Psychic Surveys Companion Novels

by Shani Struthers

  Rosamund Chapter Four

  The trip to London was postponed. Further into the day that Father had sprung such glorious news upon me, I had begun to sniffle. By the following day, I had fully developed a head cold. Father acted as if I had become deliberately ill. Quite how he could think so was beyond me as I was desperate to escape this house. The very next day, however, he left without even saying goodbye, leaving me with just Miss Tiggs and Josie to nurse me – and of the two, Miss Tiggs kept her distance, as she always did. I presumed he had gone to London, but for how long this time I had no idea. Sometimes it was just days; at other times he would be gone for well over a week, more rarely two. I experienced the usual relief at his departure, but now, for the first time, there was also a touch of dismay. Sincerely, I hoped I had not ruined my chances to accompany him in the future.

  London. How I had dreamed of it! How I had wanted to be a part of it! Society: it was such a glorious word, so full of life and magnificence compared to the word I would choose to describe my current circumstance: isolated. As I lay on the sofa in the drawing room, I do not recall ever feeling so adrift. Beside me on a long low table, my books lay untouched; my sketchpad too, a collection of lead pencils looking somewhat forlorn beside it. I had quite a collection of pencils and sketchpads, this being the one avenue in which Father would indulge me, seemingly keen that I should spend my time sketching. Occasionally he took my scribbles from me and kept them in his study. I wished to think it a sign of affection that he should be so interested, but in truth it was merely self-delusion.

  Why had Mother loved him so, if she ever really did? Could he have been different as a young man, when she was alive and breathing beside him? Did losing his wife and being left with a baby to tend affect him so deeply that it changed his character? Was he handsome once as she was pretty? Just as there were no photographs of Mother in the house save for the one I had in my possession, there were no photographs of him either, or indeed myself. This house, with its stark walls and its aura of sorrowfulness, was a house held in a moment; that moment being despair.

  I sensed someone else in the drawing room beside myself. I turned my head to look, not quickly, but slowly, feeling strangely unnerved.

  “Oh, Josie,” I said on a release of breath. “It is you!”

  “Of course, miss, who else could it be?”

  Perhaps because I was feeling so unwell – my chest tight, my head pounding, my nose sore – that I grew instantly irritated. “For goodness sake, must you creep up on me like that? I would prefer that you knocked on the door before entering.”

  “Oh,” Josie replied, looking instantly stricken. How pale she was; such a delicate creature, slighter than myself and I had barely any flesh to boast of. “I’m sorry, miss. I did knock, honest I did. When you didn’t answer—”

  “You thought you would walk right in.”

  “I thought it’d be empty, miss. Often it is.”

  Insolence! She was so insolent!

  To my amazement she did not cower further, but continued walking towards me, a bucket in her hand, one that contained more wood for the fire. It looked very heavy to me, but she managed it well enough. She was clearly stronger than her appearance suggested. Dropping to her knees, she placed a fresh log upon the grate, and immediately flames sprang up around it, growing higher and higher.

  “It’s cold in here,” she murmured.

  “It is cold in all the rooms,” I snapped. “Even in summer there is a chill throughout this house.”

  “Is that why you’re prone to head colds, miss, because it’s so chilly?”

  “Prone?” I was already wearing a frown but it deepened. “How do you know that I am prone to head colds?” As far as I could recall I had succumbed to only one since Josie’s arrival, and it had been far less tiresome than this present one.

  There was that shrug again. “I just wondered, that’s all.”

  After placing the bucket by the side of the fire, she stood, smoothing her apron with her now free hands. “Can I get you something to eat, miss? There’s a cheese flan in the pantry, I can fetch you a slice if you wish.”

  “No thank you, I have no appetite.”

  “Another warm drink?”

  Another? I had not yet been offered a first!

  “That would be nice.”

  “Some lemon and honey in water? It’ll help to soothe your throat.”

  “Yes, thank you, Josie. Ask Miss Tiggs—”

  “No need. I’ll make it. I know how. I used to make it often enough at home.”

  Having informed me of this, Josie smiled and again I was startled – it contained such brilliance, such enthusiasm. Any irritation of mine that lingered was wiped away immediately, and despite how wretched I felt, I found myself smiling back at her, although I could not match such brilliance.

  Hastening to her task, she turned to go, taking a few steps before coming to a stop. She was gazing at something on the table, my books perhaps? I followed her line of sight and it led not towards the books, but to my sketchpad, which was lying open at a depiction of Mears House, as viewed from the gardens.

  “Josie? Is it the drawing you are looking at?”

  She nodded rather than answered.

  “Do you like to draw too?” I asked.

  It was a wry smile that graced her face this time. “I don’t have time to draw, miss.” Before I could reply further, she shifted her gaze and stared at me instead. “It’s a very good drawing,” she somewhat grandly informed me. “Interesting.”

  My tone was irritated again as I leant over and closed the sketchpad. “I am delighted it meets with your approval.”

  “Is that how you see it, this house?”

  My frown returned. “Of course this is how I see it. This is how it is.”

  “When you’re better, I should like to accompany you for a walk in the grounds.”

  “A walk?” I choked on such an offer, my cough rendering me quite incapable of further speech.

  “Yes,” she said before taking her leave, “so that we can see the house together.”

  * * *

  It was practically a full week after my conversation with Josie in the drawing room that I felt well enough to take in some fresh air. I had no intention of walking with her, however. I would simply do as I had always done and meander alone throughout the grounds, making it as far as the trees perhaps and disappearing for a while into the shelter of the woods.

  After breakfast, I fetched my coat from the cloakroom – a threadbare thing really, that barely lent enough warmth – and returned to the hall and the front door, having to pull with both hands to open it. As soon as the door yielded, a blast of cold air hit me, causing me to momentarily reconsider my intent, but then as I inhaled and my lungs filled with the lightness and thinness of the winter morning, I realised just how much I had been craving something fresh. Stepping outside with renewed vigour, I shut the door, pushed my gloved hands into my pockets and, with my head down, began to walk, quickly veering off the gravel pathway and onto the grass. I should like to record that the lawns surrounding Mears House were well tended, green and lush, but the truth is they were as neglected as the house; as neglected as I myself. Not words of self-pity, I assure you, just the plain truth.

  Walking with Josie indeed! What a notion! Then again, perhaps I should attempt to ask Father a second time if she could accompany me to London. Surely I needed a maid, if only for the sake of appearance. If Josie could not come, I would be entirely at the mercy of Constance. What would she be like, I wondered, this mystery woman? Kind and pretty or intolerant of my naivety? Would we walk together, arm in arm through the busy and vibrant streets, or would I have to shuffle behind her like a poor relation while she marched ahead with all the confidence of familiarity?

  Cease being so negative, Rosamund, she will act like a lady, as must you.

  I may have had my misgivings but still I could not help but giggle with excitement, wrapping my arms around me as I continued to walk
onwards.

  Finally, I reached the trees, grateful indeed for their shelter as the wind had now picked up and was beginning to cause my chest to ache again. Instead of grass beneath my scuffed boots, now I could hear the crunch of crisp dead leaves vying with the squelch of mud. It is quiet in the woods, peaceful. As in the attic, I felt I had entered a different place where only I existed. Myself and… nature. Yes, that was it, only natural things.

  Pushing my hair from my eyes, I raised my head. The house was in sight, distant but no less vast because of that. It was far too big for the four of us that inhabited it. Josie’s numerous brothers and sisters could have had a room each, not just a bed!

  My bedroom was at the rear, and therefore north facing, as was the lone attic window. Sometimes I would go to the rear of the house and stand there, to do what I was doing now – examine it. I fancied the windows were like eyes, so many of them, staring back at me – the house not made of bricks and mortar but something more sentient.

  I gasped.

  Who was that at the window of one of the reception rooms, not the one I usually occupied, but a different one? Whoever it was had raised their hands to the glass.

  It was Josie of course; she must have noticed me, just as I had noticed her.

  Was she waving? If so, why was she doing so with both hands? The action seemed rather desperate.

  Tentatively, I raised my hand and started to wave back. The moment I did that, her waving abruptly stopped. I shook my head in confusion before briefly closing my eyes, and when I opened them, the figure had gone. Vanished. I blinked and blinked, but there was to be no reappearance. I resolved to ask Josie later what she meant by it; whether she was indeed distressed or simply playing an odd sort of game.

  The cold defeating me, I decided to retreat back to Mears House. The last thing I wanted was to risk a relapse of my illness. When Father returned home, I wanted to be fit and well to greet him, and encourage him to take me away from here. There would be no more mention of finances, and no more concern on my part about the subject either. As Father had said, it was his responsibility, not mine.

  Re-entering the house, I made my way to the drawing room, there to pass the afternoon and doze intermittently. Whenever I awoke the fire was always blazing, although there was no sign of Josie tending to it. Still, I felt happy enough, the warmth succeeding in making the room almost cosy. As night fell, I realised how hungry I had become. Rising, I made my way to the kitchen, looking out for Josie but not encountering her. Venturing past Father’s study, I saw the door was firmly shut, whilst other doors remained either slightly ajar or fully open. I tutted. During winter, doors should always remain closed in Mears House in order to prevent what little warmth there was from escaping. I have instructed Josie on this point several times, so why did she refuse to listen? If I saw her in the kitchen, I would have to tell her yet again.

  The kitchen door was shut at least. I stood before it, wondering whether to knock. Quickly, I shook my head. Why should I? This was my house. Out of courtesy, Rosamund, common courtesy. Grudgingly I had to agree with my better self. Courtesy should be extended to include everyone, even the likes of Miss Tiggs.

  Determined to stifle the butterflies in my stomach – they always started to flutter when I was in this part of the house – I knocked on the door.

  “Enter,” a voice from within commanded. How imperious she sounded and how ill at ease I felt as a consequence. But I am the mistress of this house!

  I clutched the door handle, turned it and strode in, my head held high and my back straight. And there she was, by the fire, barely lifting her head to glance my way, a mug of something in her hands, ale I would wager, for it seemed to be her favourite tipple. For a moment I felt like screaming at her: where is my dinner?

  “Miss Tiggs,” my voice was impressively calm, “I should like something to eat.”

  “You hungry?”

  “Yes, yes. Of course I am. It is dinnertime. Past dinnertime, in fact. Why has no one called for me?”

  “Why’d ya think?”

  From the way she was slurring her words it was clear she was drunk, hence why she was babbling and why there was no dinner available. Could I really blame her, though? I rather think I envied her. Alcohol seemed to blur the edges, thus making the solitariness of Mears House perhaps easier to bear.

  “I should like something to eat,” I repeated. “Nothing elaborate, just some bread will do, some cheese and some ham if we have it.”

  Rather than rise from her chair, she nodded towards the larder. “In there,” she muttered.

  “Am I to fetch it myself?” I said, incredulous.

  “You ’ave before now.”

  She was right, I had. In fact, just lately it was becoming more and more common, as was finding her in this state, slumped by the fire, having supped too well if not wisely, her hands forever clinging to that mug. I supposed I could have argued the point with this excuse for a housekeeper, but I decided against it. She was old, well into her sixties, her body as doughy as her face. Let her sit, let her sup, I was perfectly capable, and at least I could rest assured that the hands which touched my food – my own – were clean. Sometimes the grime beneath her fingernails made me shudder.

  Having filled a plate, I took a seat at a small dining table a few feet from the fire.

  “You ’aving it ’ere?” she said, observing me.

  “Yes, I will not be long.”

  “Up to you, I s’pose,” she muttered, shifting her weight and groaning.

  “It would be nice to have a dog, would it not?”

  I do not even now know what made me say such a thing, but suddenly I had a yearning for such a creature to inhabit this house – a companion that would have raised its head when I walked in; indeed would have left the solace of the fireside because its need to be petted and fussed by me outweighed everything.

  “Your father won’t countenance a dog,” was all Miss Tiggs said in response. “And neither will I, not ’ere, in the kitchen. Filthy things they are.”

  Filthy? And yet the smell that emitted from Miss Tiggs was often eye-watering!

  As I ate I tried again to make conversation.

  “I am to go to London, you know. Father said so.”

  “Oh?’

  “Yes, I am to get an entire new wardrobe of clothes, because I am to be seen, by society, I mean. I am to be presented.”

  A snort escaped her, followed by a short sharp cough.

  “Well, I am looking forward to it,” I said, munching on cheese that tasted sour.

  “When’s he back?”

  He? “Mr Howard, you mean?”

  “Of course, Mr Howard!”

  “Presently,” I said, seething at her lack of respect.

  “So, you’re going soon?”

  “Apparently so.”

  “Good,” she muttered, her head nodding. “About time.”

  I could not help but agree. “I may take Josie with me.”

  She looked at me then. “Oh, you might, might you?”

  “Yes,” I said, haughty again. “I think I shall.”

  “If you can find her.”

  “Where is she?” I asked.

  “You tell me.”

  Goodness, what I had to put with in this house! It was insufferable.

  I took another bite of my meal. If the cheese was sour, the bread was worse, hard at the edges, and the ham was bland, in need of a pickle or a chutney to give it substance. But there were no such fancies in the larder, only the basics.

  In response, I saw fit to point out the obvious. “Without Josie, without a dog, without me, you shall be all alone in this house, Miss Tiggs. Does that… concern you?”

  Again she looked at me; those hard little eyes of hers – like raisins – so screwed up I could barely see them. She had finished her ale I noticed, her thick tongue darting out to lick the last remnants of it from her lips. “Alone?” she replied. “Alone!”

  How the bulk of her body shook as s
he bellowed with laughter.

  Rosamund Chapter Five

  London fulfilled every expectation.

  Father returned a few days after my strange conversation with Miss Tiggs, and announced that we were to leave the following morning. He then locked himself in his study, leaving me free to pack the few belongings that I might require. I was to be away for two nights apparently and we were to occupy rooms in Arthur’s townhouse.

  Immediately I went in search of Josie, whose help I wanted with the packing, running down the corridors, as I was wont to do, but this time for the best of reasons – the most exciting. She was nowhere to be seen on the ground floor and so I changed direction, heading towards the staircase and taking the steps two at a time in order to begin my search of the bedrooms. Because the majority of rooms lay empty at Mears House did not mean that they could forego cleaning. Dust is a perennial problem here, it gathers and it collects; it covers the bedsteads, the cupboards and the wardrobes, cloaking every last hint of colour.

  “Josie! Josie!” I called. “Where are you?”

  At last I located her, for she was, as I suspected, in one of the bedrooms, a feather duster in hand. She turned as I burst into the room, no look of startled surprise on her face; rather it appeared as if she was expecting me. What a contrast she was to previous maids, who would quake with fear on realising they had not answered a first call. I am not a tyrant, you understand, but servants are supposed to be at your beck and call; one should not be required to go in search of them.

  “Ah, there you are,” I admonished. “I have been looking all over.”

  She simply smiled at me.

  “I am to go to London!” My next words exploded from me such was my excitement, my disbelief that such a thing could finally be happening.

  “London, miss?”

  “Yes, indeed. I am to be bought new clothing, meet new people.”