“Further back,” I said, opening my book and turning to the chapter I had marked. I felt a slight breeze in the room and wished I had brought my cardigan but had no desire to wander through this empty house in search of it, passing the room where Caroline of Ansbach had been bled, poor woman. “I thought we might commence with the capture of Edmund Tudor and the beginnings of that triumphant but bloody dynasty.”
I glanced towards the window and sighed. One of the children must have written in the condensation while I wasn’t looking. Something so vulgar I refused even to draw attention to it.
Chapter Eleven
ON SUNDAYS, THE children and I attended services in the village church and, during those first weeks, I felt a little like an animal on display in a zoo whenever we entered and made our way along the nave towards the family pew in the front row. Every head would turn in that terribly subtle way where no one would actually make it obvious that they were watching us but their eyes burned through me nevertheless. At first, I thought it was because the children were always so beautifully turned out but gradually I began to suspect that it was me they were interested in, a sensation that was new to me, as I was not accustomed to turning heads.
At peace within the stone walls of the church, my spirits often lifted by the choir who were almost invisible in the balcony behind us, I found that I looked forward greatly to Sunday mornings and the solace the service offered me. Reverend Deacons always gave a thoughtful sermon and, unlike some of the services I had heard in London, his words did not sound as though they had been regurgitated time and again for a fresh congregation, but then he was a young man and filled with enthusiasm for his calling. As he spoke of love and kindness towards our fellow man, I would often find my thoughts drifting back to Father, and sometimes I struggled with my emotions. I had settled in well to Norfolk, or so I believed, but the abruptness of my departure from London so soon after his sudden death had left me emotionally raw, and now that things were more stable, I found my thoughts turning back to him more frequently whenever I was alone or in church. I missed him terribly, that was the truth of it. I missed our conversations; I even missed the insect books and regretted not keeping one for myself instead of delivering them all to the custody of Mr. Heston and the British Museum. “I will always look after you,” he had told me after my return from Cornwall. “I will keep you safe.” Now that he was gone, who would look after me? Who would protect me? Who would keep me safe if trouble came my way?
After one particularly moving homily, when I was close to tears at recalling how happy we had been together, I told the children that I wanted to remain behind and say a last few private prayers, and we arranged to meet in a few minutes’ time at the village pump, where the road led back towards Gaudlin Hall. The rest of the congregation departed as usual and I sank to my knees, my head in my hands as I said prayers to God for the safe repose of Father’s soul, and prayed that he was looking down at me and protecting me still. When I lifted my head again I found that I had been crying and, to my embarrassment, Reverend Deacons was clearing some of his effects from the altar and staring at me. I sat back on the pew as he walked towards me and attempted a smile.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Fine, thank you,” I said, blushing a little. “You’ll have to forgive me, I didn’t mean to make a fool of myself.”
He shook his head and came towards me, sitting down in the row in front of mine but turning his body so that he was looking directly at me. He had a kindly face and I liked him for it. “There’s nothing to forgive,” he said with a shrug. “It’s Miss Caine, isn’t it?” he said.
“Yes, that’s right.”
“The new governess over at the Hall?” I nodded again and he turned his head slightly, his expression becoming a little more troubled. “I think I owe you an apology, Miss Caine.”
I raised an eyebrow, uncertain what he could mean. “Whatever for?” I asked.
“You’ve been here a couple of weeks now. I’ve seen you in the village and here, at church service, but I haven’t been out to see you. To introduce myself, so to speak. I hope you don’t think ill of me for it.”
“Not at all,” I said, shaking my head, and in truth the idea had never crossed my mind that he would make an expedition to meet me. What was I, after all? Nothing more than a paid employee. A governess. I was not mistress of Gaudlin Hall even if I was the only woman in residence. “I expect you’re a very busy man.”
“I am, I am,” he said, nodding slowly. “But that’s no excuse. I should have made the time. I told myself I should speak with you, but …” He shivered slightly, a ghost walking over his grave, and I got the impression there was something about the place that disturbed him. “Well, I’m sorry, anyway,” he said after a moment, shaking his head to dismiss whatever thoughts were lingering there. “How are you getting on?”
“Quite well,” I said. “The children are a delight.”
“They’re unusual children, I think,” said Reverend Deacons, considering this. “Their hearts are good, of course, but they have suffered so much. Isabella is an extraordinarily intelligent girl. I wonder whether she might one day be the wife of a brilliant man. Eustace shows great promise too.”
I frowned, only noticing one word in that statement. “Suffered?” I asked. “Suffered how?”
He hesitated. “We all suffer, don’t we, Miss Caine?” he said. “Life is suffering. Until the great day of judgement, when peace and equanimity may be restored for those who are pure of heart and deed.”
I raised an eyebrow. I did not know Reverend Deacons, of course, but I felt this remark was somehow beneath him. “But you said they suffered,” I insisted. “It sounded as if you meant that they had suffered in some way other than the general. Might I ask what you meant?”
“They have seen great upheaval in their lives,” he said, looking down and examining the cover of his prayer book, which, I noticed, was inscribed with the letters AD. “Why, over the last twelve months you are … what must it be … the sixth governess at Gaudlin Hall?”
I stared in surprise. This was most certainly news to me. “The sixth?” I asked. “But you must be mistaken, I’m only the second. Miss Bennet was governess before me. Surely she was here for some time?”
“Oh dear me, no,” said Reverend Deacons. “No, Miss Bennet had only been here a month. If even that.”
“A month?” I asked. “But I don’t understand. Why did she leave so soon? And if you are correct, then where are the other four? They can’t have stayed much longer if I’m the sixth governess in twelve months.”
The vicar appeared uncomfortable, as if he regretted having ever begun this conversation. He looked as if he would prefer to be safely back in his vicarage, awaiting the pleasures of his Sunday lunch and an afternoon stroll with his puppy. “Mr. Raisin,” he said. “He really is the person who should be discussing these matters with you. He has responsibility for the estate, after all.”
Mr. Raisin! That man again! To my embarrassment, I blushed at the name. Perhaps he had been in my thoughts a little in recent days.
“I have tried to meet with Mr. Raisin,” I said, growing irritated with my own silliness, a note of displeasure evident in my tone. “Several times, in fact. But he is a difficult man to get hold of. His assistant, Mr. Cratchett, keeps a close grip on his appointment book. I wonder if it might not be easier to gain access to the Kingdom of Heaven than to Mr. Raisin’s private office.”
Reverend Deacons raised an eyebrow and I turned away, wondering whether this had been a sacrilegious remark. “I’m sorry,” I said after a moment. “Only it’s so frustrating. I can’t get any answers anywhere. I feel quite alone sometimes.”
“You should be more insistent,” he said in a gentle voice. “Don’t let Cratchett tell you what you can and can’t do, who you can and can’t see. You have the right to know, after all,” he added in a more forceful tone, a tone that sent a shiver down my spine. “A woman in your position, why you’re
little more than a girl. You have the right to know!”
A series of questions appeared in my head but I hesitated, trying to select the right one. I suspected that if I pushed Reverend Deacons too far, he would close up entirely and repeat that I should speak only with Mr. Raisin, but I also felt that there were things that he would tell me, things that he wanted to tell me, if only I could find the right way to ask.
“You say I am the sixth governess in a year,” I said quietly, trying to keep any suggestion of hectoring out of my tone. “The children’s parents have been gone that long then?”
“Yes,” he agreed. “Just over a year, in fact.”
I frowned. What kind of parents abandoned their children for such a protracted period? Yes, of course they were moneyed and travel was so much easier these days. Why, they could take a boat from Southampton to France and be in Rome in a matter of weeks if they put their mind to it and didn’t dawdle along the way. And this was how the wealthy classes lived, wasn’t it? Or so I believed, from my reading. They went on grand European tours. They rented villas in Italy and houses in Mesopotamia. They took cruises down the Nile and spent evenings drinking cocktails on the Bosphorus. They were not like me, condemned to a life lived in one place, with no possibility of change. But to leave their children at such a young age? Why, Eustace would have turned eight since they left. It was outrageous. It made a farce of their believing themselves to be the upper class when they cared so little for their young. Wolf spiders ate their own.
“And the other four governesses,” I continued. “They were like Miss Bennet? They worked for a short period of time and then advertised for their replacement? Are the gentlemen from the Morning Post expecting my notice to be placed with them any day now?”
Reverend Deacons frowned and looked deeply troubled. “Only Miss Bennet placed her own advertisement,” he said. “Mr. Raisin placed the others.”
“Well, that’s something, I suppose. But these other four. What were their motives for leaving? They didn’t like the house? How is it possible when it’s so beautiful! They didn’t care for the children? I can’t believe it when they’re so …” I searched for the word. Lovable was entirely wrong. Warm? Certainly not. A joy to be around? Not quite. In the end, I settled for the word he himself had used to describe them. “Intelligent,” I said. “And interesting.”
“It had nothing to do with the house, nothing to do with the children,” he replied, his words emerging from his mouth in a great hurry now, and I could see that I was putting him under tremendous pressure but I had no desire to stop.
“Then what was it? Why would they leave?”
“They didn’t leave,” he said, his voice rising, almost shouting at me now, and it rang around the church, bouncing off the strong stone walls and echoing in the chamber. “They died.”
I stared at him. I was glad to be seated for I felt a little lightheaded at the words. “They died?” I said finally, my voice emerging from my mouth in a near whisper. “All of them? How?”
“No, not all,” he replied, turning away from me, desperate to go now. “The first, Miss Tomlin, yes, she died. In such terrible circumstances. And the other three. Miss Golding, Miss Williams and Miss Harkness. They all died too. But Miss Bennet, your predecessor, she survived. There was that awful incident, of course, which precipitated her departure, but she survived it.”
“What incident?” I asked, leaning forward. “Please, I know nothing of these things. I beg you to tell me.”
He stood up and shook his head. “I have said too much already,” he replied. “There are certain things which … there are confidences, Miss Caine. Can’t you understand that? I have asked you to speak to Mr. Raisin about these matters and I implore you to do so. If you have questions, ask them of him. If you have concerns, ask him to alleviate them. If you have spiritual problems, then yes, do come to me, but not in matters relating to the affairs of the last twelve months at Gaudlin Hall. I have buried too many of your predecessors and have no desire to bury another. Now I do apologize, I have behaved badly I fear, I have left you with more questions than answers, but I must leave you now.”
I nodded; it was clear that he was going to tell me no more and I stood up and shook his hand and made my way down the aisle towards the bright, sunny day. As I reached the door I looked back and saw Reverend Deacons moving to the front pew and seating himself heavily in it, his face in his hands, and I watched him for only a moment before turning away.
On the street outside, I looked around for the children but could not see them. I did, however, see Dr. and Mrs. Toxley, the couple who had rescued me on my first night in Norfolk when I had almost stepped out beneath the approaching train.
“Miss Caine,” said Mrs. Toxley cheerfully as she saw me. “How are you?”
“Very well, thank you,” I said. “I’m so glad I saw you. I wondered whether you might like to come to afternoon tea one day this week. Wednesday perhaps?”
I had been wondering no such thing, of course. The idea had just come to me on the spot. But I had no companions, no friends at all. And Mrs. Toxley was only a few years older than I. Why shouldn’t I invite her to tea, after all? Yes, I was a mere governess and she a doctor’s wife, but what of it? Her smile faded a little and I noticed her husband shifting uncomfortably in his stance.
“Well, of course,” she replied, stuttering slightly, perhaps surprised by the absurd spontaneity of the invitation. “But why don’t we meet at Mrs. Sutcliffe’s tea shop here in the village? Wouldn’t that be more convenient for you?”
“I’d love for you to come to Gaudlin Hall,” I said.
“She makes the most excellent custard tarts. I think you’d enjoy—”
“Please,” I insisted, reaching out and touching her on the elbow, an unusual gesture for me for I was not a tactile woman. “Please come to Gaudlin Hall. Shall we say Wednesday at three?”
She looked at her husband, who appeared deeply troubled, but then seemed to take some independent sense of purpose for she nodded, said not a word, and I smiled. “Thank you,” I said. “I’ll see you then. Now, please don’t think me rude, but I’ve just seen Mr. Cratchett emerging from the public house and I need a word with him.”
The Toxleys watched in surprise as I left them with almost the same sense of urgency as I had approached them, and I marched on in the direction of Mr. Raisin’s assistant who, upon seeing me, raised an eyebrow, turned and walked in the opposite direction.
“Mr. Cratchett?” I called but he ignored me, so I shouted louder—“Mr. Cratchett! If you please!”—at such a volume that he had no choice but to turn, as did several other villagers passing, who looked at me as if I was an undesirable element.
“Ah, Miss Caine,” he said. “What a delight.”
“Let’s not play games, Mr. Cratchett,” I replied. “I wanted to let you know that I’ll be coming in for an appointment with Mr. Raisin on Tuesday morning at eleven o’clock. I shall need about an hour and would prefer it if we were not disturbed during that time. I hope that he will be free at that hour but just so you both know, if he is not, then I am perfectly willing to sit in your office until he is free. I shall bring a book with me to pass the time. I shall bring two, if need be. I shall bring the complete works of Shakespeare if he insists on keeping me waiting interminably and those plays will get me through the long hours. But I will not leave until I have seen him, are we quite clear on that? Now, I wish you a very pleasant Sunday, Mr. Cratchett. Enjoy your lunch, won’t you? Your breath smells of whisky.”
And with that, I turned on my heels and walked away, no doubt leaving him completely astonished in the street, annoyed by my audacity, but feeling very pleased with myself for having managed to get through this unprepared speech without stumbling once. Tuesday at eleven o’clock. The time was now set and I would get some answers or I would be damned. I looked ahead, almost laughing out loud at my own strength of purpose, and was pleased to see Isabella and Eustace standing near the pump as instructed
, playing some game with stick and ball.
“Come along, children,” I said, marching straight past them, feeling like a new woman entirely. “Let’s not dawdle. Lunch won’t prepare itself, you know.”
Chapter Twelve
MY MOOD OF well-being lasted through the dinner hour and into the early afternoon, at which point the strange mixture of emotions that I had experienced that morning—grief, confusion, frustration and euphoria—seemed to settle down into a sensation of melancholia and I strolled around the grounds, my mind troubled at the things I had learned, or failed to learn, since waking that day. The sixth governess in a year! It seemed extraordinary. The first four dead and the fifth running through Thorpe Station in such a rush that she almost knocked me over in her urgency to get away. What had happened to them all? What had driven them to such terrible ends?
Returning to the Hall and looking up towards my bedroom window on the third floor, I felt a distinct sense of unease and wrapped my arms around my body, rubbing them up and down a little to bring some warmth to my bones. I wondered whether each of the previous governesses had used the same bedroom that I used—there were at least a dozen, after all, in the Hall, so it was entirely possible that they hadn’t—but felt quite chilled at the idea that it was the same one. It had occurred to me before, after all, how well appointed my room was, not the usual type (I imagined) that an employee would be offered. It was so large and the view over the grounds was exceptional. Were it not for the fact that the windows had been sealed shut, then it would have been almost perfect. I looked up at that window now and sighed. But perhaps the children had given me a new room since it would not have bad memories attached to it?