Evie's Ghost

by Helen Peters

  I stared at the array of brushes and polishes and papers and cloths. How on earth would I remember all that?

  Maybe if I put all the objects in the order I was meant to use them?

  Once I had ordered everything, I called Polly across to check it. With a lot of tutting, she rearranged the line. “Come on, slowcoach,” she said. “There’s eight more fires to do before breakfast.”

  My jaw dropped. “You are kidding, right?”

  Polly looked puzzled. “Come again?”

  “I have to do eight more fireplaces? Before breakfast? No way!”

  Polly stared at me. “What did you think? That a house this size has only one fire?” She looked at me as though she was trying to work me out. “You are a funny one.” She got down on her hands and knees and started to sweep the huge rug with a little dustpan and brush. I rattled the iron poker along the bars of the grate to clear the ashes. Dust flew up all around me.

  “Not like that, girl,” said a harsh voice.

  Mrs Hardwick was bustling across the room towards me, and she was clearly in a filthy mood. “You’re stirring up dust all over the room. Do it gently, for goodness’ sake.”

  She lifted her hand and, unbelievably, smacked me on the side of the head again. Before I could even react, she whacked Polly across the side of her head too. “As for you,” she said, “you’ve barely started your work. Out of bed late, were you?”

  I jumped to my feet. “Hey! Don’t hit Polly! She’s only behind because she’s showing me how to do things. You can’t go around hitting people like that. It’s against the law, you know. I’ll report you!”

  Her face turned crimson with fury and she hit me again.

  “You mind your tongue, madam, or you’ll get it twice as hard next time.” She turned to go, muttering, “Hiring a girl from London, indeed. I don’t know what they were thinking. Imbeciles, every one of them. And impudent little monkeys with it.”

  She swept out of the room, her keys rattling on their chain. My head throbbed and I was seething with fury.

  “How dare she?” I said to Polly. “That’s child abuse. I wish I’d hit her back.”

  To my amazement, Polly burst out laughing. She laughed so hard she almost fell over.

  “Why are you laughing? She just hit you! What’s funny about that?”

  “You, that’s what’s funny,” Polly spluttered. “Acting all high and mighty, like you’d never been touched before.” She put on what was obviously meant to be an imitation of my voice. “You can’t go around hitting people. I’ll report you!” She burst into giggles again.

  I stared at her. Clearly it was perfectly normal for people to hit children in this world.

  Polly stopped laughing and looked at me curiously. “Have you really never been walloped?”

  “Never,” I said truthfully.

  “Really?” She looked as though she wasn’t sure whether to believe me. “Well, you’re going to have to get used to it. Hardwitch is pretty free with her right arm, as you may have noticed. Now, set to on that fire, for goodness’ sake, or we’ll get another whacking.”

  I got down on my knees in front of the fire and picked up the first brush. To be honest, this servant stuff didn’t look as though it was going to be much fun. Polly was really nice, but I didn’t fancy many more hours on my hands and knees scrubbing fireplaces. Presumably Sophia was already engaged to the gardener. I just needed to find her and warn her about what her father was planning to do, so she could escape with her fiancé as soon as possible and I wouldn’t have to come back here again.

  “Polly,” I said, as I rubbed the bars with oil, “have you ever noticed Sophia – I mean Miss Fane – with anybody else?”

  Polly was on her hands and knees, combing the fringe of the rug perfectly straight.

  “What do you mean?” she said.

  “Does she seem to be in love with anyone? One of the gardeners, for instance?”

  Polly looked incredulous. “One of the gardeners? Are you mad? Ladies like Miss Fane don’t fall in love with gardeners.”

  “No,” I said. “Of course not.”

  “Get a move on, Evie, or we’ll never be done.”

  The grit from the sandpaper got into my cuts, and they stung so badly that I had to bite my lip to stop myself from crying with the pain. By the time I’d finished, the fireplace gleamed.

  “That looks lovely,” said Polly.

  “Who cares?” I said. “What’s the point of a gleaming fireplace? It’ll only get dirty again.”

  “Sir Henry likes everything spotless when he comes down in the morning,” said Polly.

  “Oh, well then, we must make everything spotless,” I said sarcastically, “if that’s what Sir Henry likes. Never mind that my hands are torn to shreds.”

  “Go on and make the fire then,” said Polly. My sarcasm was wasted on her too.

  I’d seen Nisha’s mum lay a fire, so I knew how to make a grid with the little sticks and place small lumps of coal on top of them. Then I just had to light it.

  I opened the tinderbox. It contained a short length of rough metal, a sharp flint, a few small squares of cotton and some thin splinters of wood that I guessed were matches. I struck one against the metal. Nothing happened.

  I struck it against the flint. Nothing.

  I tried another match. Nothing.

  “Sorry, Polly, but I can’t get these matches to light.”

  Polly straightened up, walked to the fireplace and took the flint, the piece of metal and a square of cloth. She laid the cloth on the hearth and, crouching over it, struck the metal against the flint. Sparks flew from the flint. After a few goes, one of them landed on the cloth. It started to smoulder, and a tiny flame appeared. Polly took one of the wood splinters and held it to the flame. Then she held the lighted splinter to a piece of kindling on the fire. She blew gently on the glowing wood and it started to flame up.

  She sat back on her heels. “Now you’re supposed to polish the coal scuttle and the hearth, but seeing as it’s your first day, I’ll do the scuttle for you, or we’ll never get finished.”

  “Have you finished your cleaning?” I asked. Much as I would have loved her help, I didn’t want to get her into any more trouble.

  “I’m done in here,” she said, kneeling down and unscrewing the lid of yet another pot of cleaning paste. “Once we’ve left, the footmen come in and clean the furniture and ornaments and looking glasses.”

  “They have two separate sets of people to clean a room? Why don’t we just do it all? Not that I’m complaining,” I added hastily.

  “Us girls can’t be trusted with the delicate things,” said Polly. “That’s a man’s job. Girls just do the drudge’s work. Like you scrubbing out them pans last night, while the footmen wash the china and glass.”

  “But that’s so unfair!” I said. “Washing china and glass is way easier than scrubbing out pans with sand.”

  Polly shrugged. “It’s just how it is.”

  I made a mental note to check out the footmen’s hands. I bet they weren’t cut to shreds, I thought, if all they had to do was dust the ornaments and rinse out a few glasses.

  Once the scuttle and hearth were shining, Polly got to her feet and grinned at me.

  “There you are. Just four more fires on this floor and then we go up and do the dressing rooms.”

  “I can’t do eight more of these,” I said. “It’s impossible.”

  Polly sighed. “Tell you what, I’ll rush about with the cleaning and then I should have time to do a couple of the fires. But only today, mind.”

  “You’re so kind, Polly,” I said, hugging her. “Thank you so much.”

  She looked startled, but quite pleased.

  “To tell the truth,” she said, “it’s nice to have a bit of company. It’s a terrible lonely job when you have to do it by yourself.” She opened the door and led the way across the hall, indicating a door on the far side. “Right, I’ll sweep the hall here while you do the fire in the Wh
ite Parlour.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The Boy Outside the Window

  In the White Parlour the shutters were already open. I drew back the heavy curtains of the window nearest to the fireplace. Outside, a beautiful green lawn sloped down to a thick hedge. In the slanting early morning sunlight, birds hopped about on the grass and sang in the trees. It was incredibly quiet and peaceful, and I could have stood there for ages, drinking it all in, but I could hear Polly clattering about in the next room. If I didn’t get a move on, then poor Polly would have even more to do. So I set my box down by the fireplace, knelt on my aching knees and started to rake out the ashes, more gently this time, since I didn’t especially fancy another smack around the head.

  I was rubbing the fire tools with emery paper, thinking I would willingly swap everything I owned for that pair of rubber gloves, when, from right behind me, there came the most enormous sneeze.

  I shrieked and leapt to my feet, dropping the poker in the hearth with a massive clang.

  Peeping out from between the closed curtains at the other window was Sophia Fane. Her eyes were huge and terrified.

  I stared at her. “Have you been there the whole time?”

  Sophia pressed her finger to her lips. “Sshh.”

  “Sorry,” I whispered. “You gave me a shock, that’s all. I didn’t think anyone was here.”

  Sophia stood completely still. She seemed to be listening intently for something. I listened too, wondering what she was afraid of. The only sounds I could hear were birdsong and Polly’s rhythmic sweeping in the next room.

  Slowly, Sophia removed her finger from her lips. She stepped forward, frowning slightly as she looked at me.

  “You are new,” she said eventually, in a low voice. “What is your name?”

  “Evie,” I replied, and then remembered to add, “Miss Fane.”

  She looked at me curiously. “You don’t look like a housemaid,” she said.

  “No,” I said. It was on the tip of my tongue to say that I had actually come from the future to help her. But, just in time, I thought about how that would sound. If she thought I was a lunatic, she would never take my warning seriously.

  So instead I said, “You’re up very early.”

  Sophia’s cheeks flushed. “I… I rose early to read. You must not mention it to a soul. If my father were to find out, he would be furious.”

  I laughed. It seemed so ridiculous that anyone could get in trouble for getting up early to read a book.

  “Be quiet,” hissed Sophia, flapping her hands urgently. “I am serious. My father was so angry that I was reading during the ball last night that he has banned me from reading entirely. So you will make no mention of this.”

  She said that last sentence like somebody who was used to giving orders. And I remembered her father’s fury when he had seen her reading at the ball.

  “I won’t breathe a word,” I said.

  “And especially not to Madame Perrault.”

  “Who’s Madame Perrault?”

  “She was my governess, until I grew too old for such a thing. And anyway,” she said with a bitter little laugh, “what use would a governess be, now that I am no longer permitted to read? Now she is called my lady’s maid, although she is really a spy. She reports me to my father for the slightest little thing. Her only redeeming feature is that, since she is so old, she sleeps a lot. Hence my habit of rising early.”

  “I won’t say a word, I promise. You can trust me.”

  She nodded. “Well, continue with your work.”

  I found this a bit offensive but I stopped myself from answering back. I decided to work out how to deliver my warning as I carried on doing the fire.

  And then, as Sophia parted the curtains, I glimpsed something outside the window.

  Or, rather, someone.

  Of course! How could I have believed that rubbish about her coming down early to read? If she wanted to read, why would she come downstairs and risk being caught, when she could just read in bed?

  “Let me open these curtains for you,” I said.

  “Oh, no … I…”

  I drew the curtains open.

  Under a tree on the other side of the path, his back against the trunk, sat a boy of I would guess about eighteen. He wore a black hat, a brown jacket and brown trousers. He had a board balanced on his knees, with a sheet of paper on it, and he was drawing something with a quill pen. A bottle of ink stood at his side.

  Sophia’s eyes were fixed on her book. As if she could fool me like that. Her cheeks were bright red.

  “Thank you,” she said, without looking up from the book, and her tone had a finality about it that clearly said: Go back to work.

  I returned to the fireplace and began to oil the bars. That boy must be the gardener she’s secretly engaged to, I thought.

  Still oiling the bars, I stole a glance at Sophia. The book lay open on her lap as she looked out of the window. The corners of her mouth twitched in a little smile.

  Furtively, I pushed my box away from me until it was close to the other window. Not that I really needed to be furtive. Sophia was in another world.

  Under the guise of fetching a brush from the box, I stood up and glanced out of the window. The boy had finished his drawing and he held it up for Sophia to see.

  He was seriously good at art. His drawing was a perfect caricature of Mrs Hardwick, accentuating all her bony angles. Somehow he had even caught her furious, bustling energy.

  Sophia laughed. Then she clapped a hand over her mouth and glanced across to me. I grabbed the nearest brush, knelt down on the hearth and brushed the back and sides of the fireplace with blacklead. I laid the fire and tried to light it, but I couldn’t coax a spark to light the tinder. I would have to fetch Polly. But first I needed to deliver my warning to Sophia, while we were alone together.

  I pulled myself upright, my back aching. This was how it must feel to be old.

  Now both the boy outside the window and Sophia, on the windowseat, were drawing in sketchbooks. I wondered how they had met, and whether it was their love of art that had brought them together.

  I slipped to the edge of the bay window, so that the boy wouldn’t see me if he glanced up again. From where I was standing, I could see Sophia’s drawing over her shoulder.

  I almost laughed out loud. It was a caricature of Charles Ellerdale, and it captured perfectly the straining waistcoat buttons over his enormous paunch, the bulging toad-like eyes and that arrogant way he stood as though he was the most important person in the room. I watched in admiration as Sophia’s pen flew over the paper. I knew she’d be furious if she caught me looking, but she seemed to have forgotten I was there.

  When she finished, she held the sketchbook up to the window and tapped gently on the glass.

  I drew back to avoid being seen. But I bumped into a piece of furniture behind me. Something rattled, and Sophia whipped her head round, grabbed her sketchbook and jumped up, glaring at me.

  “What are you doing?” she snapped, her face scarlet. “How dare you spy on me?”

  “I’m not spying. I was just walking past. I’ve got to fetch Polly to help me light the fire. I won’t say anything to anyone, I promise.”

  Sophia started to sweep up her things from the windowseat into her arms. I needed to warn her quickly. I might not have another chance to be alone with her today. And I couldn’t bear the thought of another day working as a housemaid.

  “Miss Fane,” I said, bobbing a little curtsey for extra effect, “I have to warn you of something.”

  She turned to me, her sketchbook and pencils clutched in her arms, her expression a mixture of anger and fear.

  “Er, Miss Fane,” I stumbled, wishing I had thought more about how I was going to say this, “has your father said anything to you about who he wants you to marry?”

  Sophia looked briefly bewildered as well as furious and terrified. Then she drew herself up very tall and took a step towards me. I could tell she was ab
out to throw me out of the room, so I jumped in before she had the chance.

  “Sorry for being rude, and I know you don’t know me or anything,” I gabbled, “but it’s just that I happen to know he’s going to try and make you marry Mr Ellerdale, and if you don’t want to do that, you and that boy should run away together now, or— Ow! Stop it!”

  I stared at Sophia, my eyes smarting from the slap she had just given me.

  “How dare you speak to me like this?” she hissed. She looked almost mad with emotion. “Get out of my sight! Do not speak to me ever again. And if you breathe one word of this nonsense to another living soul, I shall have you whipped, do you understand me?”

  She was advancing on me as she spoke, until I was trapped, backed up against the door. Then she shoved me out of the way, pulled the door open and swept out of the room.

  Well.

  What had I done to deserve this? Wasn’t it bad enough that I’d been forced to go and stay with a crazy, skeleton-loving old woman who didn’t even own a TV, without then being whisked back two hundred years in time? I mean, who goes back in time?

  It wouldn’t have been so bad if I was one of those rich people at the party last night, but oh no, I end up on my hands and knees scrubbing out fireplaces. It was like some kind of giant cosmic joke. And what had I ever done to the universe?

  And then when I tried to do a good thing and warn Sophia that she was about to be locked up for the rest of her life, what thanks did I get? A slap in the face and the threat of being whipped. Nice.

  Well, if she was going to treat me like that, I thought, let her be locked up forever. She actually deserves it.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Alice

  Finished! I laid the final piece of kindling on my final fire of the morning. Every bone in my body ached. Muscles ached in places where I didn’t even know I had muscles.

  Now, I thought, let’s see if I can manage to light this one myself.