Goodly and Grave in a Bad Case of Kidnap

by Justine Windsor

  The three Goodlys followed Lord Grave out of Mrs Milligan’s Gambling Den and on to the street. Mr Goodly had a bad limp and used a walking stick. Unlike Lord Grave’s, his was made of plain wood and wasn’t just for show. He moved clumsily, stumbling down the worn steps. Lucy put out a hand to help him, but found her own feet were none too steady.

  At the bottom of the steps, Mrs Goodly sobbed as she hugged Lucy. Mr Goodly put his arms round both of them.

  “You mustn’t worry, my loves,” he said. “I’ll sort this out. We’ll be back together soon, I promise.”

  Lucy wanted to believe him, but her father wasn’t known for sorting things out. Nor her mother, for that matter. The only reason they hadn’t all ended up in the workhouse – or dead from starvation – was because it was Lucy who had sorted things out. With the help of her card, she’d transformed the Goodlys’ fortunes. She’d sort this mess out too, somehow.

  “Goodbye then,” Lucy said. She smiled bravely at her parents before climbing into the silver-grey carriage. Lord Grave climbed in after her, and slammed the door shut. Lucy huddled herself up in the corner of the black leather seat, as far away from him as she could get.

  Lord Grave banged the roof with the top of his walking stick. The wheels creaked and the carriage bounced a little as it began to move over the cobbles. Lucy twisted in her seat so that she could wave a last goodbye to her parents through the narrow slit in the rear of the carriage. Although they were hopeless, she would miss them terribly. But Mr and Mrs Goodly didn’t return Lucy’s waves; they were already climbing up the steps back to Mrs Milligan’s.

  They’re going to try and win enough money to get me back, Lucy decided. But how would they manage that? Without her around to take care of them, would they just land themselves into trouble trying to find a way to bring her home? The thought brought tears to her eyes.

  Once her parents were out of sight and she had quietly dried her eyes, Lucy turned back round and stared out of the side window. After a while, she sneaked a glance at Lord Grave. He was doing some staring out of the window too, his head turned away from Lucy. Taking advantage of his distraction, Lucy subtly tried the door handle.

  “It’s locked,” Lord Grave said, without even looking at her.

  It was no use. She was trapped. Except perhaps for the time a few years ago when she’d had to use six slugs as a pillow because all the bedding was at the pawnshop, Lucy had never felt so miserable.

  They soon left the grimy streets of London behind. Houses and buildings grew fewer and further apart until the horses were thundering along through the pitch-dark of the countryside with only the carriage lanterns to light their way.

  As the coach rattled onwards, Lucy tried to work out what had really happened back in Mrs Milligan’s Gambling Den. She patted her jacket pocket, checking that the card was safely there. Did Lord Grave have a card like hers too? If so, where did he get it from and did he know she had one too? Did he realise that she had seen what he’d done to win the poker game?

  Lucy leaned back and closed her eyes, worn out with misery and thinking. She must have fallen asleep for a little while, because when she next opened her eyes the sky was turning from black to a deep blue.

  At last, the carriage slowed down before clattering to a halt. Huge iron gates, set into a hedge of fir trees dozens of feet high, loomed ahead through the thin, early morning mist. The horses snorted and shook their heads.

  The two footmen riding on the back of the carriage jumped down. Or rather clanked down. They were wearing suits of armour. Another of Lord Grave’s stupid show-off ways, Lucy thought, as she watched them lumber over to the horses and put black cloth bags over the animals’ heads. She wanted to ask Lord Grave what they were doing, but she was determined to stick to her resolve and not speak to him. Ever. So she sat quietly while the armoured footmen finished hooding the horses, opened the gates and clanked through, leading the horses by their reins.

  “It’s going to be a glorious day once this mist clears,” Lord Grave said, opening the coach window on his side.

  Lucy folded her arms and looked straight ahead.

  “Now listen, my girl,” Lord Grave said. “I know you don’t want to be here, but—”

  The coach door on Lord Grave’s side rattled. Two huge black paws hooked themselves over the top of the window and to Lucy’s horror an enormous black animal lunged through it, grabbing the silver chain that fastened the neck of Lord Grave’s cloak in its teeth. The coach door flew open. Lord Grave crashed to the ground. Then the beast growled, pounced and grabbed his Lordship’s head between its massive jaws.

  CHAPTER THREE

  BATHSHEBA

  Lucy scrambled out of the coach doorway that Lord Grave had been dragged from, skinning her knees and palms on the drive’s sharp gravel.

  Lord Grave made a choking noise.

  The two armoured coachmen were still standing holding the horses’ reins. They had their visors down. Couldn’t they see what was happening?

  “Do something!” she yelled at them.

  His Lordship’s face was still trapped between the beast’s jaws. The growls took on a squelching quality. Lord Grave stopped making the choking noises, but his legs waggled up and down in mid-air, like a fly in its death throes.

  A shaft of early morning sunlight pierced the mist and glittered on something red against the animal’s neck. Not Lord Grave’s blood, but a jewelled collar. Lucy hurled herself towards the collar and grabbed it. The jewels dug into the palms of her already sore hands, but she ignored the pain and tugged as hard as she could.

  “Help me!” she screamed again at the two footmen. She wrenched at the collar desperately. With a wet plop, Lord Grave’s head slid from the beast’s jaws. But then the beast turned its gaze towards Lucy. Wide yellow eyes stared into hers. The half-open mouth revealed long white fangs dripping with frothy drool. In one smooth move, the creature curved round to face Lucy and thumped its paws against her shoulders, pinning her to the ground. It opened its mouth even wider, breath hot against Lucy’s cheek, dipped its head …

  “No!” Lucy said in a voice that was smaller and squeakier than normal. “Please …”

  The beast began licking Lucy’s cheek, its tongue a thousand times scratchier than her father’s beard when he kissed her goodnight.

  “Bathsheba!” Lord Grave bellowed. “Get off her. Now!”

  Bathsheba sprang away from Lucy. Lord Grave was on his feet again, brushing gravel and dust from his cloak. His eyebrows were pointing in different directions. Bathsheba leaped once more, locking her paws round Lord Grave’s neck, who staggered backwards, but didn’t fall this time.

  “Help the girl up,” Lord Grave ordered, in a strangled voice.

  One of the footmen clanked over to Lucy and helped her to her feet, while Lord Grave took a piece of dried meat from somewhere underneath his cloak and threw it for Bathsheba to pounce on. She snarled, held the leathery strip of meat down with one paw and tore at it with her fangs.

  That could have been my face, thought Lucy.

  She began to tremble all over. She was so shaken up, she allowed Lord Grave to help her back into the coach.

  “Thank you,” she said, flopping down into her seat.

  Lord Grave took out a silk handkerchief and handed it to her so she could mop the last of Bathsheba’s drool from her face and clothes. “I suppose I should thank you too. That was foolhardy, but very brave. You weren’t to know Bathsheba wouldn’t harm me. It’s just her way of welcoming me home,” he said.

  Lucy struggled with herself for a moment, but curiosity overcame her and she couldn’t help asking, “What is it – she – Bathsheba?”

  “A panther. From Kenya. We rescued her as a cub. Her mother was shot by hunters. I have many such animals here. Look, the giraffes are over there, looking for their breakfast.”

  Lucy peered through the mist. She could faintly see impossibly tall, long-necked, spindly-legged shadows moving gracefully past. There were noise
s too, splashing and snorting, coming from further away.

  “What’s that?”

  “The elephants down by the lake. They like an early morning bath,” Lord Grave said.

  “Elephants and giraffes!” Lucy said. For a moment, excitement took the place of fear and anger. She’d never dreamed she might one day see such exotic animals in real life.

  The coach set off again with Bathsheba ambling alongside. Lucy realised why the horses wore hoods. It was to stop them being spooked by the other animals as the coachmen led them through the wildlife park. After a while, the coach reached a gatehouse and on the other side of this, Lucy glimpsed Grave Hall for the first time. Mist still hung in the air, but she could make out a huge house with dozens of tall, slender chimneys and countless windows.

  “Well, here we are,” Lord Grave said. “Now. A word of warning. It’s lucky you didn’t try to run off while Bathsheba was welcoming me home. Things could have turned quite nasty. Bathsheba and some of my other animals have the potential to be very vicious. But as long as you abide by my rules, they won’t harm you. I advise you to remember that.”

  Lucy nodded in what she hoped was an obedient way. But of course, she had no intention of abiding by any of Lord Grave’s bossy rules. Not a single one. She was going to escape the first chance she got.

  Vicious beasts or no vicious beasts.

  The kitchen at Grave Hall was a long, low room. There was an enormous wooden table in the middle of the flagstone floor. A cooking range crouched in the fireplace. Pots and pans and bundles of herbs and strings of onions dangled from the ceiling.

  “This is our cook, Mrs Bernie Crawley,” Lord Grave said. He waved his hand towards the tall, broad-shouldered woman who stood with her back to them. She was stirring a small pot of what smelled like porridge simmering on the range.

  The woman turned and smiled. “Welcome to Grave Hall, Lucy. We’re all so glad you’ve come. It’s always so exciting to find a—”

  “New boot girl,” said Lord Grave.

  “Boot girl. Yes. Now, you must be hungry.” Mrs Crawley wiped her hands on her apron.

  “I’ll take my breakfast later, Mrs Crawley. Until then I’m not to be disturbed,” said Lord Grave.

  “Shall I bring Lucy to you after she’s eaten? I’m sure you’ll wish to begin—”

  “I’m not to be disturbed, Mrs Crawley.” And with that, Lord Grave left the kitchen, Bathsheba padding after him.

  Lucy realised she was staring at Mrs Crawley in a very rude way. She blinked and tried to find something else to focus on. The grey stone floor fitted the bill nicely.

  “Something the matter?” Mrs Crawley asked, smoothing the full and glossy red beard that covered the bottom half of her face.

  Lucy muttered at the floor. “You’re a …”

  “Of course I am!” Mrs Crawley brandished the wooden spoon she was holding. Blobs of porridge fell at Lucy’s feet. “Lord Grave’s a traditional man in many ways. The cook must always be known as ‘Mrs’, married or no, she or—”

  “He?” said Lucy, finally looking up.

  “Correct!”

  Lucy wondered if it would also be rude to mention the fact that Mrs Crawley happened to be wearing a dress and a frilly white apron.

  “Ah, you’re puzzled by the frock. I prefer them, you see. Better airflow. It gets hot around the nether regions in this kitchen. And look at yourself, with your nice breeches. Very smart. We should wear what makes us feel comfortable. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.” Lucy smiled for the first time in hours. She had never liked dresses herself, preferring the practicality of breeches. But she could see why Mrs Crawley might feel the opposite way. And it was refreshing to meet someone else whose clothing choices were somewhat unusual.

  “Sit yourself down here. It’s almost six and time for the servants’ breakfast.”

  Lucy settled herself at the long table. It had benches at each side and a chair at either end. Mrs Crawley put a heavy silver teapot on the table and Lucy helped herself to a cup with milk and three sugars. She gulped it down, almost burning her tongue, and then poured another. While she was drinking it, the first of the servants arrived – a fair-haired girl, a year or two older than Lucy, carrying a ginger cat with a blue ribbon tied round its neck. The ends of the ribbon were damp and chewed-looking.

  “Who are you?” the girl asked, peering sleepily at Lucy.

  “Lucy, this is Becky Bone. Becky, this is Lucy Goodly. She’s our new boot girl. You be good to her now. She’ll be sharing your room.”

  Becky stuck out her bottom lip. “Why does she have to share with me?”

  “Becky, don’t you be so rude. You know all the other attic rooms are full of animal feed.”

  “Your cat’s very sweet-looking,” Lucy said, in an effort to be friendly. She wasn’t entirely being truthful. The cat was scrawny. Its single eye was round, bulgy and bright orange. It had one and a half ears and the tip of its tail was missing. “What’s its name?”

  “He’s called Smell,” said Mrs Crawley.

  Lucy laughed. “What a funny name. I’ve got a cat at home called Phoebe. But she’s a bit younger than your Smell I think?”

  “He’s not called Smell!” snapped Becky. “He’s called Aloysius.”

  “But Smell’s so much more fitting,” chortled Mrs Crawley.

  Smell wriggled out of Becky’s arms and trotted over to Lucy. As he stood there, blinking up at her with his single orange eye, he made a very small tooting noise, like the world’s tiniest trumpet.

  “Oh,” said Lucy, wrinkling her nose. Now she understood why Smell was called Smell.

  “It means he likes you!” said Mrs Crawley brightly. Becky scowled even harder at Lucy.

  Another girl came into the kitchen, singing quietly to herself.

  “This is Violet, she’s our scullery maid. She comes in from Grave Village to help me with the cooking,” said Mrs Crawley. “Violet, this is Lucy, the new boot girl.”

  Violet smiled shyly at Lucy as she sat down. She was much younger than Becky, perhaps eight or nine. Wisps of mousy brown hair escaped from her white cotton cap. She began fiddling with her spoon, still singing softly.

  “Oh, shut that noise up, Violet,” Becky said, when Mrs Crawley’s back was turned. “This one’s a right milksop. She’s scared of everything, you know. Cries if you look at her wrong.”

  Lucy didn’t reply, but suspected Becky probably did a lot worse to Violet than “look at her wrong”.

  A very short, curly-haired man was the last servant to arrive for breakfast. He wore a white shirt and a black waistcoat and trousers.

  “Ah, you’re the new boot girl. I’m Jacob Vonk, the butler.”

  Violet piped up, “And the gardener. And the beekeeper and—”

  “That’s right, thank you, Violet. It’s true, I wear lots of different hats, as they say.”

  “He’s got a whole cupboard of them!” Violet added.

  “Everyone calls me Vonk,” said Vonk. He smiled broadly and shook Lucy’s hand warmly before settling himself into the chair at the head of the table. His feet in their very shiny shoes didn’t quite reach the floor and Lucy guessed he was smaller than she was.

  “Some of your porridge would do very well now, Mrs C.”

  “Pleasure, Vonk.” Mrs Crawley ladled porridge into bowls. It looked pale and creamy, but there were funny black specks in it. Lucy fished one of them out with her spoon, trying to work out if it was burnt porridge.

  “Mrs Crawley,” said Vonk in a stern voice.

  “What is it?” said Mrs Crawley in a light, airy what-on-earth-are-you-talking-about? voice.

  “The garnish. You know what we agreed. No experimental porridge.”

  “It’s extra nourishment, Vonk. There’s lots of hungry people in the world and not enough food to go round. Now insects, they—”

  Vonk raised an eyebrow.

  “Oh, very well!” Mrs Crawley snatched the bowls of porridge away and replaced them with insec
t-free portions. She heaped her own porridge with the tiny black corpses. “I toasted them especially for Lucy,” she said, crunching sadly on a mouthful.

  “Well I could try one, maybe,” said Lucy, feeling rather sorry for Mrs Crawley.

  “Oh, marvellous.” Mrs Crawley sprinkled a couple of the black specks into Lucy’s palm.

  Lucy closed her eyes and licked the insects up, swallowing them quickly. “They taste a bit … er … lemony,” she said, coughing.

  “Yes, that’s exactly it. They’re ants, you know. More?”

  “Um. No, I think I’ve had enough. They’re very filling.”

  Once everyone had finished eating, Mrs Crawley began telling Becky and Violet their tasks for the day. Lucy only half listened as she was thinking about her parents again. They’d probably be getting ready for bed now at the Charm Inn where they always stayed when in town. Would they remember to put their money and valuables under their pillows and lock the door while they slept? The Charm Inn was full of terrible thieves who would steal the breath from your lungs, but her parents always insisted on staying there. In fact, half the terrible thieves were her parents’ best friends. They really were hopeless!

  Small, warm fingers touched Lucy’s wrist.

  “Don’t fret, Lucy. Everyone here’s really nice and we don’t have to work too hard,” Violet said, looking up at her. “If you’re feeling lonely, you could borrow Caruthers. He always makes me feel better.” Violet took something out of her apron pocket. It was a small green knitted frog with button eyes. Violet’s name was neatly embroidered on its underneath.

  Lucy smiled. “He’s lovely. Did you do the embroidery?”

  “No, that was my mum. She’s very clever with a needle. She works as a seamstress.”

  “Well, thanks for the offer, but I think I’ll manage all right at the moment, so you keep hold of Caruthers for now.”

  “Silly pair of milksops,” said Becky Bone, giving them both a disgusted look.

  When Becky and Violet had gone off to begin work, Vonk showed Lucy to her new room, high up in the attics of Grave Hall.