My father’s visitors travelled by horse and carriage to Mears House and were furtively deposited on the gravel path outside, their means of transport quickly disappearing into the distance. Almost always they stayed the night. The moment they retired was when I would stop eavesdropping, pick up my skirts and run once again, this time to my bedroom. Once inside I would push a chest of drawers up against the door, heaving with all my might for it was a solid piece of furniture, just in case one of the gentlemen should decide to go wandering in the night and become disorientated, and I would find the handle of my door turning, always turning…
But for now I listened, filled with curiosity. Just what was ‘sheer madness’?
“It’s just… There is danger,” the friend continued. “What if it should go wrong?”
“You have now changed your mind?” my father questioned.
“For God’s sake, William, acknowledge the risks involved at least!”
My father laughed, but I could detect no humour in it. When he spoke again, his voice was so low it forced me to leave my hiding space and creep forward to hear.
“You are aware that there are many, many men that would willingly take your place, who would give their eye teeth for such an opportunity?”
After a moment of silence, Arthur coughed. “I am merely saying—”
“Courage is required, Arthur, not cowardice.”
Arthur was clearly considering the warning in Father’s voice. “Are you sure she is able to assist us?” he said at last.
I was merely a step or two away from the door now, my hand cupping my ear as I strained to hear. Who were they talking of?
“Arthur, I am certain of it.”
“There will not be a repeat of what happened previously?”
“You are right, sir, there will not.”
Another voice startled me.
“Miss, is there something I can help you with?”
I swung around. In front of me was the maid – not quite so elusive now – her expression perplexed. In my estimation I was younger than Josie by two or three years, but I was the mistress of this house, her mistress, and so I straightened my back and my chin too, refusing to be embarrassed at being caught out by a servant.
“Thank you, but I am quite comfortable. Is there anything I can help you with?”
She shrugged – an insolent gesture I could not help but think, or was it? Was it that she was just a simple girl, an untroubled girl? For in the few times I had encountered her, not scurrying around the house as I scurried, or as the spiders scurried, but ‘drifting’ around it, she had looked so serene and contented. Strangely, she had also looked at home. How long had she been with us? A matter of months, replacing Lottie who left to marry a cousin twice removed from the West Country. Time in this house, however, could not be trusted. It was something of an anomaly, either passing by in a moment, or stretching on before you with no end in sight. Josie carried out her various duties in a world seemingly of her own making, often remaining just on the edge of vision; but now she was in full view and staring at me.
The time was three o’ clock, the month November. Soon the already weakening light of winter would fade entirely to be replaced by a darkness so complete it would require effort to see your own hands held up in front of your face. I had read that eyes take some minutes to adjust to such intense darkness, but in my experience that was not always true, for the darkness could remain that way – intense – right up until morning. There was much for Josie to do before the arrival of Father’s other friends, yet still she gawped at me.
“Josie,” I asked, breaking the silence that seemed to have settled so heavily upon us, “is everything well? I asked if there was something I could help you with?”
“Oh no, miss. I don’t think so.”
Her amusement, or rather bemusement, failed to amuse me.
“Everything is prepared for Father’s guests? The beds have been turned down?”
“Everything’s prepared,” she accompanied that statement with an enthusiastic nod, causing wisps of red-tinged hair to fall from under her cap.
“Miss Tiggs has supper ready?”
“Just a light supper’s been requested, miss.”
Of course it had! They would be light on eating, heavy on drinking.
The way Josie continued to look at me made me feel like some sort of oddity. Perturbed, I had to struggle to retain my composure. Turning my back on her, I retraced my footsteps along the corridor, back to the drawing room.
“The grate in here,” I called, intending to lead her to it, “I noticed it still had embers in it earlier. Why is this? It is supposed to be raked out every morning.”
I turned my head just enough to see her smile slip.
“I’m sorry, miss, It’s just…I’ve been so busy…”
“Busy staring is what it seems.”
I disliked the sound of my own voice, it reminded me too much of Father’s, but, as I have pointed out, I was the mistress of this house, despite my tender years. Perhaps this was how I was required to sound – not acerbic, not exactly, but authoritative at least. During Father’s absence, I was in charge of this… this… mausoleum; it seemed such an apt word to describe it. As Josie’s smile had slipped, something inside me followed suit. It was just so dreary in here, so lacklustre, with paint peeling on every ceiling and the wallpaper fading. When rarely the light crept in, it did so half-heartedly.
I faced her fully now. “Why do you stay? Why do you not leave? You have family, so why not return to them?”
Josie’s green eyes widened and I understood why. How could I have let such desperate words escape me? But there was such a longing in me to know; a need. “Do you have family, Josie? A mother?”
“Everyone has a mother.”
About to rebuke her for being so insensitive – surely she was fully aware of my situation – I managed to stop myself. Firstly, I had asked the question and so there must be a reply, and secondly, she was right, everyone did have a mother. I had a mother, or rather a photograph of her.
I hung my head, my own hair, brown in colour, not restrained, not today, but falling forwards to frame my face. “Why do you stay?” I asked again.
“I…” she was tentative now, nervous at last. “I like it here.”
I was incredulous. “You like it? Why?”
“It’s quiet.”
“Quiet?”
“On occasion.”
Before I could query that too, she continued. “I have my own bed.”
“Your own bed?” I seemed doomed to repeat her words.
“At home, there are nine of us, and only two beds.”
And that was it, the sole reason. This was a girl whose own bed – her own space I supposed – meant everything. Was it no more complex than that?
From outside there came the crunch of carriage wheels on gravel and, like co-conspirators now, we both took a step towards the window so that we could cautiously peer onto the driveway. There were more guests arriving and no doubt Miss Tiggs would escort them straight to Father’s study and wait on them throughout the evening. She was the only female allowed access to the inner-sanctum at these times – Miss Tiggs with her doughface and her cruel smile. We watched them alight. There were two of them, an older man and a younger one with fair hair. The former was quite stooped, the latter straight-backed, handsome even, with a somewhat confident gait. Having deposited them, the carriage turned swiftly around and sped back down the approach, eager as always to put as much distance between it and the house as possible. As I watched it, I recalled snatches of Father and Arthur’s conversation.
‘Madness, sheer madness’ and ‘Are you sure she is able to assist us?’
Once again I wondered, who was this ‘she’ they talked of?
Rosamund Chapter Three
Father’s associates had returned to London, but surprisingly he had stayed at Mears House. I had not foreseen this, as it was far more usual that he should leave with them, and so I had
risen later than normal, shooing Josie away when she appeared at my door to tend to me. I had failed to sleep well the previous night; I never did when Father’s gentlemen friends stayed over, and what sleep I had managed was filled with such strangeness, such turmoil, that my eyes frequently snapped open as my mouth gaped, fish-like, for air; and yet, in the cold light of day, I could barely recall the hazy, twisted shapes that had caused such angst. In truth, I had no desire to recall them, but there would be torment ahead for me regardless – that caused by my Father.
Breakfast had already been taken in the dining room, where I had sat alone as usual, staring idly out of the windows at yet another rain-swept day, the colours outside matching the sombreness of those inside. It threatened to be one of those endless days, but at least, besides Miss Tiggs and Josie, I had the house to myself – or so I believed.
“There you are!”
I was passing his study on my way to the drawing room, intent on doing some reading perhaps beside the fire, or to indulge in a little drawing. Although I was not having any tuition at the time at least my past governesses – for Miss Lyons was only one of them – had taught me sufficiently in both respects.
“Father!” On spotting him, my voice was little more than a croak. “But I thought you had gone.” Or rather I had hoped he would be gone; that I was rid of him.
“Several times I have called for you,” he declared, “in vain, I might add.”
“Perhaps I was out walking, Father,” I lied. “I do enjoy being outside, even in the rain.” Another lie, I was wary of the rain as my chest tended towards weakness.
Father made no reply, he simply stared at me – again he reminded me of a fox with his intent, narrow gaze and features that jutted and jarred. His dark eyes were infinite pools that mesmerised and tethered: I had to fight against this, not look away – Father would deem such an act insufferable rudeness on my part – but not lose myself in them. I cursed that I resembled him; in truth I despaired of it.
“Come to my study,” he said at last, not asking but demanding.
My heart plummeted further – why oh why must we do this? What did he want from me? How was I to answer the oddest of questions that fell from his lips? I am just a girl, an ordinary girl – his daughter – why did he interrogate me so?
I have mentioned that, besides the library, Father’s study harboured books too, many of them lining the length and breadth of three entire walls. As much as I loved books, in Father’s room they failed to furnish it; rather they gave it a closed-in claustrophobic feel and made it so much darker than it already was. They were not storybooks either; Father held no regard for the frivolity of fiction. No, these were books pertaining to lofty scientific subjects such as astronomy, physics and medicine. Some of them had titles and text in Latin, and once, when he had left me alone in his study for a short while, I had made a closer examination of them, running my fingers up and down their crumbling leather spines. And oh, the feelings that had overwhelmed me as I had done so! The visions that had begun to form in my mind…
“Sit down.” Again it was a command, thrown at me from over his shoulder as he stalked to his own chair. How I wished I could be ‘plucky’ and continue to stand, to ask why it was he always commanded, why we could never just converse.
The air reeked of stale whisky and tobacco, one managing to dominate for a few seconds before the other fought to take over. Velvet curtains at the window – burgundy in colour but far from opulent owing to their almost decrepit state – were barely pulled apart, keeping the daylight deliberately at bay. I had to battle to keep my breathing steady as I hated to show Father I was frightened. More than that, I hated to admit it to myself. If only I had the picture of Mother to cling to, but she was in the attic, safe from discovery.
As he sank onto his chair, he leaned back, clasping his hands together and landing them on the deep red leather of his desktop. There were several books within arms’ reach, perhaps those that had been referenced recently by himself and his acquaintances. They were not neatly placed, as I tended to place mine on the side table in my room or on the desk in the library, but strewn in a haphazard manner. Also on the desk there was an inkpot, a pen and some notes, illegible perhaps except to the scribe, for certainly the scrawl seemed chaotic as well. All this I took in over the course of seconds, bracing myself; suppressing any rising panic.
Father surprised me with what he said next.
“You need a new wardrobe of clothes.”
I inclined my head to the side. “Clothes, Father?”
“Yes,” he replied, no smile upon his face, indeed his expression was sombre.
“An assortment of dresses, a new coat and a shawl. Your boots are scuffed. Goodness knows what you kick at all day. You will need to replace them as well.”
“Clothes?” I said again, beginning to feel a curious stirring in the pit of my stomach – could it be excitement? “But, Father, where am I to buy such clothes?”
“London.”
“London?”
“Of course, where else would one go but London?”
I could barely believe the evidence of my own ears. I had entered Father’s study expecting the usual bombardment of questions, but instead was being offered the most incredible of opportunities! I was to leave Mears House – actually leave here – and travel to London; witness with my own eyes the carriages that pounded the cobbled streets; the fancy men, women, and children that lived there.
“Am I to go with you, Father?”
“I will accompany you, yes.”
“But how will I know where to go, and where shall we stay? It is such a long way, surely we cannot be travelling to and fro on the same day?”
Abruptly, Father stood up, his nostrils flaring. “Questions, questions. You are always so full of questions, Rosamund!”
I took a moment to digest that statement, or rather the irony of it. Was it not always he that asked the questions – questions I did not know how to begin to answer. What do you see? I shall tell you – just as I told him on so many occasions. I saw the world around me, which comprised four crumbling walls and a series of rooms that lay empty, nothing within them but dust motes which performed a frenzied dance in the air should one happen to disturb them. Outside there was endless grass; a sky that tended only towards blue in the summer and a collection of tall trees that encircled us; that formed a barrier almost, only permitting a choice few into its realm, but mostly guilty of keeping others away. That is exactly what I saw but soon, if Father was to be believed, I would be seeing something else too.
Determined to hold onto the excitement of the moment rather than give in to intimidation, I took a deep breath and pressed further with my concerns. “Father, I have never been to London before, as you know, and I am certain that Josie—”
“Arthur’s daughter has agreed to be your guide.”
“Arthur’s daughter?” Had he not just heard what I had just said?
“That is correct. Her name escapes me, what is it?” He huffed and puffed for a few seconds before clicking his fingers. “Constance, there it is.”
“Arthur is one of the gentlemen that visited yesterday evening?” I knew this to be true, but what Father forgets is that I have never been introduced to any of them.
“Yes, yes,” was his reply, and again there was that annoyance; that implication that I had no right to question anything.
As he started to wear the carpet beneath his feet with his constant pacing – Father always did this, as if he could never rest, not for long – I noticed something else, something that perhaps had not fully registered until now. Father was impeccably dressed. There was no need for him to be entirely outfitted. His black thigh-length jacket covered a waistcoat and trousers that were cut from the same cloth, the waistcoat boasting ivory buttons, and his white shirt with its tall collar was perfectly starched. On his feet were boots that either Miss Tiggs or Josie had polished so well you could see your own reflection in them. He cut a dapper figure; ano
ther word I had learnt courtesy of Mr Dickens. I glanced down at my own attire and realised how much I looked like a poor relation rather than the daughter of a moneyed landowner. The dress I was wearing was slightly too small for me, as all my dresses were, every stitch doing its duty. However, it was not only me that was shabby; something else was too.
I swallowed slightly before taking yet another breath.
“Father, should we… Is it right…?”
Coming to a grinding halt, Father turned his head towards me, such a swift, jagged action that for a moment I was reminded of dreams I would prefer to forget.
“Spit it out, Rosamund,” he insisted, although it was he who was guilty of spitting.
“It is just…” Still I struggled to find the right words, but once begun, I had to finish. “If there is money, should we not spend it on the house?”
As soon as my sentence was complete I realised my mistake.
“If there is money?” he repeated.
Breathe, Rosamund, continue to breathe.
Pitifully, I gestured around me. “There is a leak in my bedroom ceiling, I noticed it last night. I will have a bucket put in there to catch the drips, but also, in the dining room, there is mould in several corners, and in the drawing room that I frequent—”
He was by my side in an instant, his breath scalding my cheek as he grabbed my shoulders. “Are you questioning my solvency?”
“No… I… The house…”
“The management of my financial affairs has nothing to do with you. Question me again and it will be at your peril.”
“Yes, Father. Sorry, Father.”
“You will do as you are told.”
“Yes.”
“As I tell you.”
“Of course, Father.”
“You are to be seen, Rosamund. Seen! And look at you! You are no better than an urchin that haunts the dark alleys and streets of the city that we are to visit.”
“An urchin? I meant no ill—”
My desperate attempts to appease him fell short. He held me still and, as though I was caught in a vice, there was no escape. Try as I might I could not look away or refuse to stare deeper into those eyes of his – his gaze captured me, it seared me. And in it, there was no love, not a hint. Nor was there any mercy.
Psychic Surveys Companion Novels Page 37
