The Wrong Girl (Freak House)

The Wrong Girl

(Book 1 of the 1st Freak House Series)

C.J. Archer

Copyright 2013 C.J. Archer

Visit C.J. at
http://cjarcher.com

CHAPTER 1

Windamere Manor, Hertfordshire, November 1888

To say I'd been kept prisoner my entire life in an attic wasn't quite true. It was only fifteen years out of eighteen, and I was allowed to walk in the gardens for a half-hour some days. Besides, the attic rooms of Windamere Manor covered the top-most floor of the entire west wing, and Violet and I had the run of them.

Nor did we want for anything. As little girls, we had every doll and toy we could desire. As young women, we had music and books, embroidery and sewing, and an education from the finest tutors. Lord Wade was generous in all things, except, of course, his love and attention toward Vi, his daughter.

She tried to pretend that it didn't matter, but I knew better. She couldn't hide her melancholy from me, or her desire to be rid of the affliction that stopped her from taking her place as the eldest of Lord Wade's children in the outside world. I saw it in her watery eyes as she gazed out the window and the way she hugged herself upon seeing the fresh burns in the Oriental rug. The latter only came after one of her episodes. The trinkets and tutors couldn't replace her parents, and in many ways she and I were both orphans, although I, Hannah Smith, was the only true one.

As prisons go, the attic of Windamere was pleasant enough, and as the orphaned daughter of servants with a strange affliction of her own to endure, I was more fortunate than most in my situation. I'd read the stories by Mr. Dickens. I knew a child of my class could wind up in the cruel workhouses if they were lucky, and the friendless streets if they were not. I'd been given a roof over my head, food in my belly, an education to rival any lord's daughter and a dear friend in Vi. Indeed, she was more like a sister than friend. She cared for me when I awoke from my unpredictable slumbers, disoriented and sluggish with a gaping hole in my memory. She was always nearby and had been for as long as I could recall.

What more could I—dare I—want?

I had just woken from one of those deep, dense sleeps when Miss Levine, our governess, stalked into our attic parlor, her black woolen gown so heavy that the skirt didn't even ripple as she moved. Her lashless eyes narrowed as she took in Vi and me sitting on the floor, holding each other. Her nostrils, two small caves at the end of a beakish nose, flared wider as she sniffed the acrid, smoky air. At such moments she resembled a rat with her sharp face and equally sharp eyes. Vi and I used to giggle behind our hands when we were little and make jokes about her rattiness. It was an attempt to stave off our fear, both of Miss Levine and of what caused the scorch marks. But we hadn't made any jokes in a long time, not since Miss Levine overheard us once and struck me with a cane until I apologized. I'd been ten years old at the time.

"At least you spared the wall hangings," Miss Levine said, her tone brisk. "A small mercy for which Lady Wade will no doubt be thankful. She doesn't have time to be furnishing these rooms, you know. She has the rest of the house to consider."

I felt Vi tense. Lady Wade, her mother, never visited us in the attic—something for which we were both grateful. It was enough to have to put up with ratty Miss Levine's moods. At least our governess had enough passion in her to grow angry on occasion. Lady Wade was simply indifferent to our plight, and that indifference made her as bleak as a February night.

"I'm sorry, Miss Levine," Vi whispered, lowering her head so that her forehead touched mine. She tucked a strand of my curly red-gold hair behind my ear, but it sprang free again. "I couldn't stop it."

Her grip tightened around my shoulders, and I pulled her closer. It was difficult to tell who was comforting whom. Perhaps it was a little of both. As always, I soothed Vi after she almost set the attic on fire, and she soothed me as I fought my way out of the fog of my narcolepsy. Our twin afflictions, seemingly intertwined with one another's, were inexplicable as much as they were dangerous.

"Stop apologizing to her," I whispered. "You can't help what happened and she knows it." It was an old refrain, spoken over and over, but it was one I felt compelled to repeat. Perhaps one day Vi would listen and cease apologizing for something she couldn't control.

"Get up, Miss Smith," snapped Miss Levine. "You are not an invalid." She waved a hand at the black scorch mark near the edge of the rug. "Attend to that."

"I'll do it," Vi said, rising. She held out her hand and I took it, although I already felt stronger and didn't need her assistance.

When I first woke from my strange slumbers, as I called my episodes, I felt vague, like I wasn't altogether
there
. It was as if I were drifting through a dream, and my head might as well have been stuffed full of cotton. After a few minutes, my head slowly cleared, and I could function normally again. Usually by then Vi had inadvertently set something alight. She claimed her episodes were brought on by her fear for me in my comatose state, but I'd never been quite convinced that was the case. It didn't make sense, although Vi certainly was afraid for me. That I didn't doubt. Poor, dear Vi was always afraid. It was why she needed me.

"No, I will." I squeezed her hand. "Go and rest on the settee, Lady Violet."

Her mouth twisted at my teasing. She didn't like me calling her by her full title. "You're too good to me, Hannah."

"She's lazy is what she is." Miss Levine wrapped her bony fingers around my arm so tightly I could feel my blood bank up in my veins. "Water, Miss Smith. Now."

I jerked free and set my feet apart to give myself a steadier stance. I might be slight in stature and Miss Levine tall, but I would not make it easy for her to push me about. I turned eighteen last month, and Vi a few months before that. We were no longer children. If anything, Miss Levine should be concerned that she'd lose her position now that neither of her charges needed her. I, on the other hand, was indispensable to Vi's happiness. For as long as she was confined to the attic, I would be with her.

"The fire's already out," I said. "There's no need for water."

"Nevertheless, I've asked you to fetch it," Miss Levine said.

"Actually, you didn't ask, you ordered."

"Do not test me, Miss Smith." Then Miss Levine did something I hadn't expected. She heaved a deep sigh. It caused her usually rod-straight back to curve, her shoulders to stoop. "We don't have time for your stubbornness. It's time for your walk. You don't want to miss that, do you? I know how you like to go out. Especially of late." Her lips curled back in what I suspected was an attempt at a smile, although I'd never actually seen her smile before, and I couldn't think what she found amusing about our walk on this particular day. "Fetch some water and make sure the fire is completely out. You know what'll happen if the floor beneath the rug is smoldering."

I knew. Three years ago, after a particularly bad attack, Vi had set the wood-paneled wall behind one of the woolen hangings alight and the flames had quickly spread. Fortunately the fire was extinguished before it did too much damage, but only because several pails were kept full of water at all times. Afterward, Lord Wade had ventured up to the attic to inspect the damage. The next day, we'd received new hangings. It was the last time Lord Wade had visited us.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Vi sink onto the settee as if her knees had given way. She turned her pale face to stare out the parlor's only window. While we both loved looking at the scenery through that window and making up stories about the people we saw coming and going from the house, she hated venturing outside for our walks. She seemed especially anxious today. Indeed, her nervousness had grown worse after I'd spotted the handsome gardener watching us. I, on the other hand, had been curious. Poor Vi. She was as much imprisoned by her fears as by her father.

I did as I was told and dipped the jug into one of the pails of water lined up between the small fireplace and the door.

I splashed the water from the jug over the burned patch, getting some of it on the hem of my gray woolen skirt. I checked under the rug—also woolen—but the floorboards had been spared.

Wool. It was everywhere. Sometimes I felt like I was drowning in the stuff. Woolen rugs on the floor, woolen hangings on the walls, woolen coverings on the chairs, settees and beds. My clothes were made of wool, even in summer, as were Vi's and Miss Levine's. Everything flammable was kept in chests and drawers, all draped in woolen fabric of course. I was convinced that we were single handedly responsible for the English wool market's profits. It doesn't burn you see. Not properly. It smolders when a flame is put to it, but once the flame is extinguished, there is nothing left but a blackened scar.

The attic, and we two girls, had been smothered in wool. Just once I wanted to wear a flimsy organdy gown like the ones worn by Lady Wade and her other daughter. I'd seen them through the window from the room we used as a parlor. The window looked down on the front steps of Windamere, and the long, straight avenue lined by ancient oaks that eventually swallowed the drive in the distance.

Sometimes I looked through the window at the gentle curve of hills and the thick woods at the edge of the vast Windamere estate and wished I was out there, exploring the world, meeting people, tasting freedom.

But I couldn't leave Vi behind to live in the attic with only Miss Levine for company. Nor could Vi come with me, not with her condition. While my narcolepsy was a danger only to me, her fire starting was a danger to others. She needed my company.

Besides, where else could I go?

"Put on your coats, girls," said Miss Levine, standing at the door. "It's cool outside."

"I'll be all right," I said, taking Vi's hand. She shook her head very slightly in warning. I grinned at her. Vexing Miss Levine was a favorite pastime of mine since she no longer used her cane to punish us.

Vi chewed her lower lip and the action reminded me of something, but I couldn't quite recall what. Something at the edge of my memory, something to do with vexing Miss Levine and the worried look on Vi's face.

But the memory slipped away before I could grasp it, and I didn't bother trying to reclaim it. My memories rarely returned after my narcoleptic episodes, and I'd come to accept that they never would.

"I know you enjoy being tiresome, Miss Smith," our governess said with an exasperated sigh, "but perhaps just this once you can put on your coat without argument. Gloves and hats too."

I opened my mouth to tell her I wouldn't wear gloves, but Vi frowned. "Please do as she says without quarreling."

My hands dropped to my sides and I blinked at her. She rarely spoke to me with such vehemence, or to Miss Levine for that matter. Vi was the sweet-natured one, the peacemaker. She never challenged Miss Levine's commands, never gainsaid an order. While it was the thing I loved about her the most, it irritated me in equal measure. She was Lady Violet Jamieson, daughter of the Earl of Wade. She shouldn't be taking orders from anyone, let alone a governess.

"Vi? What's wrong?"

Her blue eyes softened and she bit her lip. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap."

"You didn't." I tucked a strand of her dark red hair behind her ear as she had done with mine earlier. Where my unruly locks had refused to stay, hers remained. How I admired her sleek hair, her creamy skin and beautiful face. She would have been the belle of the ball if she'd been allowed to attend one. She was the opposite of me in so many ways. I was short and small, my face freckled. Although we both had red hair, mine was pale and orange—orange!—whereas hers was a rich mahogany.

Miss Levine clapped her hands. "Quickly now, before the weather changes. The sky is already looking quite gray in the west."

"Perhaps we shouldn't go out," said Vi.

Miss Levine gripped Vi's arm and gave her such a withering glare that my friend's face crumpled. "It's too late to change our minds now."

For once, I was in accord with Miss Levine. "If the weather changes and sets in, we may not get out again for days." I crossed the landing to our shared bedroom and retrieved our coats, hats and gloves from the brass hooks near the door. The maids had already been through. The beds were made and the hearth free of ash. The servants at Windamere were an efficient, silent lot. I hardly ever saw them let alone heard them going about their business, yet everything was spotless.

I handed Vi her things and put on my coat and hat, but not my gloves. Those I carried. I was halfway down the stairs before Vi even set foot on the top step. She was stalling, but I wouldn't let her fears keep me indoors. Not when it may be the last walk for some time with winter just around the corner, and not with the possibility of seeing that handsome gardener again, the one who watched me with such intensity that my skin prickled and my heart did little somersaults in my chest.

I waited for Vi and Miss Levine on the second-floor landing. They eventually caught up, and the governess gave me one of her stern looks. She was breathing much too hard to verbally reprimand me.