As I looked, however, I was surprised to see a figure standing behind the curtains, leaning in a little, looking down at me. It was difficult to make out who it was as the white lace separated the glass from the person, and I frowned, certain that it must be Isabella. (Eustace did not strike me as the kind of boy who was interested in going through someone else’s belongings.) This was exactly why I didn’t leave my door open, I thought. I wanted this small piece of privacy to be maintained for myself. Staring at the figure, I noticed it move and then slip away from the window, and I marched through the front door of the house, preparing to be firm with the girl when, to my astonishment, I noticed Isabella in the parlour to my left, seated on the couch with her legs stretched out, engaged with one of her storybooks. I was surprised to say the least and even a little disappointed. So it had been Eustace! Perhaps I had misread his character. I did not like the idea of scolding him, for in truth I thought him a dear boy, but there would be no way around it; we would have to have words. I started to move towards the staircase to go up to my bedroom but, before I could do so, Eustace emerged from his sister’s left, where he had been previously out of sight to me, followed by Pepper, Heckling’s dog, who was looking up at the ceiling and growling in a low, throaty voice, one of his hind paws stamping urgently on the floor, as if he was preparing to attack.
Feeling no fear, I ascended the staircase, turned to my left, ascended the larger staircase to the second floor and made my way down the corridor to my room, flinging open the door and staring around, ready to confront my intruder.
To my astonishment there was no one there. I looked around, utterly confused. It had been less than a minute since I had seen the figure behind the curtains and there was no way that anyone could have left the room and gone downstairs without passing me in the meantime. I opened the wardrobe, looked under the bed, but the room was empty. I almost laughed. Had I imagined the whole thing? Had the events of the day so far played games with my mind and my imagination? I sighed. It was the only possible explanation. But I had been so certain!
I made my way to the window and pulled the curtains apart, placing my two hands against the enormous sealed glass, standing in the same position where I had imagined the figure to be, and, exhausted now, closed my eyes and relaxed my body against it. What happened next took no more than ten seconds, perhaps fifteen at the very most, but I can recall it now as if I am still in the throes of it and I swear that it felt like an hour.
The window, impossible to open, sealed shut at its lock with boiling tar, flew open wide, the two doors splitting outwards, and a rush of air blew into the room as a pair of hands—I felt them! I felt those two hands!—pushed sharply against my back, lifting me off the floor with as much vengeance as that terrible wind had on the afternoon I journeyed back to Gaudlin Hall. They pushed with as much determination as the unseen force that had tried to cast me under the train upon my arrival at Thorpe, and my body fell forwards through the window now and, in the split second when I exited my room, my eyes opening wide at the fifty-foot fall to the ground below which I knew would certainly kill me, another set of hands, another invisible pairing, larger hands though, these ones, stronger ones, pushed me again from the front, thrust into my stomach as if I was being punched, winding me, forcing me back into my bedroom. The wind outside roared and I gasped, those few seconds so shocking that I could not understand what was happening or even yet feel fear, but it was not over yet for the hands behind thrust forward again, and out I went once more, the floor gone from beneath me, the ground visible before me, my death place, where my body would be smashed to pieces, but once again before I could fall those second hands pushed me back, even harder this time, so forcibly that I had never felt such pain, and I fell back into the room, tumbling to the floor, scrambling back against the wall, my back hitting it so hard that I cried out and, as I did so, the windows slammed shut, the wind immediately silenced, and I was left there, terrified and weeping, my entire body racked with pain, uncertain what had just taken place.
I must have lain there for half an hour, unable to move, fearful of what would take place if I attempted to right myself, but finally I sensed that the room was at peace and slowly, carefully, I lifted myself to my feet. I opened my dress and looked at my stomach. It was deeply bruised, a great red mark tender to the touch, one that I knew would change in colour and sensation over the days that followed. Had I been able to see my own back I had no doubt there would be similar markings there. Determined to fight my fear, I made my way back towards the window and slowly reached out to the handles, nervous of touching them but somehow sure that my ordeal was over. I tried to twist them but they would not give. They were sealed as tightly as ever. It was as if they had never been opened at all.
I fell back on to the bed and felt a great cry of fear lift from my throat and put a hand across my mouth to stop myself from screaming out. What had happened in those fifteen seconds? How had such a thing taken place? I had not imagined it, for my bruises were real. There was a presence in this house, something unholy; an idea that I had previously dismissed as fancy took hold of me and told me it was true. Only there was something else, something I hadn’t imagined before.
There were two of them.
Chapter Thirteen
IF MR. CRATCHETT HAD been desperate to get away from me on Sunday afternoon, he seemed resigned to my appearance when I arrived at Mr. Raisin’s office shortly before eleven o’clock the following Tuesday morning. I had walked to the village from Gaudlin Hall, a walk that took almost an hour but was infinitely preferable to taking the dandy-horse. The bruises on my chest and back had deepened and grown variegated, the discoloration unpleasant to the eye, the tenderness distressing to the touch, and somehow I felt that walking might reduce the pressure of my injuries. Besides, I welcomed the stroll, for my spirits had grown so low that I hoped some fresh air would prove a fillip.
Naturally, I had slept badly on Sunday night after the terrifying incident. Unwilling to go downstairs and discuss what had happened with the children, I found myself in the unhappy position of having no one to confide in. No friend, no relative, no confidante of any sort could come to my aid. How I wished I had been blessed with an older brother, someone who might take on my trials as his own, or that my younger sister, Mary, had survived to be my companion. But there was no one, of course. I was alone.
I considered switching my room for one of the many empty bedrooms on the second or third floor of the Hall, but whatever spirit was feeling such animosity towards my presence would not, I believed, be put off by so simple a change. After all, it had tried to prevent me from entering the house when it forced me off the dandy-horse; now it was trying to eject me from it by more forceful means. I considered writing to my former employer, Mrs. Farnsworth, to ask her advice, but hesitated, knowing that to commit such thoughts to words would make me sound like a lunatic. She would have said that I was imagining things, or privately told the teachers at St. Elizabeth’s that I had taken to drink to relieve the pain of my grief. But even if others might doubt me, I could not doubt myself, for the bruises on my body were proof enough of the assault; these were injuries that could not have been self-inflicted nor invented as the fantasies of a disturbed mind.
And so I resolved to stay where I was. Of course, I was frightened. My life, like the lives of the previous governesses, was in danger and, in the small hours of the morning when fear and anxiety were threatening to overwhelm me, I thought about packing a bag and stealing Heckling’s horse and carriage, making my way back to Thorpe Station and onwards to London or Cardiff or Edinburgh, I cared not where. But there was one thing, or rather two, which prevented me from taking such drastic action: Isabella and Eustace. I could not leave them alone with this presence in the house; if it injured me, a grown woman, what injuries might it inflict on two defenceless children? I did not feel brave but I had sense enough to know that I could not leave Norfolk with the weight of their injury on my conscience. Even Miss Bennet had felt that responsibi
lity. By morning time, I was resolved to see this experience through, to understand it and, if necessary, to win.
“Miss Caine,” said Mr. Cratchett, standing up when I entered and offering me an obsequious smile. “How charming.” He must have hurried with his shave that morning for two spots of dried blood remained on his face, one above his lip, the other beneath his chin, and it was a most unedifying sight.
“Good morning, Mr. Cratchett,” I said, smiling at him. I did not feel quite the same sense of unwavering purpose that I had when I tackled him after the church service; I was once again ready to be overwhelmed by the fact that here were two men of the world, men of business and property, while I was nothing more than a governess, reliant on my position for food and board. “I hope you did not think me too forward on Sunday,” I added, wishing to make amends with him. “But Mr. Raisin has proved a formidable man to arrange an appointment with.”
“Oh, think nothing of it, dear lady,” he replied, waving his hands in the air in an absurd fashion. “You have nothing to apologize for, I assure you.”
“You’re very kind,” I replied, stopping myself from pointing out that I had offered no apology, merely an explanation.
“Miss Caine, Mrs. Cratchett and I have been married some three years now. If there is one condition I am familiar with, it is the tendency of the gentler sex to suffer nervous anxiety.”
He offered a polite bow and I considered picking up the large paperweight on his desk, designed for some reason in the shape of Ireland, and bringing it down upon his skull. Would any jury in the land convict me?
“Yes,” I said, looking away and trying to keep my irritation at bay. “But I trust Mr. Raisin was able to find time in his diary for me?”
“It was not without some difficulty,” he replied, determined to let me know that he was still in charge around here. “But fortunately I was able to do a little—how shall I put this?—adjustment of the pieces on the chessboard. An appointment from here moved over there; one from this afternoon diverted to later in the week.” He shuffled his hands in the air before me as if he was actually engaged in the process of physical movement. “In short, what needed to be done was done. And I am happy to say that Mr. Raisin has cleared some time for you.”
“Thank you,” I said, relieved. “Shall I …?” I nodded in the direction of the other office, wondering whether I should just go in, but he shook his head and shuffled me over to a freshly installed armchair.
“He’ll be out shortly,” said Mr. Cratchett. “Please take a seat until he’s ready. I’m afraid I don’t have any reading material for ladies here. The only periodical we take is the daily issue of The Times. I’m sure you would find it very boring. It’s all politics, crime and matters to do with the economy.”
“Well, I’ll just look through it and see if there is any information about the new style in hats,” I said, smiling at him. “Or perhaps there’ll be a nice recipe or a knitting pattern.”
He sighed and reached for the paper, handed it to me and went back behind his desk, where he placed his pince-nez on his nose and returned to transcribing. A moment later the door opened behind him and, without its owner emerging into the front office, a voice called Mr. Cratchett’s name, and he in turn informed me that I might go inside.
“Miss Caine,” said Mr. Raisin when I stepped inside. He was seated behind his desk in his shirt, tie and waistcoat, lighting a pipe, attempting to inflame the ball of tobacco in the chamber, which seemed to be proving difficult for him. After a moment, the match went out and he lit another, drawing on the lip until it finally caught.
“My tobacco has dried out,” he said by way of explanation, indicating the couch that ran along the wall, and I made my way over to sit down as he took his jacket from a hanger, put it on and sat in an armchair facing me. To my surprise, I felt an extraordinary comfort to be in his presence again. “It’s my own fault, of course. I left it in my front parlour last night and forgot to replace the lid. Whenever I do that, I have this very problem.”
“My father was a great pipe smoker,” I told him, although the scent of the smoke coming from Mr. Raisin’s pipe was not quite the same as the one Father had enjoyed, for which I was grateful, as I was sure that the memory that would have been triggered by smelling Father’s distinctive smoke would have overwhelmed me.
“It’s the most wonderful relaxant,” he said, smiling at me. “Sir Walter Raleigh was a capital fellow.” I stared at him, confused, and then recalled that it had, of course, been the explorer who had first brought the tobacco plant back from the New World. “Did you know,” he asked, removing the pipe from his mouth and pointing the stem in my direction, “that after his execution, Sir Walter’s widow carried his head with her everywhere she went in a velvet handbag?”
“I didn’t,” I said, raising an eyebrow in surprise.
“Don’t you think that’s an extraordinary thing to do?”
“She must have loved him very much,” I said with a shrug that provoked a burst of laughter from Mr. Raisin.
“I’m damned fond of my wife, Miss Caine,” he told me. “Damned fond of her. But I promise you that if her head was lopped off in Old Palace Yard on charges of treason, I’d bury it with the rest of her body and not carry it around with me. I call it macabre, don’t you? It’s taking heartache to a ridiculous place.”
“Grief can bring on strange reactions in a person,” I said quietly, running my finger along the smooth wood on the table top that separated us. For some reason, my stomach had turned over slightly during his last remarks and I felt an extraordinary urge to run from the room, as far from him as possible, despite the number of questions I had for him. “We are, none of us, accountable for what we do at such times.”
“Hmm,” said Mr. Raisin, considering this but appearing unconvinced. “What did your father smoke anyway? Was he an Old Familiar man like myself?”
“Johnson’s Original,” I told him, shaking my head, feeling utterly distracted. “Do you know it?”
“Yes. It’s not my blend though. I prefer something with a sweeter flavour.”
“Father’s pipe always reminded me of cinnamon and chestnuts,” I said. “A strange combination, I know, but whenever he lit up in the evening, as he was reading by the fireplace, the pipe was in his hand and the aroma of cinnamon and chestnuts filled the room. It gave me a sense of great comfort.”
Mr. Raisin nodded. “His death was unexpected?” he asked me.
“It was a rather sudden illness,” I replied, looking away and down at the carpet. “Brought on by exposure to the cold and rain.”
“He was an elderly gentleman?”
“Not especially, no,” I said. “But his health had not been good for some time. I rather blame myself for allowing him out that night when the weather was so bad, but he insisted. We were going to hear Charles Dickens, you see. He was reading from one of his ghost stories in London, quite close to where we lived.”
“Ah yes,” said Mr. Raisin, breaking into a smile which completely illuminated his already handsome features. “Which among us is not an admirer of Mr. Dickens? Did you read his latest? Our Mutual Friend? It was a bit fantastical in my opinion. I hope his next will be an improvement.”
“I didn’t, sir, no,” I said. “We don’t receive periodicals at Gaudlin Hall.”
Mr. Raisin sighed. “Then things have changed a good deal since the glory days of that house,” he said. “Mr. Westerley received all the popular papers. And Household Words, of course. The Illustrated Times. All the Year Round. Everything that you might expect. He was a great reader, you see, and liked to be kept informed of events. As did his father before him. Of course, the thing about old Mr. Westerley was that he—”
It occurred to me that Mr. Raisin was making small talk to eat up our time. The more he talked about my late father, about Charles Dickens or the variety of periodicals available to those who could afford them, the less time he had to answer any of my questions. The minutes would simply tick awa
y. The hands on the clock would move closer towards noon and before I knew it his capable assistant would no doubt be upon us, ushering me out, insisting that there were a lot more appointments scheduled for the day and that my time was now up.
“Mr. Raisin,” I said forcefully, and he stared at me, his eyes opening wide, offering me the astonished countenance of one who is unaccustomed to being interrupted, particularly by a woman. He appeared quite uncertain how to handle it. “I do apologize, but I wonder if we could get down to business. There are a number of things I wish to discuss with you.”
“Of course, Miss Caine, of course,” he said, recovering himself. “Everything is in order, isn’t it? There isn’t any problem with your wages? You’re not having difficulties with Heckling, are you?”
“My wages are being paid promptly,” I said. “And my relationship with Mr. Heckling is, I think, as good as anyone’s could be. The truth is I felt that our previous meeting, our only meeting for that matter, was rather unsatisfactory in its conclusions.”
“Oh?” he asked. “How so?”
“Mr. Raisin, when I arrived in Norfolk, I was happy to have a job, happy to have a home. Happy to make a fresh start after losing my father. I see now that I accepted the position without giving it due thought or consideration. I should have asked more questions and, indeed, questions should have been asked of me. But there we are, we cannot change the past. And now that I have been here for a few weeks, now that I have settled in, I must admit that I have grown more …” I struggled to find the correct word.
“Curious?” he suggested. “Inquisitive?”
“Concerned,” I said. “There have been a number of unusual incidents and, to be frank, I am uncertain how to explain them without having you doubt my sanity. But, if I may, I will put them to one side for a moment and concern myself with more concrete matters. Mr. Raisin, I should like to ask you a direct question and I would be most grateful if you would give me a direct answer.”