his shuddering end he whispers to her: "My dear one, my little love. I didn't hurt you, did I?"

I know now that i will annihilate her.