by Jane Godman
“I am reliably informed, by people who claim to be my friends, that nobody wants a sexy governess,” I told him. He gave a quick shout of laughter but shook his head when I looked enquiringly at him. With a little shrug, I turned to view the increasingly green scenery.
“I forgot to ask, do you have any references from your previous employer?” he asked. I was glad he kept his eyes on the road so he couldn’t see me blush.
“No,” I said bluntly, deciding that honesty was the best policy. After all, he’d already admitted there wasn’t a queue of people beating a track to his door for this job. “You don’t tend to get a reference if you slapped the boss’s face before you walked out.” He did glance my way at that. “He tried to put his hand up my skirt,” I explained, “as I was giving his children their breakfast.”
“So it seems he definitely wanted a ‘sexy governess,’ and before breakfast, too. A gentleman of ambition. Perhaps you should wear slacks in future?” he asked blandly, and it was my turn to bite back a laugh. At least he didn’t appear dreadfully shocked at my chequered past. Considering how we met, however, it would have been somewhat hypocritical of him to do so.
“You haven’t told me much about your niece,” I said when London had become a distant memory. Rolling hills flanked the now-quiet road. He glanced my way again and I wondered at the contrast between his remote aspect and the intensity of those sherry-brown eyes.
“I don’t actually know her very well,” he admitted. “My brother worked for the Diplomatic Corps and they—he and his wife—had lived abroad since they married. I’d only seen Ceri, short for Ceridwyn, half a dozen times when I had to travel to Austria to collect her after they died.” His voice was devoid of any emotion, and I wondered how he could remain so expressionless when describing such a heartbreaking event. “That was three months ago, and, since then, she has been in the care of Mrs Price, the housekeeper down at Taran House. It’s all been damnably inconvenient.” The words—so cold and unfeeling—were a stark reminder that I knew nothing about this man. “Now, of course, she needs to continue her education. Which is where you come in.”
I was starting to feel tired. There was something soporific about the countryside whizzing past us. And, of course, I hadn’t slept since Ricky… Resolutely I turned my mind away from that thought. “What does it mean? Taran?”
“Taran means ‘thunder’ in Welsh, but it is also the name of many geographical features within the local area. Afon Taran—the Taran River—flows through the valley where the house is located. My mother, who fancied herself something of an artist, also used the word to describe a colour so black it is almost blue.”
“Like a bruise,” I commented sleepily.
His lips curved briefly. “I prefer a more poetic image such as the wing feathers of a magpie.” He took one hand off the wheel to light a cigarette. The gesture caused a fierce pain, the pain of missing Ricky, to gnaw at the threadbare edges of my heart. I closed my eyes in fleeting anguish.
I opened them and saw him glance at me. “Coffin nails,” I said, nodding bleakly at the offending object between his lips. He raised his brows in a silent question. “It’s what I tell my friend—used to tell my friend—whenever he lit up.”
“You have mentioned your friends a few times. But do you have any family?”
“No,” I said.
“As answers go, that one may have provided the requisite response. It is, however, woefully uninformative.”
Grudgingly, I continued, “My parents and brother were killed in a house fire when I was seven. They left no money, and my aunt, my father’s sister, became my guardian. I think she took me on because my mother’s family were well off and she thought they might stump up some cash for my upkeep. They didn’t, and that made her resentful. She wasn’t the warmest of women.” I didn’t bother to mention that my aunt Gertrude had been a crucifix-wielding sadist who wholeheartedly embraced the concept that to spare the rod would spoil the child. “She sent me away to boarding school, and we rarely saw each other after that. She died when I was seventeen.” I hoped that brief history explained a little about the strong tug of sympathy that pulled me toward his niece. If I was honest, even I couldn’t understand then why I felt so incredibly protective toward a child I had never met. Later, of course, it all became clear.
“Ah.” The single syllable was stretched with meaning. I wondered what he was thinking. Perhaps that I was likely to be unduly sentimental, get too attached to his niece and cause embarrassing scenes? I had a two-month trial period in which to convince him otherwise. Suddenly it didn’t seem very long. We lapsed into an uneasy silence.
* * *
Several hours later, the road narrowed, leaving behind gaunt moorland to climb among screes and high lakes. This was the birthplace of searing poetry and hideous phantoms. The car window was open, and the air was heavy with the smell of pine, rich earth and wild garlic. Twilight was leaching the last traces of day from the sky when the bleak outline of the higher mountains came into view. One, darker and more forbidding than the others, drew my eye.
“Mount Taran,” Gethin informed me as I viewed the rugged summit with some misgiving. It was certainly breathtaking, but the sensations it aroused within me could scarcely be described as pleasurable. “Named,” he continued, “for the demon lord of the underworld huntsmen who lived on its magnificent slopes. The large crags you see lower down toward the valley floor are said to be the debris left after the storms of their violent pursuits had abated. Taran’s legacy is the sound of thunder, which is a regular occurrence in this particular corner of Wales.”
“Sounds like a regular charmer,” I said.
“You are too severe,” he told me with mock sternness. “There is a feature that you can’t see from this angle, which resembles a giant chair overlooking a lake. Taran was a great poet and philosopher who liked to sit on his chair—or, in Welsh, cadair—and compose while studying the stars. Cadair Taran is very close to the house, which you will see as we round the next bend. When you live in Wales,” he informed me, “you become accustomed to the weather, the music and the legends.”
Taran House was set low in the valley so that my first glimpse of it was from above as the road wound a meandering path down the mountainside. The light was almost completely gone, and all I had was a vague impression of a rambling property of pale stone. Light flickered in only two of the many windows. An owl hooted a welcome, or a caution—I could not decide which—as I gazed across the valley toward the hulking dark menace of the peaks. The house was encircled. A quiver of dread trickled down my spine.
The feeling intensified when I stepped from the car and looked up at the facade of Taran House. My duplicitous mind’s eye had conjured up an image of an idyllic country scene. Of gently rolling emerald fields, dotted here and there with fluffy white sheep, and a cosy russet-hued house, possibly even with a thatched roof. This serene ideal splintered into a thousand pieces. It was banished in a heartbeat, never to return. My fickle, overripe imagination had certainly not prepared me for the dirty-yellow Victorian monstrosity before me. Lengthening shadows deserted the surrounding woodland and came to taunt me by leaping around the building’s grotesque form. From where I stood now, Taran House appeared squat and square, but the view from the road had allowed me glimpses of wings fanning out in a T shape with a central clock tower presiding over the whole aspect. I glimpsed loose guttering, missing shingles and gaping shutters. Rank weeds and dispirited nettles straggled half-heartedly through the gravel of the drive. Lopsided stone lions flanked the entrance—forever poised to pounce on the unwary—cracked faces frozen in identical snarls. One of them was missing a tail and the other had no ears. A lone lamp trembled with reluctant welcome just inside the canopied portico. Gethin gestured for me to precede him up the steps, warning me to take care not to slip on the moss that had claimed their surface.
But there had once been beauty here. Decades earlier, the entrance hall must have been magnificent. A stained-glas
s skylight set within mosaic-patterned borders drew my attention upward and away, at first, from the staggering state of disrepair. Once-beautiful oak panelling was scarred and dull, telling tales of lax housekeeping and uncaring ownership. The wide central staircase curved up to a galleried landing that ran along all four sides of the hall, but, in the gloom, I could not make out any features above my own height. Greedy candlelight hoarded its own precious secrets. Under our feet, expensive rugs curled up their edges in disgust, their long-ago brightness fading now into sad, patterned obscurity. Randomly placed sofas and dainty side tables told tales of another, more elegant, time. There were darker patches on the walls where pictures had hung; the few that remained in place were dour portraits or tired and pallid landscapes. The dust, waste and sheer overwhelming melancholy made me want to cry out in protest. It also made me want to turn on my heel, run out of there and not stop until good old London town and the bright silver thread of the Thames were once more in my sights.
I was aware of Gethin watching me closely. My face has always been a fairly accurate mirror of my emotions. He gave a humourless laugh. “My twin brother, Bryn, and I lived here with our parents when we were young. Believe me, it looked very different then. It used to be a real family home….” He broke off, as if a memory troubled him. “My father died when we were ten. My mother was quite highly strung and had never really felt at home here in the valley. She could not bear to stay without him, so we packed up and went to live in London. We did come back for occasional visits, so it was kept in a reasonable condition then, although the larger, more expensive jobs began to get overlooked. My brother was exactly three minutes older than me, and so, when our mother passed away some twelve years ago, it was he who inherited the house.” A faraway look flitted across his face. “We had many a fierce row about it. I wanted him to restore it, but he had already figured out how to take what he wanted from Taran House.” He stopped abruptly and then, changing his theme, continued, “He went into the Foreign Office and I…well, I was busy forging my own path. It saddens me to see the old place now. Ceri has inherited my brother’s money, but it is tied up in trust until she comes of age.” His tone became brisk again. “Of course, there is no electric lighting or gas for heating. There are a few gas lamps, but the bill for candles and coal would make your eyes bulge. We do not even have a telephone, although there is one at the post office in the village.”
A door at the far end of the hall opened as he was speaking, and a woman emerged from it. She stood very still, watching us with a slight frown in her eyes. I don’t consider myself a particularly intuitive person, but I’m fairly sure she wasn’t pleased to see me.
“Ah, Mrs Price. This is Miss Divine, who has taken the post of governess to Miss Ceridwyn. Mrs Price is the housekeeper. She has been responsible for caretaking Taran House in my absence, and she has also looked after my niece over the last few months.”
She moved forward and I held out my hand with my brightest smile. With absolutely no expression on her face in response, Mrs Price extended her fingertips. I have never before, or since, encountered such a cold, lifeless handshake. When it was over, I had to resist the impulse to wipe my hand on my skirt. She had a face like a slapped trout, with slightly bulging eyes and full, wet lips. Her skin was the colour of uncooked pastry and her salt-and-pepper hair had been dragged back into a desultory bun. The old-fashioned dress she wore must once have been black, but it was now rusty with age. Over that she had donned an apron that had seen better days. It also had a number of interesting stains of indeterminate origin down its front. The neglect shown to the house was reflected back at me in her appearance. Mrs Price was the most unprepossessing person I had met in a very long time, and until today, I had worked in a burlesque club! I could see that she was regarding me with similar dismay.
“I think the guided tour can wait until morning,” Gethin said. He seemed oblivious to the fact that we were sizing each other up like a pair of hostile tomcats. “I expect Gwladys has already gone home?” Mrs Price nodded an affirmative. He had explained to me, when outlining the household arrangements, that Gwladys was the girl who came down from the village each day to help the housekeeper. Help her do what, I wondered, as my hand encountered the dusty surface of the stair rail. “Could you organise some sandwiches and tea for supper, please, Mrs Price, while I take Miss Divine to meet her pupil?”
He picked up a branch of candles and, as we mounted the stairs, he explained that, at present, only part of the house was habitable. I dreaded to think what sort of state the other parts might be in. Indicating a door at the end of the left-hand gallery, he pointed out what was to be my room. Next to it, another narrower flight of stairs led to the nursery, a suite of rooms comprising Ceri’s bedroom, the schoolroom and a playroom. These rooms were at the top of the house, on the same level as the attics.
We made our way up to the nursery, where I halted on the doorstep, frozen into immobility. A little girl was sitting cross-legged on a rug before the fireguard, reading a book, but she jumped up quickly as she became aware of our presence. My gaze took in the fact that she was small for her age, with elfin features, huge, troubled eyes and a mop of dusky curls. A bony finger of recognition prodded insistently at the small of my back sending shock waves up and down my spine. I already knew Ceridwyn Taran well. She was the girl I met in my nightmares.
Chapter Two
Mindful that Gethin might be expecting me to do something more than just stare mutely at my new charge, I walked slowly forward. This was in spite of the voice of my subconscious screaming at me to turn and run.
Ceri darted a wary look in her uncle’s direction that could hardly have been described as fond or welcoming. She turned and regarded me with curiosity faintly tinged with suspicion. There was no indication in her eyes that she might know me. Clutching a battered, one-eared teddy bear in a tightly bunched fist, she was just a little girl dressed in pink woollen pyjamas. No trace of a white nightgown. I was being foolish, I told myself firmly. I had dreams that featured a child who looked uncannily like her. It didn’t mean anything. It was a coincidence. There were lots of little girls with pale skin and dark eyes. Get a grip, Lilly, I scolded myself. These lilting Welsh legends are affecting you already.
“Say hello to Miss Divine, Ceri. She is to be your new governess. You will mind what she says and work hard for her.” Gethin spoke in a formal tone that indicated he was not used to dealing with children. The look Ceri gave me from under the long sweep of her lashes suggested that his statement might, at some point in the near future, be put to the test. She did, however, nod her head in greeting. It was a curiously mature gesture for one so young.
“Who might this be?” I asked, indicating the bear. “He looks just like my old bear, whose name was Bog.”
“He is a she,” she informed me. I was aware of Gethin regarding our interaction in that aloof way he had. “And her name is Rita, after the patron saint of impossible dreams,” she added with a slightly smug air. The mention of dreams gave me goose bumps, but her clear gaze was unambiguous. Relenting a little, she enquired, “Why was your teddy called Bog?”
“Because my older brother once tried to flush him down the lavatory,” I replied, and she giggled mischievously, placing a hand over her mouth in an attempt to stifle the sound. I didn’t flatter myself that I had broken down all the barriers between us in that brief instant, but, as starts went, it wasn’t a bad one. “Does Mrs Price read you a bedtime story?” From what I had seen already of that stiff-rumped lady, I suspected that the answer was likely to be in the negative. When Ceri shook her head, I added, “Would you like me to do so now?”
In answer, she placed her hand in mine to lead me through to her bedroom. Perhaps I was making too much of it, but as our hands met, I felt a pull toward this little girl that was as potent and warm as it was unexpected. Ceri looked up at me in surprise, as if she too had experienced the strange electric attraction that tingled through my fingertips where they touched h
ers.
“Oh!” Recognition dawned at last in the otherwordly darkness of her eyes. “I dreamed about you last night,” she told me conversationally. Gethin, obviously finding nothing untoward in the childlike comment, continued to observe us through the open doorway for a moment before going back down the stairs. He could not have guessed how much I wanted to push past him, dash outside and draw a huge draught of fresh air into my constricted lungs. “I like the one where we are running through a forest and we can’t see the Hunter, but we can hear him coming after us through the trees,” Ceri continued cheerfully, when he was out of sight. “Which one is your favourite?”
* * *
My bedroom was habitable, if not particularly welcoming. The furniture was a mismatch of styles as though someone had hurriedly prepared it for occupation. Age spots freckled the brass bedstead, but the sheets and bottle-green coverlet were clean and undarned. The mattress was firm and the bank of pillows comfortable and faintly rose water scented. Flowered curtains showed two inches of brighter pattern at their base, indicating that they had recently been let down to fit the tall windows. The wardrobe was cavernous, almost the size of my whole room at Mrs Comber’s. I smiled at the thought of my meagre belongings occupying a small corner of its plentiful capacity. A pretty grandmother clock stood in one corner and I eyed it dubiously, wondering if it would wake me in the night with its chimes. A cursory inspection showed that it had no pendulum and its hands were, therefore, condemned to forever point to three fifteen. Bare boards were relieved by a woven rug at the side of the bed, and a few uninspiring pictures contrasted oddly with the striped wallpaper. The saving grace was that I had my own tiny bathroom, with an imposing roll-topped tub set on clawed feet.
I sat on a rattan-seated chair, which creaked an ominous complaint, and contemplated my surroundings glumly. Would I ever call this decaying mansion “home”? More to the point…did I want to? I had sustained a severe shock to my psyche during that strange first meeting with Ceri. I replayed the encounter in my mind, searching for some crumbs of comfort. But my mind found only stale, tasteless fare. A little bit like the sandwiches Mrs Price had provided for my supper.
