Evie's Ghost

by Helen Peters

  Polly smiled. “And no more scrubbing out chamber pots or sweeping stairs. I’d be kind to the housemaids too.”

  “You’d be a lovely boss,” I said.

  “Boss?” repeated Polly, sounding puzzled.

  “Er, sorry, that’s another London word. I mean … employer?”

  Polly threw back her head and laughed. “I’d never be an employer, Evie. Mrs Hardwick’s not our employer. That’s Sir Henry.”

  I gave up trying to find the right word. “Well, anyway, you’d be a great housekeeper. And I bet she gets paid loads more than you do too.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Polly. “If I was a housekeeper, I’d have a different dress for every day of the week.”

  “How much do we get paid?” I asked. Not that I was planning to stay long enough to get paid, but I was curious to know.

  Polly looked surprised. “Did Hardwitch not tell you? It’s eight pounds.”

  “Eight pounds a week?” I asked, because it obviously wasn’t eight pounds an hour, two hundred years ago, or even eight pounds a day, probably.

  As soon as I saw Polly’s face, I realised I’d made a mistake. I laughed in what I hoped was a convincing way.

  “I’m joking!” I said. “I wish we got eight pounds a week.”

  It must be eight pounds a month then, I thought. But I didn’t dare ask directly.

  “So do you get paid at the end of the month?”

  Polly shook her head. “Twice a year. Four pounds on Lady Day and four pounds at Michaelmas.”

  Eight pounds a year?

  Polly had to work like this, every single day, for eight pounds a year?

  “Hard luck you’ve just missed Lady Day,” she said. “You’ll have to wait until September for a new dress now.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Robbie

  At three o’clock Mrs Hardwick opened the door from the housekeeper’s room.

  “One hour off, you two,” she said, “and then to the dressing rooms.”

  “What will you do?” I asked Polly.

  “Sleep,” she said. “Nell wakes me at four. You coming?”

  An hour in bed sounded like bliss. But I had to find Robbie. I needed to pass on my warning today.

  “I think I’ll go outside for some air,” I said.

  “I’ll show you where you’re allowed to walk,” said Polly, “and then I’m going to doss down for a bit.”

  We left by the side door. The air smelled delicious and the gardens were full of birdsong.

  “I’ll show you the orchard,” said Polly. “It’s lovely with the blossom out.”

  Leading off the path behind the house was an arched wooden door, painted pale blue, set into a high brick wall. Polly lifted the latch.

  “Oh,” I breathed. “It’s so beautiful.”

  We were in a walled garden full of trees, all covered in clouds of pink and white blossom. Petals floated on the breeze and settled among the drifts of daffodils blooming in the long grass.

  I pulled a branch of the nearest tree closer to me, to admire the masses of creamy, pink-tinged flowers. I wished I had my sketchbook, and the time to sit and draw.

  “That’s apple blossom,” said Polly. “And those are pear, and the pink ones are cherries. There’s damsons and plums and quinces too. And that’s a magnolia over there.”

  From a high branch a blackbird poured out a stream of song. A robin sat on the wall and looked at me with its perfectly round black eye.

  “It’s the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen,” I said.

  My eye was caught by a big clump of a different plant sprouting from a branch amongst the apple blossom.

  “That’s mistletoe,” said Polly, when I asked her what it was. “We decorate the house with it at Christmas.”

  Mistletoe! I’d never seen mistletoe actually growing.

  There was a movement by the wall. A brown rabbit with a cotton-wool tail was nibbling the grass. Then I saw another one behind it. And a baby! I gazed at them, entranced.

  “Rabbits!” I whispered.

  Polly laughed. “You’re a London girl through and through, aren’t you?”

  A little auburn creature with a long bushy tail jumped from a tall tree, landed on the wall and raced along the top of it. Then it stopped, stood on its hind legs and looked at me with its bright black eyes. It was tiny, much smaller than grey squirrels, but its tail was huge.

  “Is that a real red squirrel?” I whispered to Polly.

  “You never seen a squirrel before?”

  “Only grey ones. Never a red one. They’re so pretty.”

  “Grey squirrels?” said Polly, and I remembered that grey squirrels only came to England quite recently.

  “It’s the soot,” I said. “London, you know? Everything’s grey.”

  I sat on the grass. There was a dead twig at my feet. I snapped it into pieces and arranged them into the letter P.

  “Look, Polly. Do you know what that shape is?”

  Polly looked at it and her eyes lit up. “That’s a P for Polly. One of the big girls at the silk factory taught me that. Well, I thought she was big, back then. She was nine, I think.”

  I picked up more twigs, snapped them into pieces and made the rest of her name. “Do you know what that says?”

  Polly shook her head.

  “That’s your name. It says Polly. P-O-L-L-Y.”

  Polly crouched down and traced the letters with her fingers. “That’s my name?”

  “Yes.” I snapped some more twigs. “There, you do it. Write your name in twigs.”

  Polly worked fast.

  “So now you know those letters,” I said. “And then, if you change the first one, you can make another name.” I took the twigs she had made into a P and reshaped them. “That’s an M. Now it says Molly.”

  Polly looked intrigued. “So if we put another first letter, we could make Holly.”

  “Exactly.” I shaped the twigs into an H.

  “Do you really think you could teach me to read and write?” she said.

  “Definitely. You’re a quick learner.” And then I remembered that I was leaving tonight and not coming back. Nobody was that quick a learner.

  Polly yawned. “A little bit each day then. I’m off to bed now. If I don’t have a sleep in my hour off, the rest of the day is torture. You coming?”

  I shook my head. “I want to explore a bit more. Er, Polly?”

  “Yes?”

  I was wary of asking the question, knowing how it might sound, but I needed to know the answer.

  “Er, Polly, where might the gardeners be working at the moment?”

  She looked at me warily. “You stay away from the menservants, Evie. Don’t go getting yourself in trouble.”

  “No, it’s not that, honestly. I… I’m trying to avoid them, that’s all. I thought maybe we weren’t meant to be in the same part of the garden as them.”

  She didn’t look convinced. “I don’t know where they’ll be at this time of day. Just make sure you don’t go in the formal gardens.” She pointed to a door on the far side of the orchard. “That leads to the woods – you’re allowed to walk in there, and they’re lovely at the moment, with the bluebells out. Just make sure you’re back by four.”

  I walked across the petal-strewn grass, drinking in the flower-scented air, and suddenly I realised why this garden, despite the orchestra of birdsong, had a quality of silence about it that I’d never felt anywhere else.

  There was no traffic noise.

  In my whole life, I had never been outdoors without hearing traffic. It had never bothered me. I’d never known anything different. But the world was amazing without it. There was a deep sense of peace, as though the earth belonged, not to people and buildings and vehicles, but to the birds and the trees and the growing grass.

  I opened the door on the other side of the orchard. And I actually gasped at the sight in front of me.

  A shimmering haze of purple covered the ground like a mystical, magical la
ke. It went on and on and on until it faded into a blue mist on the horizon. From its depths rose the slim, elegant trunks of silver birch trees. A fallen tree trunk, covered with moss, looked as though it was floating on a purple sea. Birds sang all around. A tiny bird, its tail sticking straight up, fluttered out of a bush and landed on the grass in front of me.

  I had only seen bluebell woods in pictures. I had never imagined that the real thing would be so amazing.

  I wished I could spend the rest of my hour off in this beautiful place, resting my head against the thick springy moss of the fallen tree trunk and inhaling the sweet, earthy scent of the bluebells. But I had to find Robbie.

  At the edge of the wood, I stepped through the gap between the stables and the laundry into the sunlight of the stable yard. A breeze drifted towards me and I caught the scent of mint. Instantly I was right back at home, in the kitchen of our flat. Mum always had a pot of mint on the windowsill.

  Suddenly home felt very far away.

  I looked around and saw a patch of mint growing in a narrow flowerbed outside the scullery. I picked a little sprig and rubbed it between my fingers.

  The plant beside the mint smelled lovely as well. And the one next to that was thyme. Mum always grew thyme too.

  I plucked a sprig of each herb and put them in my pocket. It would be nice to have something sweet to smell when I was surrounded by less pleasant scents.

  As I straightened up, I jumped at the sight of a face at the scullery window. It was Alice again. But this time she wasn’t looking at me with hatred. She looked terrified.

  I turned around to see what was scaring her. But it was just the peaceful stable yard, nothing frightening at all. There was nobody else around except a boy in a black hat with his back to me, planting seedlings in a border on the other side of the yard.

  As I watched, he turned to his left and I saw that it was Robbie. What a piece of luck!

  Robbie picked something up from the soil, placed it in his palm and examined it with great attention.

  Was it a coin? Or maybe a jewel, dropped by one of the party guests? I walked towards him, curious to find out. He scrambled to his feet.

  “Hello,” I said. “I’m Evie. The new housemaid.”

  He smiled at me. He had clear green eyes with little specks of brown in them. “Pleased to meet you, Evie. I’m Robbie, Mr Masters’ assistant.”

  “Mr Masters?”

  “The head gardener.”

  “Oh.” I looked at his half-closed palm. “Did you find something?”

  He opened his fingers.

  “Eugh!” I stepped backwards.

  Robbie laughed. “There’s no need to be afraid.”

  “I’m not afraid. It’s just … I thought you’d found a jewel or something.”

  “It is a jewel.”

  “What?”

  “Have a proper look at it and tell me if you don’t think it’s beautiful.”

  “You are joking?”

  But he seemed perfectly serious. He held out his hand. The slimy wet snail crawled across his palm.

  “See the patterns on its shell,” he said. “Are they not a thing of beauty? As if they’ve been painted on with a tiny brush. And look at those delicate markings on its skin. And the antlers, so tiny and so perfect.”

  “Why do the antlers wave about like that?”

  “I think the snail uses them to sense movements in the air – the flutter of a bird’s wings, perhaps. Then it can withdraw into its shell and be safe.”

  I’d always prided myself on being observant, but now, looking at the amazingly intricate designs on the snail’s body and shell, I realised that I’d hardly ever looked at anything properly before.

  “Lovely, isn’t it?” said Robbie. “Snails are perfectly designed. They can protect themselves and keep—”

  He stopped and closed his hand over the snail as footsteps approached. Jacob was carrying a bucket of water across the yard. He stopped next to us and set the bucket down. He smelled of body odour and animal dung.

  “What you got in your hand, bacon brains?”

  “Go away, Jacob,” said Robbie.

  Jacob pulled Robbie’s fingers back and gave a harsh laugh. His breath stank.

  “Making a pet of a snail, are you? You’re queer in the attic, you are.”

  With a swift, sudden movement, he grabbed the snail, hurled it to the ground and mashed it into the cobbles with his boot. Then he punched Robbie in the face.

  “Stop it!” I screamed.

  “Think you’re so clever, don’t you, louse boy,” said Jacob, his face pressed close to Robbie’s, “with your book learning and your drawing and your writing? Think you’re better than the rest of us. But you’re cracked, you are.” He tapped the side of his head. “Touched in the upper works. Talking in your sleep again last night, you was. Tossing about on your mattress, crying for your mother. You should be locked up in the asylum, you should.”

  He shot out his arm and snatched a battered little book from Robbie’s jacket pocket.

  “Give that back!” shouted Robbie. He made a grab for it, but Jacob held it high above his head.

  A huge black dog bounded into the stable yard, barking madly, its tail wagging like a windscreen wiper on full speed. It jumped up at Robbie, knocking Jacob’s bucket over. Water splashed over his legs and soaked his leather boots. He let out a furious roar, hurled Robbie’s book into the bushes at the edge of the yard, seized a thick stick that was leaning against the stable door and lunged for the dog. Clutching it by the scruff of its neck, he brought the stick down hard on its back. The dog yelped and squirmed, but Jacob had it firmly in his grasp.

  “Stop it!” I yelled, but Jacob raised the stick again.

  Robbie jumped between Jacob and the cowering, whimpering dog, trying to grab the stick. “Stop it!” he cried. “Give me that!”

  But Jacob was taller than Robbie and he held the stick out of reach. “Get out of my way,” he said, “or you’ll feel it on your back too.”

  “Go on then, coward,” said Robbie. “You just try.”

  Jacob raised his arm.

  “No!” I screamed, jumping for the stick.

  Horse’s hooves clattered on the cobbles. A long whip swished through the air and cracked across Jacob’s backside.

  Jacob yelled and leapt up, clutching his buttocks.

  Towering above him on a shining black horse, her dark eyes flashing with fury, was Sophia.

  She swung down and handed the reins to one of the stable boys, who had hurried across the yard to meet her. In her wine-red velvet dress she looked like a queen in a fairytale. Jacob and Robbie took off their hats and bowed.

  Sophia advanced on Jacob, took the stick from his hand and hurled it into a holly bush. She bent down and fondled the whimpering dog, murmuring comforting words in its ear. Then she straightened up to face Jacob, who had his head bowed and his eyes on the ground.

  “What is your name?” she demanded.

  “Jacob Weston, miss,” he mumbled.

  “Well, mark my words, Jacob Weston, if I ever see you mistreat a living creature again, you will be dismissed with instant effect. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, Miss Fane,” he muttered.

  “Now go back to your work. And mind, I shall have you watched.”

  “Yes, Miss Fane.”

  He picked up the bucket and walked to the well. As he passed Robbie, he shot him a look of loathing. “You wait,” he mouthed. “You just wait.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  A Letter

  Robbie took no notice of Jacob’s threat. He was rummaging in the bushes where Jacob had hurled his book.

  Now he emerged, the book in his hand. He walked across the yard towards Sophia.

  “Thank you, Miss Fane,” he said.

  Their eyes met in a gaze so intense that I felt really uncomfortable. I moved back towards the house, wondering what to do now. Luckily Sophia had been so focused on sorting out the Jacob situation, and now
she was so focused on Robbie, that she hadn’t even noticed me.

  Outside the scullery door, I edged between the wall and the clump of bushes. It’s not spying, I told myself; it’s research. If I was going to help them, I needed to know all I could.

  Presumably Sophia wouldn’t stay and talk to Robbie for long. She certainly wouldn’t want to risk her father or her aunt seeing them together. And once she was gone, I could try to warn Robbie what was about to happen, and hopefully he could persuade her to run away with him. Before it was too late.

  I noticed a folded sheet of paper lying on the ground under the bushes. I picked it up and unfolded it.

  It was covered in the most beautiful pen-and-ink drawings. A feather, so detailed that I wanted to reach out and stroke it. A snail, every marking on its shell perfectly captured in pen and ink. A branch of apple blossom. A bird’s nest, woven in grass and moss, with four speckled eggs inside it.

  I turned the paper over. The other side was quite different. It showed two young children, a boy and a girl, stick-thin and dressed in rags, hunched over some sort of machine. Behind them stood a huge, glowering man, brandishing a stick. Above them hovered an angelic figure. In the speech bubble coming from its mouth were the words:

  A robin redbreast in a cage

  Puts all Heaven in a rage.

  Had Robbie drawn these? I glanced over at him. He and Sophia still stood facing each other, motionless, their eyes locked together.

  Now Sophia shifted her gaze from Robbie’s eyes to the book in his hand.

  “Your Shakespeare,” she said. “Oh, I hope it is not damaged.”

  “No,” said Robbie. “All is well.”

  He flicked through the pages. “I have something for you,” he murmured. “Some sketches.”

  His forehead creased into a frown as he flicked through the book again. “They were here. I tucked them in the book. They must have fallen out.”

  I dropped the sheet of paper to the ground. I edged it out from beneath the bush with my toe and then quickly withdrew my foot. Robbie looked around the yard and saw it.