‘Very well,’ said Gilbert after a moment. ‘A trial. If you are still here after a month, we will see.’ He picked up his pen and nodded dismissal. ‘But make sure you keep that dog away from me. I don’t want to see it in here again.’
Jane rose, Poppet in her arms. ‘Thank you, sir,’ she said with a smile. ‘You will not regret it.’
‘See that I do not,’ he said grouchily, but Jane thought there was a trace of a smile around his mouth.
Closing the door carefully behind her with one hand, Jane lifted Poppet up to kiss his wet black nose in triumph. Mr Harrison was cross, his daughters were spoilt. The house was neglected and the servants poorly trained. But she would make them all comfortable, Jane vowed. This she could do.
Still smiling, she looked around the dusty hall. She would set a servant to beating the hangings straight away. Already she could see how the room would look when it was cleaned and the silver was polished and a fire was burning in the grate. She had set out that afternoon in search of a job, but she had found a home, she could feel it in her bones. Already the house at the sign of the golden lily felt like a place she belonged.
‘I will be happy here,’ she told Poppet. She set him down so that he could scamper ahead of her across the hall towards the buttery and the kitchen beyond. She would bring Geoffrey the very next day. He would be safe tucked away here behind the bustle of Minchen Lane. ‘We both will.’
‘It’s good that you are happy, but it’s time to come back now, Roz.’
‘No! No, I don’t want to go back,’ she said, alarmed by the certainty of the voice with its strange intonation. ‘I want to stay here. This is where I belong. Don’t make me leave,’ she begged. ‘I am happy at last.’
The voice firmed. ‘Roz is happy too, Jane. You must let her go.’
‘No.’ Always she had put others’ desires before her own. Now that she understood what happiness was, she could not let it go. She would not.
‘Roz, I want you to wake up now.’
But the words made no sense and now they were fading, evaporating like the mist over the river until they were gone, leaving only a sense of danger and loss.
Jane put a hand to her throat. She didn’t understand the panic suddenly fluttering like a trapped bird in her chest. There had been something – a thought, a memory – tugging at her mind, but it had vanished and now she couldn’t remember what it was or why she was frightened. Something she had to do? Something she had to remember?
‘Jane? Are you unwell?’
She started and stared at Gilbert as if she had never seen him before. ‘No . . . it was just . . . I don’t know.’
‘A goose walking over your grave?’ he suggested, and she shuddered.
‘Something like that.’
‘It’s not like you to be discomposed, Jane.’ Gilbert frowned. ‘I hope you are not sickening for something?’
She shook herself and smoothed her palms over her apron. ‘I cannot afford to be sick,’ she told him briskly. ‘There is too much to do to keep this household afloat.’ She slapped at Gilbert’s hand as he reached for an apple. ‘Those are for my pie,’ she told him.
‘This is my house, is it not, Jane? That makes this my kitchen, and my pie and therefore my apple,’ said Gilbert, but he put the apple back.
‘What are you doing in here, anyway? The kitchen is a place for women,’ she said severely. ‘It is not for men.’
‘I am . . . restless,’ he admitted.
‘Why do you not play with your daughters?’
‘They are running in and out of the yard like hoydens,’ he said. ‘You should control them better.’
‘They are happy,’ said Jane, who was used to his scowls by now and set no store by them. ‘You should be glad of it.’
‘You are always pert, Jane.’ Gilbert sat on the table and tossed onions from one hand to the other. ‘You never say, yes sir, no sir. Why is that?’
‘I am sure I say it all the time,’ she said serenely.
‘You see? You are disagreeing again!’
Jane gave in and laughed. ‘You are determined to find me in the wrong today.’
Broodingly, he watched her as she moved around the kitchen. The kitchen door stood open onto the yard and he could hear the shouts and chatter of the children running in and out from the street. The spaniel lay in a pool of sunlight, his paws twitching as he slept. The kitchen smelt of herbs, of the bacon that hung from the rafters and the spices Jane had set carefully on the table. Up on the roof, a pigeon cooed throatily.
‘Are you content, Jane?’ he asked abruptly, and she looked up from breaking eggs into a bowl.
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘How could I not be? I work all day for a master who glares at me,’ she said, but she was smiling.
The truth was that Jane had never been happier. Nearly two years she had been at the sign of the golden lily, and her trial period had come and gone without comment. Slowly but surely, she had taken charge of the house. She was mistress in all but name, and there was no one to tell her that she should be a lady and sit in the parlour. She dealt with the maids with a firm hand, and every chamber glowed with care. The silver was polished, the wood gleamed, the carpets were beaten, rushes freshly strewn on the floor. Every day, Jane swept London’s fine black soot out of the house, knowing that by the next morning it would have settled back. She made sure the girls were clean and dressed. She combed the tangles out of their hair, held them on her lap when they fell and kissed the scrapes on their palms. She taught them to read, and began to teach Mary, the eldest, about running a house.
The meals she set on the table improved Gilbert’s credit. Gilbert himself might grumble at the expense of entertaining, but his guests commented on how delicious the food was, and his sister was pleased. Bess was a forthright woman with eight children who lived in Tower Street. She had looked Jane up and down when she first met her and then nodded as if satisfied. ‘You’ll do,’ she said. She often came to visit, and liked to sit in the kitchen and tell Jane who had heard what in the street. They talked about children and their neighbours, shared recipes and remedies.
It was Bess who told her about Gilbert’s wife. ‘Barbara was a jade,’ she said frankly. ‘The face of an angel, but a black heart. She would look my brother in the eye and lie to his face, just because she felt like it. He cannot abide an untruth, Gilbert. He is a straightforward man and she was the worst of wives for him. She ran him ragged, twisting the truth until he did not know which way was up. She would run away and wait for him to chase after her and coax her back, all for the pleasure of making him jump. She made him sour and cross. He is like a sulky bear now, which does not dare look less than fierce in case the dogs should set on him again. He was not always so fierce as he is now.’
‘How did she die?’ Jane was picking the meat from boiled calves’ feet for a pie and trying not to sound too interested in Gilbert’s wife.
‘In childbed,’ said Bess, shaking her head at the memory. She reached out and popped one of the currants Jane had ready for the pie into her mouth. ‘The babe was born dead, and they could not stop her bleeding.’
‘Poor soul,’ said Jane and Bess made a face.
‘I wonder if the child was even Gilbert’s. I know my brother mourned the babe, and he would have liked a son, I’m sure, but I doubt he misses Barbara overmuch.’ Sighing, she helped herself to another currant. ‘My poor brother. He should marry again. A man should have a wife.’
‘He told me he did not wish for marriage,’ said Jane carefully.
‘I think he may have changed his mind.’
The thought that Gilbert might marry was like a slice through Jane’s heart and her eyes flew up from the calves’ feet in shock.
‘He is to marry again?’ She told herself the sinking feeling was because the new mistress of the house would not need a housekeeper to do her job for her. She and Geoffrey would have to leave, and where would they go? The thought of going back to the inn after this comfortable house
was more than she could bear.
‘I’d say that probably depends on you,’ said Bess with a knowing smile.
‘Me? But . . . Oh no,’ she said, understanding. ‘There is nothing like that.’
‘I know that,’ said Bess comfortably. ‘I’m just saying that he watches you when you’re not looking at him, and I’ve seen you look at him too. I think there’s something between you, and my brother is happier than I have seen him for a very long time. You are good for him.’
Jane swallowed. ‘I am his servant.’
‘He married to please his kin first time, he can do what he likes now. He wouldn’t be the first man to find comfort with a servant. There would be no shame in it.’
‘It cannot be,’ said Jane, distressed. How could she explain that she was already married? She liked Gilbert, yes, and more than she should, but he was still a lawyer, still a man. He would think she belonged with her husband. She couldn’t bear to see the look of disgust on his face when he realized that she had lied to him. Hadn’t Bess said that he could not abide an untruth?
‘Well, we shall see,’ Bess had said, slapping her hands on her lap and hauling herself to her feet.
That had been nearly a year ago. Now Jane studied Gilbert under her lashes. He was absorbed in juggling the onions, his boot swinging rhythmically. Then without warning he looked up and found her watching him, and the breath evaporated from her lungs. Her heart began to thump in her breast, leaving her dry-mouthed and feverish. She wanted to look away, but she couldn’t.
‘Jane,’ Gilbert began, and the urgency in his voice made something twist sharp and pure inside her.
She couldn’t have spoken if she had tried. She stood holding the bowl like a simpleton as Gilbert put down the onions and got off the table to move towards her.
He reached for the bowl and set it on the table without taking his eyes off Jane.
‘Mamma.’ The small, clear voice from the doorway made Jane jerk round, and Gilbert cursed under his breath and swung away, his face dark with irritation.
‘Geoffrey!’ Jane’s heart was battering with a mixture of frustration and relief.
At five, Geoffrey was a slight child with dark hair and black, furtive eyes. Jane was fiercely protective of him, but even she had to admit that he was hard to love. As a baby, he had arched away from her when she cuddled him, and as soon as he was able, he would endure her attempts to kiss him only to ostentatiously wipe his cheek.
Mary, Catherine and Cecily avoided him. Even Poppet, the most foolish and affectionate of dogs, gave him a wide berth. Geoffrey’s isolation was the only thing that marred Jane’s contentment. She longed for him to be as happy as she was, and she overcompensated, showering him with affection that she suspected Geoffrey knew she didn’t really feel. But she had sacrificed her sister for him, or so it had come to seem to Jane, and she had promised to look after him. She did love him. How could she not love him?
‘What is it, sweeting?’ she asked, her voice high, and her colour rising as the black eyes rested coldly on her. It was as if Geoffrey knew that she had been about to kiss Gilbert.
Geoffrey pinched the servants and pulled the girls’ hair. He kicked at Poppet and made the neighbours’ children cry. Jane didn’t understand why he seemed to hate everyone so much. Most of all, he disliked Gilbert.
‘Jealous,’ Annis said succinctly when Jane had confessed her worry one day.
‘How can he be jealous? It is not even as if he loves me overmuch,’ said Jane sadly. ‘And besides, Geoffrey has no reason to be jealous of Mr Harrison. I am not . . . we are not . . .’ She lost herself in a morass of words trying to explain what she and Gilbert were not. ‘Mr Harrison is my master,’ she finished, blushing furiously.
‘That’s as may be,’ Annis had said, taking pity on her. ‘But that lad don’t want you paying no attention to anyone but him.’
Now Jane looked into Geoffrey’s face and wondered if Annis might be right. He had a habit of appearing noiselessly when you least expected him, almost as if he were trying to catch you out.
He had caught her looking longingly at Gilbert, and Jane couldn’t shake the conviction that he had decided to put a stop to it.
His hands were cupped together. ‘Look what I’ve got,’ he piped in his childish voice, and Jane immediately felt ashamed of her suspicions. He was just a little boy. How could she suspect him of deliberately doing anything?
Relieved at the excuse to move away from Gilbert without looking too obvious, Jane went over to the doorway.
‘What is it?’ she asked brightly. Too brightly.
‘A butterfly.’ He parted his hands just enough to show her the butterfly fluttering between his palms. ‘I caught it.’
‘It’s beautiful,’ said Jane, pitying the poor, trapped creature. She remembered feeling like that in Holmwood House. ‘Why don’t you let it fly away now?’
‘No,’ said Geoffrey, and he closed his small fist tightly around the butterfly, crushing it in one quick, vicious movement.
Jane recoiled, her hand going to her mouth in an instinctive gesture of horror, while Geoffrey smiled up at her, the dark eyes sparkling with malice.
‘What is it?’ asked Gilbert, seeing Jane tense.
‘Nothing,’ said Jane quickly, her voice high and tight. If she told Gilbert, he would beat Geoffrey. The only time they had ever argued was when Gilbert had suggested that there was something wrong with Geoffrey. Jane was afraid he would send him away, and if Geoffrey went, she would have to go too.
Now Geoffrey sent her a glance of sparkling complicity, as if pleased to have caught her in a lie. He is only five, Jane insisted to herself. He couldn’t know how much she dreaded having to leave the house at the sign of the golden lily. He was too young to understand the tension that had been simmering between her and Gilbert ever since they had arrived. He is an innocent child, Jane repeated to herself with a kind of desperation. He didn’t know what he had done.
But she couldn’t forget the look on his face as he killed the butterfly and the thought of it sent disquiet uncoiling inside her, a serpent stirring and twitching its tail in warning.
Be careful what you wish for.
‘It’s clear that Jane has a very strong hold on your psyche.’ Rita was shaken when Roz finally came round that day. She had never lost control of someone under hypnosis before, she confessed to Roz.
‘So you believe Jane’s real?’ Roz sipped the tea Rita had made. Strangely, she was less upset by the power of Jane’s hold on her than Rita was. She could still feel the pull of the past, and part of her longed to go back.
‘She could be a manifestation of a part of you that you don’t want to acknowledge,’ said Rita carefully. ‘She’s certainly real in the sense that she exists as a mental block in your subconscious. It’s almost as if you’ve invented her so that you don’t have to face the reality of your parents’ death.’
Roz frowned. ‘But I don’t think I have a problem with the way they died! I mean, I was shocked when I found out, but I don’t feel emotionally involved in what happened.’
‘You don’t remember it,’ Rita pointed out.
Roz couldn’t argue with that.
Nick was dismayed when Roz told him that the attempt to regress to her own early years had simply tipped her back into Jane’s life again. She didn’t mention that Rita had lost control, but did her best to reassure him.
‘Rita agrees with you,’ she said when she rang him from York that night. ‘She thinks it’s all connected to what’s happening in my head.’
Nick didn’t sound noticeably reassured. ‘Maybe we should try another therapist?’
No. Roz had to bite back her instinctive reaction. She wanted to see Gilbert again.
‘Maybe,’ she said neutrally. There was no point in getting into an argument over the phone. ‘Why don’t I come home next weekend?’ she suggested. ‘We can talk about it then.’
‘Are you sure you’re going to be okay up there on your own?’
‘All right.’ Nick’s tone lightened. ‘That’s a good idea. Thanks, Roz.’
Roz couldn’t help feeling guilty as she switched off her phone. Nick might not have told her about Daniel straight away, but she wasn’t telling him everything either, was she? She would tell him, she assured herself, but first she just wanted to know if Jane was still happy at the sign of the golden lily. What harm could it do? After all, everyone kept telling her that Jane was no more than a creation of her psyche. If she’d made Jane up, however unwittingly, she could unmake her whenever she wanted, right? She just didn’t want to yet.
So she opened her mind and invited Jane to come back. She closed her eyes and sat as still as she had done in Rita’s chair. She walked the streets Jane had walked and stood in the empty chamber at Holmwood House, but to her intense disappointment Roz stayed firmly in the present. There was no sign of Jane, just the same sour, elusive stink of old smoke drifting through her office, occasionally making her eyes sting. Roz was almost used to it now.
Preoccupied, she threw herself into her work. It wasn’t that long until Halloween and the official opening of Holmwood House, and there was lots to do. She was too busy to notice Helen’s small meannesses, or Jeff, watching her from the shadows. Adrian was constantly on the phone, wanting to make changes to the plans for the launch, or suggesting someone else they could invite. Roz set her teeth and forced herself to smile. Adrian was her employer, she reminded herself, unable to prevent a gust of longing for a very different, scowling master.
The Edge of Dark Page 26
