Who is She?

"***Who is She?***" is a 30,000 word novella published in 1921 by the Gas Lamp Tea private press. It is widely considered to be the imprint's most successful and iconic title to date.

## Plot

Set in a decaying manor estate in the Chartequincian countryside, "Who is She?" tells the brooding gothic mystery of Lord Henry Clayton and his obsession with the spectral apparition of a woman who haunts the halls of his ancestral home. Piecing together fragments of memory and encounters with her ghostly form, Lord Clayton sets out to unravel the tragedy of Ophelia - the mysterious woman's identity and her connection to the manor's dark past.

Penned by longtime Gas Lamp Tea member Sir Charles Winterbourne, "Who is She?" distinguished itself from the club's typical esoteric fare with its accessibility and emotionally compelling narrative arc. While still implementing trademark Gas Lamp Tea motifs like family secrets, forbidden love, and supernatural mystery, the story featured more developed characters and nuanced themes of longing, loss, and atonement that resonated deeply with readers.

Upon its publication, "Who is She?" quickly sold through multiple printings, a rare commercial success for the small press. International translations followed. The novella came to define Gas Lamp Tea's atmospheric yet psychologically intmate style, and remains required reading for fans of their catalog. Adapted into radio dramas and referenced frequently in studies of Gothic literature, "Who is She?" cemented Gas Lamp Tea's worldwide profile and ensured Sir Charles' place as their most celebrated author.

To this day, "Who is She?" continues to captivate readers with its lyrical yet unsettling portrayal of obsession and the enduring grip of past tragedy. Though imitated oft, no work has quite managed to capture the same brooding ambiance or intense romance of Gas Lamp Tea's undisputed masterpiece.

## Excerpt (Shortened)

The dark shadows of the ancient oak trees swayed eerily in the moonlight as Lord Henry Clayton wandered the old overgrown grounds of his family estate, Clayton Manor. As he passed by the crumbling stone walls and dried up fountains choked with weeds, his thoughts were far away, drifting through the foggy mists of memory, searching for something just out of reach. Or rather, someone.

It had been this way for as long as he could remember. Vague wisps of recollection, blurred images that faded before they could come into focus. A melodic voice on the wind that seemed to call his name. Pale white hands beckoning from the darkness. And always, always, that exquisite yet sorrowful face looking at him with eyes like limpid pools, eyes that saw straight into his soul.

Who was she? This wraithlike phantom that haunted his dreams and his waking hours alike? She felt so real yet so impossible to grasp. Like trying to catch moonbeams in cupped hands. He was certain they had met before, in a time long past when he was very young, but the when and where refused to come clear no matter how hard he strained to remember. All that remained was this maddening longing, this aching need to know her name.

Lord Clayton shivered as a cold gust of wind swept through the estate, rattling the naked treetops and setting the remaining leaves swirling around his boots. Pulling his greatcoat tighter, he cast his eyes up to the towering silhouette of Clayton Manor looming darkly on the hill above. It had been in his family for generations, standing stern sentinel over the surrounding countryside since Elizabethan times. But now it was falling rapidly into decrepitude, its halls empty and rooms gathering dust, slowly succumbing to the ravages of time.

Much like its master, Lord Clayton thought ruefully. At five and forty, a confirmed bachelor with no heirs, he was the last of the Clayton line. His parents and younger siblings had all passed on, leaving him alone in the vast decaying pile with only the ghosts of memory and ghosts that may not be memory at all for company. And of course, Her. The most elusive ghost of all who was somewhere between dream and reality.

A flicker of movement in an upstairs window caught his eye. A pale shape drifting past the panes of grimy glass, so fleeting he might have imagined it. But no, there again - the unmistakable glimmer of a flowing white gown and tumbling dark hair. His soul quickened as hope and longing rose within him, warring with disbelief. Could it be...?

Without pausing to question what he was doing, Lord Clayton scrambled up the slope towards the manor, taking the worn stone steps two at a time. Fumbling in his pocket for the heavy iron key, he jammed it into the lock and threw open the rotting oak door with a protesting screech. "Wait!" he cried, bolting into the musty entrance hall lit only by thin slivers of moonlight. "Please, I must know who you are!"

His voice echoed emptily in the vast cavernous space. The manor was as silent and lifeless as a tomb. Had he imagined it after all in his longing-addled brain? Lord Clayton sighed dejectedly, leaning his head against the battered paneling and closing his eyes. But then, softly, so softly he thought he dreamed it - the faintest notes of a lullaby floated through the air. His head jerked up, straining to follow the ethereal melody. It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once, teasing him further into the manor's shadowy depths.

Heart pounding, Lord Clayton set off blindly through the winding corridors, up creaking staircases and along dust-sheeted hallways. Doors opened and closed of their own accord, icy drafts swirled around his ankles, yet still that bewitching song beckoned him on through the gloom. Up another flight of stairs, down a long gallery lined with portraits of long-dead Claytons, their eyes following accusingly as he passed. At the end, a pair of tall arched double doors stood open, spilling muted moonlight across the threshold in a silvery river.

He knew this room. The grand master bedchamber at the top of the west wing, untouched since the day his parents drew their last breaths within its walls almost a decade ago. Steeling himself, Lord Clayton stepped over the sill and halted in astonishment.

She was there. Standing silhouetted against the arched window, her white gown and tumbling dark curls limned in pale light. At the creak of the door, she turned, and eyes like endless midnight met his with a tender yet unfathomable sadness. His heart near stopped at the celestial beauty of her ethereal face, a face that was at once bewilderingly familiar and not of this world. Words failed him as he stood entranced, only one thought echoing through his swirling mind.

At last. I have found you.

A faint smile curved her full pale lips, a smile filled with mysteries untold. "Lord Clayton," she murmured, her voice like chiming bells on the breeze. "We meet again after so long, though you did not know it. I am Ophelia."

Ophelia. The name resonated through him with a sense of profound rightness and recognition. "Ophelia," he breathed wonderingly. "Of course. I should have known."

Yet even as pieces fell into place with that single word, more questions arose. Questions he knew could have no straightforward answers from this wraithlike creature of moonlight and shadow. Stepping closer, he gazed searchingly into her depthless eyes. "Please. Tell me how this is possible. I remember you now from my childhood, but that was decades past. How can you still appear as you did then, unchanged?"

Her smile turned misty and sad. "Alas, my lord, I am not as you see. I dwell here still only as a spirit bound to this place, unable to find my rest. My mortal life was ended long before its time, cut short by treachery and sorrow. This home was my refuge in life, and in death it remains my prison until my sins can be redeemed and my soul set free."

Lord Clayton reeled, grasping a bedpost for support as her words sank in with slow dread. "You cannot mean - Ophelia, are you saying you are..."

"Dead?" she supplied gently. "Yes, my lord. I passed from this world many long years ago. But my reasons for lingering here, and my hope for release, you do not yet know."

She drifted closer then, raising a translucent hand to hover beside his cheek without quite touching. Her skin emanated not the warmth of life but a strange chill that raised gooseflesh where it met his own. Lord Clayton stood rooted to the spot, awash in a confusion of grief, wonder, and most of all a deeper longing than he had ever known to take her truly in his arms, dead or no.

"Tell me," he begged hoarsely. "I must understand. Please, Ophelia - let me help you find your rest at last."

And so began a night of revelations as Ophelia told her tragic tale, a story out of a Shakespearean tragedy that left Lord Clayton aghast and heartsick. She had been the daughter of a steward who cared for Clayton Manor in days gone by. A daughter of lower station but great beauty and charm, who had unwisely given her heart to the second son of the household - Lord Clayton's own father when he was a young man.

A forbidden love, ended all too soon when Ophelia with child was discovered and cast out in disgrace to face alone the perils of illness and birth. She stumbled back to these halls one winter's night begging sanctuary, only to be turned away and left to the elements' mercy. Her newborn babe had not survived the storm, and Ophelia herself expired before the manor gates, cursed to damnation and grief by the father of her child.

Since that dark hour, her mournful spirit had been tied to this place, unable to find peace. For her child had been buried in unhallowed ground outside the manor walls due to her sins, dooming her soul to wander in purgatory seeking absolution that could only come when mother and child were reunited in consecrated earth.

All these years, Lord Clayton realized with a shudder, her specter had clung to the edges of his memories, trying in vain to make him understand her message and fulfill her last request. Only now, as the last of her line, could he set things right and give poor Ophelia the rest denied to her for so long.

"I swear to you, on my family name and honor, this wrong will be made just," Lord Clayton vowed fervently, taking her chill hand between both of his. "Your son will be exhumed and laid to rest beside you in the family crypt as he should have been. You will be at peace, Ophelia. I give you my word."