She laughed and shook her head. “You’d have to get up a lot earlier than this to offend me,” she said. “I’m made of tough stuff. Have to be, the life I’ve lived. No, I’m not a cook. That’s not where my training lies.”
“Mrs. Livermore, you’re talking in riddles,” I said, exhaustion beginning to overtake me. “Can we not just be clear with each other?”
“All right then,” she said, pressing the remains of her cigarette out and standing up, smoothing down her pinafore, which, now that I looked at it, did not resemble a cook’s outfit as much as I had earlier imagined. “You say Mr. Raisin says you’re to meet the master; all right then, I’ll take you at your word.” She walked towards the door, stopped and turned round. “Well?” she asked. “Are you coming or not?”
“Right now?” I asked, standing up. “But it’s so early? Won’t he be angry to be awakened at this hour?”
“Don’t you worry about that,” she said. “Come along if you’re coming.” And with that she made her way quickly through the kitchen and I followed behind, almost having to break into a run to keep up with her. Where was she going to take me? My mind raced with the possibilities. I had, in my idle moments, visited most of the rooms in the house and they were for the most part quite empty. There were no signs of life. Surely the master of Gaudlin would have a suite of rooms for himself? A bedroom, a library, a study, a private bathroom?
We made our way through the house to the main staircase, ascending and turning on to the landing where the children’s rooms were situated, and Mrs. Livermore hesitated for a moment.
“Here?” I asked and she shook her head.
“They’re not awake yet,” she said. “Come on. Up again.”
We ascended once again to the floor on which my own bedroom and six empty bedrooms lay. But he couldn’t be here, I was sure of it; I had looked inside each one and they were quite empty. To my surprise, Mrs. Livermore went to the room at the furthest end of the corridor and opened it. I followed her in but there was nothing to be seen. The room was stark and empty, a four-poster bed, stripped of its sheets, in the centre of the room. She looked at me and I stared back.
“I don’t understand,” I said.
“This way,” she replied, turning round and pressing on a panel in the wall, where I now saw that a door was hidden, painted in keeping with the rest of the wall so that one would not know it was there unless one looked quite closely. I gasped in surprise when she pushed it open to reveal a set of stone steps beyond, and I followed her through, lifting my skirt to prevent it dragging along the dust on the stone floor.
“Where are we?” I asked in a hushed tone.
“All these great houses have secrets like this,” she told me as she climbed the steep steps. “Think of when they were built, after all. They served as battlements, as defending posts. You think that’s the only door like that in the house? It isn’t. I don’t usually use it, of course. I come in from outside the house.”
I thought about the two occasions when I had followed her round the corner of the house only for her to vanish out of sight altogether. As if reading my mind, she turned to me and smiled.
“You want to take a look at that wall, Governess. The door’s perfectly visible if you only look. See it once and you’ll never miss it again. It’s the first time that’s the difficulty.”
“You knew I was following you then?” I asked.
“I have ears,” she grunted, climbing again. “I’m not daft.”
We found ourselves near the top of Gaudlin Hall, at a point where another staircase met our own position and returned downwards to the opposite side of the house. “That’ll lead you back out,” she told me. “That’s how I usually come in.”
A large door stood before us and I felt a distinct chill run through my body. He couldn’t be close to here, could he? Mrs. Livermore reached into the front pocket of her pinafore for a large and sturdy key. I hesitated; I had a curious worry that it might lead to the roof and that she was going to throw me off for my insolence, but as we went through I was presented with two staircases, leading in two different directions.
“That way’s the roof,” said Mrs. Livermore, nodding towards the left. “This way’s the master.”
We ascended again, a short flight, and turned at the top, where we were met by another solid oak door. She stopped in front of it and turned round, her expression softening slightly. “How old are you, Governess?” she asked.
“Twenty-one,” I replied, uncertain why she would ask.
“You look to me like a girl who hasn’t seen much unpleasantness in her life, would I be right on that?”
I thought about it and finally nodded. “You would,” I said.
She pointed at the door. “If Mr. Raisin says you can meet the master, then I’m not going to stand in the way of that,” she said. “But you don’t have to, you know. You can turn round and walk away right now. You can go back down those stairs and we can lock the door behind us and you can return to looking after them children and I can go back to doing what I do and you might sleep better of a night. It’s your decision. So speak now as there’ll be no turning back afterwards.”
I swallowed hard. I was desperate to know what was on the other side of that door but her warning was sufficiently serious for me to reconsider. It was true that I wanted to meet Mr. Westerley, I had a right to after all, but had he turned into a monster of some sort after his wife’s terrible actions? Would he be as likely to strike me down as converse with me? And I could not get past the fact that it was still so early; might he not be sleeping?
“Speak, Governess,” said Mrs. Livermore. “I’ve not all day to stand here.”
I opened my mouth, almost prepared to say no, that I had changed my mind, but something in her previous speech suddenly struck a chord in my mind and I stared at her. “You can go back to doing what you do,” I said. “That’s what you just said to me. And downstairs, you insisted that you’re not a cook and you’re not a maid.”
“Aye,” she said, frowning. “And what of it?”
“What is it you do then, Mrs. Livermore?” I asked. “What is your position here?”
She hesitated for a moment and then her face relaxed, a half-smile appearing on it, and she reached a hand out, tenderly, and pressed it to my arm. For a moment I saw that beneath all her bluff there was a kind woman locked inside. And that she was not trying to prevent me from learning what I wanted to know but was simply uncertain whether it was in my interests.
“Don’t you know, child?” she asked me. “Haven’t you figured it out yet?”
I shook my head. “Tell me,” I said. “Tell me please.”
Mrs. Livermore smiled and took her hand away. “I’m a nurse,” she said. “I’m Mr. Westerley’s nurse.”
For a moment I would have sworn that there was someone behind me, breathing on my neck, the presence again, the spirit, or something like it. But it was a comforting presence this time, not the one that had forced me off my dandy-horse or tried to push me from the window. Perhaps it was the one who had saved me on that occasion. Or perhaps I was imagining it entirely.
I nodded and looked at the door, determined now. “Please open it, Mrs. Livermore,” I said. “I wish to meet my employer.”
Chapter Fifteen
BY LUNCHTIME, I had almost recovered.
The children were delighted not to have any classroom studies that morning; I had no choice but to cancel our class as there was certainly no possibility that I could have concentrated on Shakespeare’s sonnets or the difference between a peninsula and an inlet after such a traumatic and upsetting experience.
After Mrs. Livermore had gone for the day—or rather, had retired to her small cottage hidden behind the trees that ran along the rear of the stables; the cottage to which she would go back and forth throughout the day, mostly unnoticed by me—I wandered around the house feeling lost and disconsolate. Isabella and Eustace were outside playing but I could neither bring myself to read no
r to sew nor to practise on the small piano that I had lately taken to attempting. Instead I prayed for night to fall so that I could retire to my bed, to sleep, for what Coleridge had called “the wide blessing,” and to wake again the following day refreshed and ready to begin anew. I wondered whether I would feel that ghastly presence in the house that seemed to come and go of its own will, but all was still until the ringing of the doorbell, which jolted me and made me cry aloud.
Afternoon had fallen. It was growing dark early now and the fog had returned. I could not hear the children or see them from the window.
I walked down the hallway nervously, uncertain of what might be awaiting me on the other side, and opened the door only a little at first, carefully, but then upon seeing who it was I relaxed immediately.
“Mrs. Toxley,” I said, surprised at first to see her but then recalling that I had invited her on Sunday to call over this afternoon, an appointment I had entirely forgotten until that moment.
“You look surprised to see me,” she said, remaining outside, her eyes looking around the front of the house nervously. “We did say today, didn’t we?”
“We did, we did,” I agreed. “I’m so sorry. Can I be entirely honest with you and say that it slipped my mind? There have been a number of upsetting incidents here and I forgot our arrangement.”
“I could always come back another day if it’s more convenient?” she suggested, stepping back with a certain relieved expression on her face, but I shook my head and ushered her in.
“You must think terribly of me,” I said. “What kind of person invites another over for tea and then forgets? I can only apologize.” I peered out into the fog. A shadow passed between the trees; I blinked, it vanished. “You didn’t see the children as you came up the driveway, did you?”
“I saw Isabella,” she said. “She was marching around with a ball in her hands, looking very cross. And I heard Eustace shouting after her but didn’t see him. Is everything all right?”
I glanced at the grandfather clock in the hallway. There was time enough for them to stay outdoors yet. “Everything’s fine,” I said.
“You look tired, Miss Caine,” she replied, a concerned expression on her face. “Have you been sleeping?”
“I have,” I said. “Only I was up quite early this morning, so perhaps my appearance is a little drawn.”
“There’s nothing worse than someone telling you that you look tired, is there?” she asked, smiling at me, putting me at my ease. “I always think it’s terribly rude. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“Let’s go into the kitchen,” I said. “I’ll put some water on for tea.”
She followed me in and I took her hat, coat and gloves and she handed me a charming, neatly packaged box. “A small gift,” she said.
I was touched by such an unexpected kindness and opened it. Immediately an explosion of powerful odours emerged from the box. Mrs. Toxley had brought pear cakes infused with cinnamon and I felt a weakness overtake me.
“I bought them at Mrs. Sutcliffe’s tea shop in the village,” she explained. “I would have made the cakes myself only Alex said that I should stay away from the oven if I didn’t want to poison anyone. I’m a frightful cook. Miss Caine, are you quite all right?”
I nodded and sank into a chair, burying my face in my hands. Before I knew it, the tears were forming in my eyes and began to fall.
“My dear,” she said, sitting next to me and putting her arm around me. “Whatever’s the matter?”
“I’m so sorry,” I replied, trying to smile and wipe the tears away at the same time. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you. It’s just that I associate the scent of cinnamon entirely with my late father. He died only a month ago and he has been very much on my mind lately. Particularly now, when things are growing so difficult here.”
“It’s my fault,” she said, shaking her head. “I shouldn’t have brought the cake.”
“You weren’t to know,” I replied, drying my face and taking a deep breath before smiling at her. “There,” I said. “All my silliness over, I think. I was going to make tea, wasn’t I?”
I went across to the sink and turned the water on, letting it run for a minute to take away any sediment left in the pipes. I ran my fingers under it and pulled them away immediately. It was just as icy cold as it had been that morning.
“How have you been settling in?” asked Mrs. Toxley, who instructed me to call her Madge when we were seated again and drinking our tea. I wasted no time eating my pear cake in order to allow the scent of the spice to dissipate from the kitchen more quickly.
“Well, at first,” I replied. “But it seems as if every day brings fresh challenges.”
“You know about Mr. Westerley, don’t you?” she said, reading my expression, and I nodded.
“I only learned yesterday. Mr. Raisin told me about the traumatic relationship he had with his wife. I saw him earlier.”
“Mr. Raisin?”
“No, Mr. Westerley.”
She opened her eyes wide in surprise. “You saw him? I’m astonished. I didn’t think … well, I didn’t think anyone was allowed.”
I shrugged my shoulders. “I’m not sure that I was allowed, if I’m being honest,” I told her. “I rather insisted upon it.”
“And how was he?” asked Madge. I shook my head and she sighed. “He’s upstairs somewhere, isn’t he? It makes me so sad to think of it,” she continued. “Alex and I, we were great friends of the Westerleys, you see. We dined together quite often. Alex and James went shooting together. We had some very happy times.”
“You knew his wife well then?” I asked.
“Santina? Oh yes. I knew her for years. I was something of a friend to her when James first brought her back from Spain. Old Mr. Westerley was up in arms, of course, that a foreigner, particularly a foreigner of no note, should be brought into the family, but I thought she was rather sweet. And so beautiful! But there were suspicions that she was after the money.”
“And was she?”
Madge laughed and shook her head. “There was never a woman who cared less for money than Santina Westerley. Oh, she wasn’t opposed to having some, of course not. Why should she be? But no, she did not marry James for his money.”
“She married for love then?”
Madge considered this. “I’m not sure,” she said. “She was fond of him certainly in those early days. No, I think she married him because he offered her an escape. Still, old Mr. Westerley refused her an allowance at first. He was convinced that she was a gold-digger. But she was not particularly interested in material things. She didn’t go looking for new gowns constantly, for example, she seemed content with the ones she had. She wasn’t interested in jewellery. James bought her some at the start, of course, but she had the sort of neckline that was best unadorned. Perhaps the occasional pendant, that was all. No, even old Mr. Westerley agreed in the end that she had not married James for financial gain.”
“And did he love her?” I asked.
“Oh yes. I should say so. Of course, they were both so young when James came back from Spain with his new bride. But they seemed very happy with each other then. It wasn’t until much later that she became, well, troubled.”
“Troubled how?” I asked.
She shook her head and frowned, as if she wanted to find the precise words to explain what she meant. “Something had happened to her, that much was obvious,” she said. “When she was a girl, I mean.”
“Mr. Raisin made mention of it,” I told her, leaning forward, feeling a degree of distress that any adult would injure a child in the way that he had implied. “It’s an abomination.”
“Yes, but I thought she had put those days behind her, if such a thing is possible. I truly believed that she and James would find peace together. I was a great supporter of their union. And they were happy for a time. No one will ever convince me differently.”
We said nothing for a while, sipping at our tea, both of us lost in our reflect
ions. I was thinking of the girl Santina, of what might have happened to her to produce such a damaging psychosis. Madge was no doubt recalling happier times between the two couples.
“You have been married a long time?” I asked after a lengthy silence and she smiled and nodded.
“Nine years,” she said. “Alex and I met when my brother brought him home from the Varsity for a weekend. They were studying together and had chummed up from the start. Of course I was only sixteen when I first laid eyes on him and he was three years older so naturally—”
“You fell quickly in love,” I said, smiling at her.
“No, I hated him,” she replied, bursting out laughing. “Oh don’t look so shocked, Eliza, the feeling didn’t last long. He teased me terribly that first weekend, you see. He said the most frightful things and I think I responded in kind. Mother thought we would have to be separated at dinner one night for the number of insults that we were throwing in each other’s direction. It was all a mask, of course. He wrote to me soon after, you see. Apologized for being such a brute.”
“And did he explain it?”
“He said that when he first laid eyes on me he knew that he would be incapable of spending the weekend trying to do what he really wanted to do—which was to make me fall in love with him—and so settled on the next best thing, making me despise him instead. Naturally I wrote back and told him that I had never met such a vulgar, pompous, despicable, unpleasant, rude, discourteous beast in all my life and that should he find himself down with us for another weekend I would refuse to have anything to do with him. He came the following weekend and brought me flowers and a copy of Keats’ Poems and I told him that my letter had been a lie and that I had spent every hour thinking of him.”
It surprised me how open she was, how willing to tell me the story of her courtship, but I could see that she enjoyed the memory of it.
“We were married within the year,” she added after a moment. “I was terribly lucky. He’s a fine man. But what about you, Eliza? Any sweethearts waiting for you back in London?”