This House is Haunted (8 page)

I blew out the last remaining candle on my bedside table and pulled the sheets up about my shoulders, closing my eyes and allowing a great yawn to escape my mouth. In the distance I could hear a rather unpleasant cry and wondered whether it was Winnie settling down for the night, but then I heard it again and it was not the sound of a horse, I could tell that much, and decided that no, it must be the wind in the trees, for it had grown even more blustery than before and the rain was starting to pound against my window. It would not keep me awake though, I decided, despite how horrible the sound that wind made, more like a woman being choked to death than anything else, for I was tired and weary after my day’s journey and the confusion of the three residents of Gaudlin that I had met so far.

I closed my eyes and sighed, stretching out my body, my legs digging down deeper under the covers, and I expected that at any moment my toes would touch the wooden bedstead, but they did not and I smiled to realize that the bed was longer than I was, that I could stretch out as much as I wanted, and I did so, pleased to feel my aching limbs loosen up as they reached as far as they could, the toes dancing beneath the sheets, a sensation of the most delightful pleasure, until a pair of hands grabbed both my ankles tightly, the fingers pressing sharply against the bone, as they pulled me down into the bed and I gasped, dragging myself back up quickly, wondering what kind of terrible nightmare I had fallen into. Throwing myself from the bed, I pulled the curtains across and ripped the bedspread away but there was nothing there. I stood, my heart pounding. I had not imagined it. Two hands had gripped my ankles and pulled me. I could feel them still. I stared in disbelief, but before I could gather my thoughts the door flew open and a sharp light filled the corridor, a white, ghost-like figure standing before me.

Isabella.

“Are you all right, Eliza Caine?” she asked.

I gasped and ran towards her and the comfort of the candle. “There’s something …” I began, uncertain how to explain it. “In the bed, there was … I could feel …”

She stepped forward and held the candle over it, examining it up and down from pillow to base. “It’s entirely empty,” she said. “Did you have a bad dream?”

I thought about it. It was the only sensible explanation. “I must have,” I said. “I thought I was still awake but I must have drifted off. I’m sorry for waking you. I don’t … I don’t know what came over me.”

“You woke Eustace, you know. He’s a light sleeper.”

“I’m sorry about that,” I said.

She raised an eyebrow, as if she was considering whether or not she could find it in her heart to forgive me, but settled for a polite nod instead and left me, closing the door behind her.

I stood by the side of the bed for a long time, until I could convince myself that it must have been my imagination playing tricks on me, and then finally, leaving the curtains open to allow the moonlight to pour in, I climbed back into the bed, pulling the sheets around me, and slowly, very slowly, allowed my legs to stretch out once more, where they encountered nothing other than the soft sheets of the bed.

I closed my eyes, convinced that I would never sleep now, but exhaustion must have overtaken me, for when I woke again, the sun was streaming through the windows, the rain and wind had dissipated, and a new day, my first at Gaudlin Hall, was upon me.

Chapter Seven

I
T CAME AS A
relief that my first morning at Gaudlin should be a bright and sunny one, but also a surprise that a night of heavy rain could give way to such a fine aftermath. I knew nothing of Norfolk weather, of course, and this might have been a typical response to an overnight storm but I could not recall when I had last awoken to such clear skies and pleasant conditions. In London, there was always the murk of a prodigious fog in the air, the smell of burnt coal, the sensation that one’s body was being surreptitiously coated with some infamous parasitic residue that would seep through the pores and sink beneath the skin, an assassin lurking, but here, looking through the large windows across the grounds that surrounded the house, I felt that if I were to run outside and fill my lungs with good, honest country air, then all my traumas of the past week would begin to dissolve and threaten my spirits no more.

It was this optimistic sensation that lifted my mood when otherwise it might have been deflated by apprehension and loneliness. To my surprise I had enjoyed a good night’s sleep and the various unpleasant businesses of the previous day—my brush with death at the train station, my difficulty in conversing
with Heckling, the uncertainty regarding my employers, that ridiculous nightmare when I went to bed (for nightmare, I was now certain, was all it could have been, a fantasy born of exhaustion and hunger)—all of these things seemed remote to me now. I was determined that today, the first day of my new life away from London, would be a good one.

The smell of cooking led me directly through a series of connected rooms on the ground floor, the odour growing stronger in each one. The drawing room where I had sat with the children the night before, a rather ornate dining room with a table that might have seated twenty, a small reading room that was filled with marvellous light, a corridor whose walls were decorated with watercolours of butterflies and, finally, the kitchen. I did not know where the Westerleys ate in the mornings for I had not yet received a thorough tour of the house but felt certain that if I followed my nose then I would find the entire family enjoying their breakfast and preparing to welcome me. Surely all this nonsense about Isabella and Eustace’s parents would be sorted out then.

To my surprise, however, the kitchen was deserted, although the aromas in the air made it clear that someone had been there not long before, preparing breakfast.

“Hello,” I cried, stepping towards the pantry in search of the cook. “Is there anyone here?”

But no, there wasn’t. I looked around; the shelves were well stocked. There were fresh vegetables and fruit lying in baskets, and a cold store that, when opened, revealed cuts of beef and poultry encased in glass containers. A bowl of brown eggs sat beneath the window next to a loaf of nut-infused bread that had been delivered of several slices already. Pausing for a moment, wondering what I should do next, my attention was taken
by the rather fine arched Romanesque window and, looking through, I observed a portly, middle-aged lady wearing what appeared to be a maid’s uniform marching along the gravel in the direction of Heckling’s stables, a deeply filled bag in her left hand, a coat and hat adorning her ample frame, and I wondered whether this was the Mrs. Livermore to whom Isabella had referred the night before. I had failed to ask who she was at the time, assuming that she was some type of housekeeper, but the ensemble that this lady was dressed in suggested otherwise.

I stepped across to the pantry door but struggled with the key in the lock, which was stiff and unwilling to turn, much like the windows in my bedroom which, when tried again in the morning, had proved impossible to open. I forced the door, however, and finally emerged into the grounds just as the lady turned the corner of the house and disappeared from sight. I called out, expecting her to hear me and retrace her steps, and when she did not, I followed at rather a good pace, determined to catch up with her, but when I turned the corner myself a few moments later she had vanished entirely. I looked around in astonishment—there did not seem to be anywhere that she could have gone, nor could she have made her way to the far end of the perimeter in such a short time, but the fact remained that she had been there one moment and had disappeared the next. I glanced to my left, through the clump of trees; the horse, Winnie, was standing patiently outside the stables, staring at me, fixing me with a look that unsettled me. Confused, I could think of nothing else to do but turn round and make my way back to the pantry door.

To my frustration it had closed and locked itself from the inside—how it could possibly have done this I did not know, as I had left the door wide open and there was absolutely no breeze to push it shut again—and this left me with no choice
but to walk round to the front door of Gaudlin Hall, which was mercifully unlocked, and make my way back through the house to where I had begun.

I sat down at the kitchen table and frowned, wondering what I should do next. Was I to prepare my own breakfast? Had the children eaten? Were they even awake or was I expected to rouse them too? I had almost decided to go back upstairs and knock on Isabella’s door when, to my horror, a pair of hands grabbed my ankles from beneath the table, much like the wicked creature in my fantasy had the night before, but before I could scream or leap from my seat, a small boy appeared from beneath and he scampered out with a mischievous grin on his face.

“Eustace,” I said, shaking my head and holding a hand to my chest. “You gave me a fright.”

“You didn’t see me under there, did you?”

“I didn’t,” I replied, smiling. It was impossible to be angry with him. “I thought I was alone.”

“You’re never alone at Gaudlin Hall,” he said. “Miss Harkness used to say that she would give a month’s salary for a day’s peace and quiet.”

“I prefer company,” I told him. “If I’d wanted solitude I would have stayed in London. But look at you,” I added after a moment, standing up and taking him in from head to toe. “Don’t you look smart!”

It was true; he looked very fine indeed. He was dressed in a neat pair of white trousers, a white shirt and tie and a blue serge jacket that made me want to reach out and stroke the fabric in much the same way that Mr. Dickens’ waistcoat, a week earlier, had also made me long to experience the sensation of such expensive material against my fingertips. He had washed
too; I could smell the rich scent of carbolic soap that emanated from his body. And his hair was neatly combed, parted at the side and held in place with a little pomade. He might have been going out on a family visit or attending church services, such was his respectable appearance.

“Mama likes me to dress well every day,” he said in a confidential tone, leaning forward a little despite the fact that there was no one else in the kitchen. “She says it is the mark of a gentleman to dress at home as if one is going out. One never knows who might call, after all.”

“That’s true,” I said. “But when I was a girl, not much older than you are now, I preferred to wear my runabout clothes when I knew we weren’t planning on receiving company. I felt more at ease in them. Don’t you feel uncomfortable in such finery? Particularly on a day like today, when it’s so warm?”

“It’s what Mama prefers,” he insisted and sat down on the seat next to mine. “Would you like some breakfast? You must be hungry.”

“I am, rather,” I admitted. “But I haven’t been able to find your cook anywhere.”

“We don’t have a cook,” said Eustace. “Not any more. There used to be one, of course. Mrs. Hayes was her name. She smelled like soup and was forever trying to tousle my hair. I had to tell her off about it. It’s taking liberties, don’t you think? But she was quite a good cook,” he added, nodding wisely. “Anyway, she’s gone. She left. Afterwards, I mean.”

“Afterwards?” I asked, but he simply shrugged and looked away. “Well, who prepares the meals if you don’t have any help?”

“The governess usually. Or Isabella. My sister is quite a good cook actually. I tease her that she will end up in service one day but whenever I do she hits me so I think I ought to stop.”

I stared around in astonishment, suppressing an urge to laugh at this intolerable situation. Was I to undertake every job in this house? There had been no mention of cooking in the advertisement, although I was beginning to realize just how deceptive that notice had been.

“But this is insupportable,” I declared, throwing my hands in the air. “I don’t know where anything is; I don’t know what you children like to eat. And there has definitely been someone cooking here this morning. I can smell it in the air.”

“Oh,” said Eustace, marching over to the cooker and opening the door to look inside. “You’re right. Look, there’s two breakfasts waiting for us here. Hurrah! Isabella must have made them already. She can be quite thoughtful when she’s not being violent. We should eat them before they become disgusting.”

I laughed, despite myself. What an odd thing to say, I thought. But sure enough, there were two plates of food warming inside the cooker and I lifted them out using a dishcloth to save my hands and placed them on the table. There was nothing too elaborate there, a couple of sausages and slices of bacon, some scrambled egg. Any capable person could have cooked this but somehow, from Isabella’s hands, it looked almost indigestible. Perhaps it had been resting in the cooker for too long.

“And what about Heckling?” I asked as we began to eat, trying hard to make my first question sound innocent so my second would be answered. “Where does he eat?”

Eustace shrugged his shoulders. “In the stables, I expect,” he said. “With the horses.”

“And the other lady? The maid?”

“What maid?”

“I saw her this morning, making her way across the grounds. Where does she eat?”

“We don’t have a maid.”

“Now don’t be false, Eustace,” I told him, trying to keep my tone light. “I saw her, not ten minutes ago. I followed her outside but lost sight of her.”

“We don’t have a maid,” he insisted.

“Then who was the lady with the handbag and the uniform who passed by the pantry window? Did I simply imagine her into being?”

He didn’t say anything for a moment and I resolved not to rush him. Let him answer in his own time, I decided. But do not speak again until he does.

“I don’t know much about her,” he said finally. “She comes and goes, that’s all. I’m not supposed to speak to her.”

“Who says so?”

“My sister.”

I thought about this. “And why is that?” I asked. “Do Isabella and Mrs. Livermore not get along? Her name is Mrs. Livermore, isn’t it? Isabella mentioned someone of that name last night.”

He nodded.

“And are they not friends?” I continued. “Is there an argument between them?”