Jane Steele

by Lyndsay Faye

  Now, however—the thought of a stranger inhabiting the place smouldered in my stomach. Was the cottage occupied? Was my bedroom? Was Agatha yet living, and would she even know me if she was?

  “Lived at a place named Highgate House!” Tilly teased. “Well, I never. Ye was a genuine lady, like, with silks and velvets and a stick up yer arse.”

  “No velvets. No silks.” I folded the paper.

  “But the stick?”

  “Of course, they equip us with bum sticks from the cradle.”

  “I’ll bet ye had a great bed wi’ acres and acres o’ white sheets,” she surmised dreamily.

  “All you ever think about is linens. It’s actually impressive.”

  She shrugged. “Never ’ad naught but a straw tick, so, aye, it occupies me mind.”

  “Admittedly if I spent as much time in bed as you do …” Her face clouded. “Tilly, I’m only joking—you know I’m no better than I should be.”

  “How is Jeremiah, come to that?”

  She passed the pipe and I took another slow puff. “I’ve thrown him over. He snores, and he wasn’t much cop at … well, anything. He may as well have been winding up his watch.”

  “Bloody hell, if ye net a guppy, toss ’im back in the river.” Tilly giggled.

  At my lowest tide of spirits and highest of gin swilling, I had discovered that I enjoyed the practice of lovemaking as much as the theory. My swells were acquaintances from Rotherhithe, mainly—the curly-haired boy from the saltpetre works, the tap man at the Mayflower Pub. By giving the lads some fun, I could at least make a human being happy for a quicksilver moment; and once I had got the knack of pessaries and slow touches and the faint scrape of teeth over hipbones, I enormously enjoyed myself, just as I had imagined I would when gasping alone in my bed with The Garden of Forbidden Delights.

  “I’ll find someone else soon enough,” said I.

  “Yer doin’ it wrong, ye realise,” Tilly repeated, shaking her head. “They’re meant to pay for the privilege.”

  Clattering on the stairs interrupted us, and in tumbled Kitty Cate. She had turned twelve in June and moved with that coltish energy of girls who are about to shoot up like fireworks; her great wiry corkscrews of hair were flecked with snow, and she held a golden ribbon.

  “Look at what Mr. Frost done give me, mum,” she exclaimed, waving it. “’E said as it would bring out me eyes.”

  Tilly’s mouth wrenched to one side. “Judge Frost done give that to you? In the street, like?”

  “Aye.” Kitty stroked it, studying the colour. “Won’t it look smart, though? I’ve that green frock, when the weather turns, and—”

  “Good afternoon, all,” a nasal voice sounded.

  Judge Frost stood in the open doorway, belatedly rapping at the wood. Tilly often visited me, “taking the air,” and thus I was familiar with her regular customers; I liked Judge Frost so much less than the others that the figure landed in the negative. He was thin and wispy, with dandelion fluff sprouting from his cheeks and neck and ears. Indirectly, he was useful, as he had caused scores of people to be hanged at Newgate and Tyburn; directly, he was petulant and insinuating.

  “Well, and do you like your Christmas gift?” He chuckled, rubbing his hands. “Frills and baubles, purses and petticoats, I’ve a niece myself and she thinks of nothing else. I’ve chosen well, my pet?”

  “’Tis lovely,” Kitty said, beaming, and then I noted that Tilly had gone pale.

  “That’s to the good, then! Now, you’ll excuse your mother and me whilst we have a little chat?”

  Judge Frost had a voice like chalk squealing, and he was directing all his quivery attention at Kitty, who twisted the ribbon in her fingers as she pelted off downstairs again.

  Tilly forced herself to smile. “Shall we pass the time in my room?” she husked, linking arms with the judge and shutting my door behind them.

  I was left with an anxious feeling like tiny waves across the sea before a squall. I frowned as I crossed my feet on the ottoman, and my eyes fell back to the advertisement: Highgate House. The place seemed like a dream at times, at others a nightmare, but it was mine, I thought again with alarming intensity.

  Remember when you ran to your aunt Patience with roses and your ears were boxed for ruining the gardener’s chances at the flower show.

  Remember when you visited the horses with carrots, preferring their company because they wouldn’t warn you against hellfire.

  Remember when Mamma let you take her hair down before bedtime and the firelight painted it red and gold and copper.

  I did not want to remember very much of my life—but when I thought of Highgate House, its shape shifted in my memory that day, its stark lines tangling with ivy and sentiment and something disturbingly like fanatical ownership.

  • • •

  The decision that I would apply for the governess position by creating false references, instructing that replies be addressed to pedigreed London post offices to be left until called for, was made as I walked home through Covent Garden three days later. The market was packed to bursting so close to the holiday, donkey barrows edged nose to tail, the mournful-eyed creatures strapped to their carts with everything from knotted handkerchiefs to braided string. The air bit like an errant pup, and I skirted impossible configurations of cabbages and salted fish, smelling the barnyard ripeness of fresh-killed chickens and the sweet sap of the festive pine boughs.

  My plan was nearly formed when gaslights began blinking to life under the Pavilion, and by the time I reached Henrietta Street, it was complete; the fact that the solicitors had named Charles Thornfield next of kin (doubtless due to petty machinations set in place long ago by Aunt Patience) would not be a problem if Charles Thornfield was dead. I did not precisely want to kill him, mind—thus far I had reserved murder for those I had actually met—but I could kill him, and that was a comfort. Meanwhile, my mother left me woefully unprepared; there would be papers to recover, lineage to trace, but the occupation of governess (for which I was eminently qualified) would enable me to spy from within. I had convinced myself that if anyone remained who might recognise me, it would be my own Agatha—and surely I could explain to my old caretaker why I had left, and stayed away, and returned home once more.

  After striking the snow and walnut shells off my boots, I ascended the stairs. When I saw no paisley kerchief tied to the knob (our signal she was working), I banged my way into Tilly’s rooms and found her alone with a mug of hot whiskey and honey, sitting at the table next to her place of business, its pillows lovingly fluffed.

  “Tilly, I know it’s sudden but—I’m leaving,” I announced breathlessly. “I’m going to try for the job at Highgate House.”

  Tilly Cate burst into tears.

  “Oh, God.” I rushed to pull another chair over, spreading my fingers over her back. “Tilly, I. What—”

  “He’s going to take her.”

  “I don’t …”

  Tilly slumped into my side, her heavy chest heaving. “Judge Frost. That filthy cove’s been after eyein’ my Kitty fer six months and more, askin’ if she takes after ’er mum, askin’ if she likes ’im. I says to ’im, Kitty’s only a girl, but he bullied and fussed and finally no, I says, and he says smug as a cat, I’ll have ye arrested fer whorin’, and then she’ll need a friend anyhow, won’t she? Oh, Jane, I ’ave to tell her … I ’ave to …”

  Collapsing, Tilly wept as if her heart had shattered.

  “Tilly,” I said into her coarse hair. “Shh. No one is going to hurt Kitty. We’ll think of something, you and I.”

  “If she’d turned bad as I did—later, on ’er own, like—I couldn’t ha’ judged, but this is unnatural cruel, and there’s naught to think on. He’ll take me and then take her.”

  I have never longed for children. At times, I suspect this curiosity is due to the fact I have learnt to find Death beautiful—and if I had children, then perhaps I should not think so anymore. The idea of Judge Frost with his pale flesh glowin
g like a maggot in the light through Tilly’s window as he enjoyed a virgin Kitty, however, was not to be endured.

  “All right, Tilly.” I released a small sigh. “We’ll not think of something. You stop fretting; I’ll think of something.”

  FOURTEEN

  On a dark, misty, raw morning in January, I had left a hostile roof with a desperate and embittered heart—a sense of outlawry and almost of reprobation … The same hostile roof now again rose before me: my prospects were doubtful yet; and I had yet an aching heart. I still felt as a wanderer on the face of the earth: but I experienced firmer trust in myself and my own powers, and less withering dread of oppression.

  When the carriage pulled up the drive before Highgate House and I beheld it again a week later, it was with a wardrobe suited for a governess (staid blacks and greys with high necks and infuriating buttons) and a keepsake in the form of a newspaper (the Pall Mall) containing an obituary:

  DECEASED, Judge Arthur Polonius Frost, aged 66 years. Judge Frost was a pillar of the legal community, an advocate for harsher sentencing of those he termed “irredeemables” or that segment of society which makes peaceable living so dangerous for the honest and upright. He died of heart failure following a violent nervous attack in his home in Westminster.

  The reader may not be shocked to learn that following Tilly’s account, I blackmailed Judge Frost via a street Arab’s verbal message, demanding he meet me after giving his servants a half day. When I arrived, he announced his intention to see me hanged. I should have been fidgety over this save for the fact the blackmail was a ruse; I feigned a fainting spell in order to drop arsenic, charmingly known as “inheritance powder,” into his half-drunk glass of brandy when he went for help disposing of me.

  Did I regret this latest casualty of my nature, reader?

  No; I did not regret it at all.

  My nerves shrieked like a steam whistle as I alighted from the carriage, however. Highgate House seemed unreal, as if someone had told me a fairy story and I dreamt of the castle that night. The countless windows like eyes, the sinister forest—I could have visited a witch’s lair and been more easy. The air numbed my fingers, and my breath came in ghostly gusts.

  A man walked out the front door; he was tall and the colour of strong tea, and a tingling in my spine informed me that here was a presence which would somehow influence my life—for better or for worse, I could not say.

  “I am Sardar Singh,” said he.

  Mr. Sardar Singh was strongly but efficiently built—he seemed a whip tensed to crack, all poise and precision. His nose was regal and hooked, his black beard long, and his head was wrapped tightly with a pale blue strip of muslin so that it resembled a beehive; otherwise, he was dressed in quiet English black.

  “I am the butler here. You are Miss Jane Stone?”

  I nodded, having thought it prudent to conceal the other name. Briefly, I wondered whether I ought to shake hands; but he turned to take my luggage from the coachman, so I simply followed him into the house.

  And what an astonishing sight met my eyes! Lips parted, my head slowly revolved. I left behind a staid British manse, all mauve ruffles and china dogs; here were hanging cloths of crimson and gold and indigo, a beautifully carved wooden figure wearing a bronze-painted shawl, an ivory writing box on the hall table, so many potted plants I might have been in a jungle.

  Mr. Singh made for the parlour, and I raptly pursued; where once was an open sitting room now a screen stood half blocking the settee, detailed with women carrying water, their hips as curvaceous as their mesmerising eyes. A peculiar smell permeated the place—part clove and part sweet herb, and I soon divined that it emanated from the glowing brass chandelier which hung in the shape of a great starburst above us.

  “Welcome to Highgate House, Miss Stone,” said Mr. Singh. “Might I bring you anything to refresh your spirits?”

  I sat, removing my gloves. “A little wine would be welcome, thank you—the road was long and cold.”

  “So often the way with roads,” said he, crossing to unstop a crystal decanter.

  Mr. Singh’s voice owned a light lilt, but his diction was crisp and clear. As he poured the claret, I saw that he wore a single steel bracelet, a sort of cuff. Additionally, there was a silver comb wedged into his hair just below the pale blue turban, glinting dangerously.

  “Sardar? What on earth are— Oh, but I see she’s arrived,” a crisp new voice interrupted.

  Here I was introduced to Mr. Charles Thornfield. It would be inaccurate to say that my heart skipped—nothing whatsoever happened to that poor excuse for an organ. My breath quickened, however, and my hands fretted, and all other outward manifestations manifested.

  Charles Thornfield was neither tall nor short, with a face that seemed almost ferocious in its ruggedness; there was an elegance about the tanned cheekbones, however, and a refinement to the chiselled jaw and straight nose, which suggested diplomacy. He bowed infinitesimally, the effect as much ironic as polite. Like his foreign butler, he wore a metal ring about his right arm, and his hair had not been shorn in quite some time—far more remarkable, it was white as snow, though he looked no older than five and thirty, and he wore it tied behind with a short black ribbon. His attire was sedately rich: a navy frock coat with a grey cravat and trousers, grey gloves, and he was shod in a pair of well-worn riding boots, which endeared him to me immediately. His brows were sable and sharply arched at their outer edges, his eyes an oceanic blue, and they glimmered as they took me in.

  “This is Miss Jane Stone, I hope,” said he. “Charles Thornfield, at your service, supposing ever I can be. I’ve so looked forward to greeting young Sahjara’s governess, I can hardly express my enthusiasm.”

  My rival’s voice was a baritone with all the complexity and smoke of a good whiskey; yet it was not sombre—the sardonic edge I had seen in his bow likewise seasoned his greeting, and I fought an inappropriate smile.

  If I were to kill this very intriguing man, I wonder how difficult he would make the task?

  “Is my charge’s name Sahjara, then? I am pleased to meet you, and shall be still more pleased to meet your daughter.”

  “You shan’t, actually.” Mr. Thornfield corrected. “Sahjara is her name and you may even be pleased to meet her, nothing is impossible, but the sprite is my ward. Frankly, there were irregularities about your application which drew me to you.”

  My heart gave several futile thumps as I took the glass of wine from Mr. Singh.

  “I’m afraid I don’t—”

  “You see, I could not recognise any of the references you gave, though all returned my correspondence with the highest praises. My hope was that you worked in other … eccentric households. Capital, here she is! Sahjara, this is your new governess, Miss Jane Stone.”

  A honey-skinned, poised little girl entered the room, led by a woman of an age and complexion close to Mr. Singh’s; this matron wore a drab dress after the manner of housekeepers, and thus might have been unremarkable—save for a white scar which blazed across her brow like a line dashed through text. At the sight of her, my crackling nerves settled a little. This seemed an entirely new household to the previous—and if they had retained any of my aunt’s staff, they were highly unlikely to be people who had ever paid me the slightest attention.

  My charge, meanwhile, was attired in ivory muslin perfectly suited to her own golden complexion, wherein I divined the reason for Mr. Thornfield’s choosing me: she must have been half-born of foreign parentage. Sahjara’s eyes were black and darting, and her thick black hair had been braided into a queue—upon closer inspection, I thought her closer to eight than ten. I felt immediate relief that I should not have to manage anyone who fit more neatly into society than I did.

  “I am Miss Stone,” I introduced myself, rising.

  “Sahjara Kaur,” said she, curtseying.

  “Miss Stone, may I present the Young Marvel,” said Mr. Thornfield dryly, pouring himself a whiskey. To my surprise, he did not remove
his close-fitting gloves, an egregious breach of etiquette.

  “What sort of horse do you ride?” Sahjara asked next.

  “Actually,” I replied, stopping there.

  “Behold the first spectacular feat of the Young Marvel!” Charles Thornfield leant against the sideboard. “She can take any topic—or no topic whatsoever, working from merest air—and shift the conversation to horses.”

  “Because you see,” the child continued doggedly, “I’ve nearly outgrown my pony, and Charles says that if I’m very cautious, I might try a small mare.”

  “Brava!” Mr. Thornfield set his drink down to clap neatly gloved hands. “A pitch-perfect performance, and unasked for, as all the best are.” Though he was clearly the most sardonic creature alive, perversely his gaze twinkled with affection.

  I sat, taking her hands; I had thought long over whom I should model myself after, and tried to say as warmly as Miss Lilyvale would have, “I’ve never owned a horse, though I love them and used to visit the stables at Lowan Bridge School whenever I could.”

  And the ones just off your own east wing, come to that.

  Sahjara’s jaw plummeted in horror. “No! But how horrid. Don’t you ride, then? You can have one of our horses, save Charles’s stallion.”

  Mr. Thornfield chuckled. “In astonishing succession, Miss Stone, with such dexterity the mind reels, you have just witnessed the second remarkable facility of the Young Marvel.”

  “Which is?”

  “Giving away my property to whomever she pleases, whenever she pleases.”