Directly opposite me sat a narrow-faced young man with a mustache and a wispy beard, attempting to read his Bible. Next to him a rough-looking fellow frowned and scowled at all of us. Making herself as small as possible, a timid lady with gray hair and spectacles pressed herself against the side of the coach.
Before five minutes had passed, the gentleman beside me fell asleep and commenced to snore loudly. On my other side, the stout woman fussed to herself and even went so far as to reach across me and poke the sleeper with her umbrella. She failed to rouse him.
Across from me, the rough fellow began a conversation with the Bible reader, which soon turned into an argument about Mr. Darwin’s theory of evolution—the Bible reader for and the rough fellow against. The old lady closed her eyes and either fell asleep or feigned to.
The woman beside me opined that she was not descended from apes, no matter what Mr. Darwin had thought. She did not, however, voice her opinion loudly enough to be heard by the Bible reader and the rough fellow.
While all this went on about me, I mused upon the sudden change in my circumstances. My parents had drowned in a boating accident when I was five years old. When no relative stepped forward to claim me, I was sent to Miss Medleycoate’s, where I spent seven wretched years learning to sew and read and write from a series of strict teachers who had little patience with girls who could not stitch a neat row or learn their arithmetic. We were cold in the winter, hot in the summer, and hungry all year round. If we dared to complain, we were beaten and locked in the punishment closet.
Then one day, just a week ago, a solicitor appeared at the orphanage and informed Miss Medleycoate that I was the great-niece of Thomas Crutchfield, my father’s uncle. My uncle had searched for me a long time and had finally learned my whereabouts. As soon as proper arrangements were made, Mr. Graybeale said, I was to live at Crutchfield Hall with my uncle, his spinster sister, Eugenie, and my cousin James, the orphaned son of my father’s only brother.
Glancing around the dreary sitting room, Mr. Graybeale had told me I was a fortunate girl.
“She certainly is.” Miss Medleycoate fixed me with a sharp eye. “I am certain Florence will show her gratitude as she has been taught.”
I knew full well how fortunate I was to escape Miss Medleycoate’s establishment, but I merely bowed my head to avoid her stare. Now was not the time to express my feelings.
“What sort of boy is my cousin James?” I asked Mr. Graybeale. “Is he my age? Is he—”
“I’ve never met the child,” Mr. Graybeale said, “but I hear he’s rather delicate.”
I stared at the solicitor, wondering what he meant. “Is he sickly?”
“Florence,” Miss Medleycoate interrupted. “Do not pester the gentleman with trivial questions. Your curiosity does not become you.”
“It’s all right,” Mr. Graybeale told Miss Medleycoate. Turning to me, he said, “The boy has suffered much in his short life. His mother died soon after he was born, and his father succumbed to a fever a few years later. Not long after James and his older sister, Sophia, arrived at Crutchfield Hall, the girl was killed in a tragic accident. So much loss has been difficult for James to bear.”
I stared at Mr. Graybeale. “I’m so sorry,” I whispered. Perhaps I should not have asked about James’s health, but if I had not, how would I have known about my cousin’s tragic past and Sophia’s death? Disturbing as these events were, I needed to be aware of them, if only to avoid asking my aunt and uncle inappropriate questions.
With a rustle of silk, Miss Medleycoate rose to her feet. “I believe Mr. Graybeale has satisfied your unseemly curiosity, Florence. You may return to your lessons while I sign the necessary papers.”
Now, as the coach bounced and swayed over rough roads, I thought about Sophia. If only she hadn’t died, if only she were waiting for me at Crutchfield Hall, the friend I’d always wanted, the sister I’d never had.
I imagined us whispering and giggling together, sharing books and games and dolls, telling each other secrets. We’d sleep in the same room and talk to each other in the dark. We’d go for long walks in the country. She’d show me her favorite things—a creek that swirled over white pebbles, lily pads in a pond, a bird’s nest, butterflies, a tree with branches low enough to sit on and read. Maybe we’d have a dog or a pony.
Suddenly the coach hit a bump with enough force to hurl me against the man beside me. He drew away and scowled, as if offended by my proximity. Brought back to the stuffy confines of reality, I let go of my daydream. Sophia would not be waiting for me at Crutchfield Hall. I would have no sister. Just James, delicate James, a brother who might not be well enough to play.
With a sigh, I reminded myself that I was a fortunate girl. With every turn of the coach’s wheels, I was leaving Miss Medleycoate’s Home for Orphan Girls farther and farther behind. Surely I’d be happier at Crutchfield Hall than I’d been with Miss Medleycoate.
Two
AS THE CITY SLOWLY FADED away behind us, I caught fleeting glimpses of open countryside, green meadows rolling away toward distant hills, red-roofed villages marked by church steeples, cows and sheep under a cloudy sky much higher and wider than it looked in London. I felt very small, rather like an ant riding in a coach the size of a walnut shell.
After an hour or so, the sky darkened and the wind rose. Rain pelted the coach and streamed down the windows, making it impossible to see out.
We stopped several times to let passengers off and take more on. The rough fellow was replaced by a farmer who had nothing to say to anyone. The old lady was replaced by a young woman who blushed whenever anyone looked at her.
The coach grew stuffy, and the voices around me blended into a sort of soothing music. The jolts and bumps and lurches changed to a rocking motion, and I soon fell asleep.
I was startled awake by the large woman beside me. “Stir yourself, child. This is where you get off.”
“Crutchfield Hall,” the coachman bellowed from his seat above us. “Ain’t there someone what wants to get out here?”
I scrambled to my feet and stepped outside. Wind and rain struck me with a force that almost knocked me down. Groggy with sleep, I gazed at empty fields bordered by a forest, bare and bleak on this dark January afternoon. In the distance, I saw a line of hills, their tops hidden by rain, but no house. Not even a barn or a shed.
Bewildered, I peered up at the coachman through the rain. “Where is the house, sir?”
Gesturing with his whip, he pointed to an ornate iron gate topped with fancy curlicues. “Follow the drive till you come to the house,” he said. “It’s one or two mile, I reckon. A big old place with chimneys. Pity there’s no one to meet you.”
With that, he handed me the small wooden box that held all my belongings. “Be sure and latch the gate behind you,” he said. “They won’t like it left open.”
Before I could say another word, he cracked his whip. In seconds, the coach vanished into the rain.
With a sigh, I lowered my head and pushed open the heavy gate, then latched it behind me. The rain came down harder. The wind sent volleys of leaves flying against my face, as sharp edged as small knives.
Frightened by the creaking and groaning of tree limbs over my head, I walked faster, almost losing my shoes in the mud. They were thin soled, meant for city streets, not country lanes. I supposed I was meant for city streets as well, for I did not like the vast sky above me. The endless fields and the distant hills made me feel as if I were the only living person in this desolate place.
I was tempted to turn around and walk back to the road. Perhaps another coach would come along, warm and crowded with passengers, and take me back to London’s familiar streets.
But I kept going, fearing Miss Medleycoate would not accept me. Had she not been happy to see me leave? I did not want to end my days begging in the street.
Finally, ankle deep in mud and soaked by the rain, I came to the top of a hill. Below me was a gloomy stone house, grim and unwelcoming,
its windows dark and lifeless. Except for a dense grove of fir trees, the gardens and lawn were brown and bare.
A writer like Miss Emily Brontë would have been entranced by its Gothic appearance, but I hung back again, suddenly apprehensive of what might await me behind those towering walls.
It was the rising wind and icy rain that drove me forward. Exhausted and cold, I made my way carefully downhill to the house. In the shelter of a stone arch, I lifted an iron ring and let it thud against the door. Shivering in my wet coat and sodden shoes, I waited for someone to come.
Just as I was about to knock again, I heard footsteps approaching. The door slowly opened. A tall, thin woman dressed in black looked down at me. Her face was pale and narrow, her eyes were set deep under her brows, and her gray hair was pulled tightly into a bun at the back of her head. With a gasp, she pressed one bony hand to her heart. “It cannot be,” she whispered. “It cannot be.”
Fearing she was about to faint, I took her cold hand. “I-I’m Florence Crutchfield,” I stammered. “From London. I believe you’re expecting me.”
She snatched her hand away and looked at me more closely. “For a moment I mistook you for someone else,” she murmured, her voice still weak. “But now I see you bear no resemblance to her. None at all.”
Without inviting me in, the woman said, “We were told you’d arrive tomorrow.”
“I beg your pardon, but Miss Medleycoate said I was to come today.” Panic made my heart beat faster. “She said I was to come today,” I repeated. “Today.”
At that moment, an old gentleman appeared in the shadowy hallway. The very opposite of the woman, he was short and round, and his cheeks were rosy with good humor. In one hand he held a pipe and in the other a thick book. “Come in,” he said to me, “come in. You’re wet and cold.”
To the woman he said, “This poor child must be our great-niece Florence. Why have you allowed her to stand on the doorstep, shivering like a half-drowned kitten?”
“You know my feelings about her coming here.” Without another word, she turned stiffly and vanished into the house’s gloomy interior.
Puzzled by my aunt’s unfriendly manner, I followed my uncle down the hall. What had I done to cause Aunt to dislike me almost on sight?
“As you must have guessed,” my uncle said, “I’m your Great-Uncle Thomas, and that was my sister, your Great-Aunt Eugenie. I apologize for her brusqueness. I’m sure she didn’t mean to be rude. She, er, she . . .”
Uncle paused as if searching for the right words to describe his sister. “Well,” he went on, “once she becomes accustomed to you, she’ll be friendlier. Yes, yes, you’ll see. She just has to get used to you.”
I didn’t dare ask how long it would take Aunt to get used to me. Or how long it would take me to get used to her. Indeed, I felt I had escaped Miss Medleycoate only to encounter her double. Which was neither what I’d hoped for nor what I’d expected.
“And then of course,” Uncle went on, “we really did expect you to arrive tomorrow. I’d have sent Spratt to meet you if I’d known you’d arrive today. A misunderstanding on someone’s part, but, well, what’s done is done. I am very happy to see you.”
Uncle led me into a large room lit by flickering firelight and oil lamps. Rain beat against its small windows, and the wind crept through every crack around the glass panes, but I felt cheered by the fire’s glow and my uncle’s smile.
“Here, let me have a look at you.” Uncle grasped my shoulders and peered into my face. “Goodness, Eugenie, have you noticed how much she favors the Crutchfields? Blue eyes, dark hair—she could be Sophia’s sister.”
My aunt frowned at me from a chair by the hearth. “Don’t be absurd. This girl is quite plain. And her hair is a sight.”
Busying myself with my coat buttons, I pretended not to have heard Aunt. I didn’t know what Sophia looked like, but I was quite ready to believe she was much prettier than I. Aunt was right. I was plain. And my hair was tangled by the wind and wet with rain and no doubt a sight.
Uncle took my sodden coat and settled me near the fire. “You must be tired and cold,” he said. “You’ve had a long, muddy walk from the road.” He picked up a bell and rang it.
A girl not much older than I popped into the room as if she’d been waiting by the door. She was so thin, she’d wrapped her apron strings twice around her waist, but the apron still flapped around her like a windless sail.
“Nellie,” my uncle said, “this is Florence, the niece we expected to arrive tomorrow. Please bring tea for us all and something especially nice for Florence. Then build up the fire in her room.”
Darting a quick look in my direction, Nellie nodded. “Yes, sir, I will, sir.”
As she scurried away, Uncle turned back to me. “First of all, permit me to say how sorry I was to learn of your father’s and mother’s death. To think they died on the same day. So tragic. So unexpected.”
“Sensible people do not go out in boats,” Aunt said, and then, with a quick glance at me, added, “Death is usually unexpected. That is why we must endeavor to live righteously. When we are summoned, we will be ready. As Sophia was, poor child.”
Ignoring his sister, Uncle patted my hand. “We’ll do our best to make up for the years you spent with Miss Medleycoate. You’ll have a happy life here at Crutchfield Hall, I promise you.”
I did not say it, but the prospect of a happy life with Aunt seemed uncertain at best.
As Uncle drew in his breath to say more, he was interrupted by the arrival of Nellie, who carried a heavy tray. In its center was a steaming teapot, which was surrounded by an array of sliced bread, cheese, and fruit, as well as milk and sugar for the tea and jam for the bread. Somehow she managed to set it down on a low table by the fire without rattling a teacup in its saucer.
I hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and my empty stomach mortified me by rumbling at the sight of so much food, more than I’d ever seen at the orphanage. At that establishment, we received one cup of tea served lukewarm and weak, a slice of stale bread, and a dab of jelly.
Nellie’s eyes met mine again, but she didn’t linger. With a nod, she left the room, her feet scarcely making a sound.
Uncle offered me the bread and jam. “Don’t be shy,” he said. “Take as much as you want. Walking in the cold sharpens one’s appetite.”
While we ate, I looked around the room. Despite its darkness, I saw it was well furnished with chairs and sofas and shelves of books. Oil paintings covered the walls. Some were portraits of long-ago men and women, their faces grave in the firelight. Others were landscapes of forested hills and grassy meadows. A marble statue of a Greek god stood in the corner behind Aunt’s chair, peering over her shoulder as if hoping for a biscuit.
“And now, my dear,” Uncle said, “tell us about yourself. Do you play an instrument? Sing? Draw? What sort of books do you enjoy?”
“I’m sorry to say I don’t play a musical instrument,” I told him. “Neither do I sing. Indeed, my talents in music resemble those of Mary Bennet in Pride and—”
“How unfortunate,” Aunt cut in. “Your cousin Sophia played the piano and the violin. She sang like an angel. Such talent she had, such grace.” Her voice trailed away, and she sniffed into her handkerchief.
“You were about to say something more,” Uncle prompted me.
Embarrassed by my inferiority to Sophia, I murmured, “I was just going to say that I draw a little. Not very well, I’m afraid.”
With a worried look at Aunt, I hesitated. “As for books,” I went on nervously, “I love Mr. Dickens’s novels, and also those of Wilkie Collins. I’ve read all of Jane Austen’s books, but my favorite is Pride and Prejudice, which I’ve read five times now. I adore Wuthering Heights and—”
“Do you read nothing but frivolous novels?” Aunt cut in. “I have read the Bible at least a dozen times, but I have not read Pride and Prejudice even once. Nor do I intend to. As for Mr. Dickens—I believe him to be most vulgar. Wilkie Collins is beneat
h contempt. And the Brontë novel is quite the worst of the lot, not fit for a decent young girl to read.”
Her tone of voice and stern face silenced me. I fancied even the clock on the mantel had ceased ticking.
Aunt peered at me over the top of her spectacles. “If the Bible is too difficult for you,” she added, “I recommend Pilgrim’s Progress. It should prove most instructive. Your cousin Sophia told me it was her favorite book.” Then, without saying farewell or making an excuse for her departure, she left the room.
When the door closed behind her, Uncle sighed. “Your aunt is very set in her ways, I fear,” he said. “You may read what you wish. I for one see nothing wrong with your taste in literature. Dickens is my own personal favorite. Martin Chuzzlewit, Bleak House, Our Mutual Friend—ah, what untold hours of pleasure his books have given me.”
I tried to return his smile, but I feared I’d made a poor beginning with Aunt. “I didn’t mean to offend my aunt.”
“Don’t worry. She’ll come round.” He set his teacup down. “She was very fond of Sophia, you know. Absolutely doted on the girl. Still wears nothing but black.”
“Sophia must have been perfection itself,” I said sadly.
“No one is perfect, my dear. Certainly not Sophia.” He picked up his tea as if to end the conversation.
I sat quietly, sipping my tea and listening to the incessant sound of the wind and the rain. The journey had exhausted me, and I tried without success to stifle a yawn.
Uncle looked at me and smiled. “Perhaps you’d like to rest and refresh yourself before supper.”
“Will James join us?” I asked. “I was hoping he’d be here for tea. I can scarcely wait to meet him.”
Uncle sighed again. “James is quite ill, my dear. He never leaves his room.”
Before I could say another word, Uncle summoned Nellie. “Please show Florence to her room,” he said. “She’s tired from her long day of travel.”
Almost too weary to walk, I followed Nellie up a wide flight of stairs to the second floor. She opened a door at the end of a hall and led me into a room almost as large as the dormitory where I’d slept with eleven girls. A coal fire glowed on the hearth, filling the room with warmth.