‘That’s not like a girl.’
‘Rubbish,’ she snapped.
Mrs Villiers stared. ‘WHAT did you say?’
‘Well I’m sorry – Ma’am – but it is. Why shouldn’t girls like learning? Besides, I’m going to be a great writer one day, so I need to learn everything I can.’
Denzil blinked, and sliced another potato. ‘If you say so.’
There was silence a moment. Seren scratched her nose. Then she asked, ‘Where can I go?’
Mrs Villiers looked even more astonished ‘Go?’
‘To explore. Can I go anywhere in the grounds? In the house?’ Then, because she was so irritated she couldn’t help it, she got up and paced around. ‘I’m sorry but it’s all so strange here! Such a big house and no one in it and I was really hoping…’ She stopped, because all at once her dreams seemed silly. She should have known no one would care about her.
‘You won’t be bored, if that’s what’s worrying you.’ Denzil stabbed the knife into the table as if he was angry, and it stood upright. ‘There’s an enormous library upstairs, crammed with books and there’s a nursery full of…’
He stopped. Mrs Villiers had put her white fingers on his wrist. In a quiet voice, not meant for Seren to hear, she whispered, ‘Hush.’
Then she turned to Seren. ‘Sit down.’
Seren folded her arms. But she sat.
‘Now listen to me. These are the rules. You can walk anywhere you wish in the gardens – there are pretty paths and seats there. But you do not go through the iron gate that leads into the parkland or anywhere near the lake. Is that clear?’
Seren nodded, stubborn. She should have known there would be rules.
‘Answer me, please.’
‘Yes, Mrs Villiers.’
‘As for the house, you may visit the lower rooms, though most of them are closed up for the winter. You may use the library. But you do NOT go up the top stair into the attics.’
It was all so miserable! Seren tangled a curl of hair round her finger. Then she blurted out the question that had been tormenting her all this time. ‘Mrs Villiers, where’s Tomos?’
This time the silence was absolute, and a bit scary. She looked at Denzil. He stared at his empty hands. Mrs Villiers got up and went to the fire.
Her voice was cold. ‘Tomos is not here.’
‘Is he in London? With his mother?’
Mrs Villiers turned, and her face was white. ‘Master Tomos is absolutely no business of yours. You are a very impudent, cheeky little girl.’
That was unfair, Seren thought. She could feel herself going red but, before she could ask anything else, Mrs Villiers came over and snatched away the breakfast dishes and took them to the scullery. There was a loud rattle of crockery and an angry splash of water.
Seren looked at Denzil. ‘What did I say?’
He frowned. ‘Don’t get upset, girl. Things are difficult here. If it was me I would tell you but…’
‘Tell me what?’
But Mrs Villiers was back. ‘Don’t you have work to do, Denzil?’
He got up, jumping down from the high stool. Without another look at Seren he went out, and the cat ran after him.
‘Now. Stand up.’
Seren stood in front of the tall woman.
‘Is that your only dress?’
‘My best one. I have one other.’
‘You have indoor shoes?’
‘No. Just these boots.’
Mrs Villiers clicked her tongue. ‘Dear me. We must get something done before Sunday. I can’t have the villagers seeing such a tattered object in the Plas-y-Fran pew. When did you last wash your hair?’
Seren couldn’t remember. ‘Last week?’ she lied.
‘It’s a filthy tangle and you probably have lice.’
‘No, I don’t!’
‘You will need a bath.’
She was glad about that, as long as it wasn’t icy cold. Mrs Villiers said, ‘I’ll have the water heated. In the meantime, go up to your room, unpack and lay everything out tidily on the bed – I’ll be coming up to inspect it immediately.’
Ten minutes later she picked up Seren’s old grey petticoat and chemise with the ends of her fingers in disgust. ‘Good heavens! All this will have to be burned. I shall write to Lady Mair at once explaining you will need completely new clothes. Now, come with me.’
To Seren’s astonishment the bath was not a tin tub in front of the fire but a real white bath in a real bathroom, with big taps that turned and hot water that came out of them and steamed up to the marble ceiling. She stared at it all, wide-eyed in fascination.
‘Make sure you scrub every inch.’ Mrs Villiers turned in the doorway, undecided. ‘Perhaps I should stay and supervise.’
But the appalled look on Seren’s face changed her mind. ‘Well … you are old enough to clean yourself. But I don’t want a spot of dirt left on the bath and the floor must be completely dry. Afterwards, if you wish, you may explore the house. But remember you are not to go up to the top corridor, as there is nothing up there but the attics and I do not want them disturbed. Is that clear?’
Seren sighed. ‘Yes, Mrs Villiers.’
But in a few minutes her sigh was of delight, because the water was warm and the soap smelled sweet. This was much more like it. This was luxury!
She lay back in the steamy heat and thought about what Mrs Villiers had told her about the family.
Something was wrong. Something about Tomos.
She would certainly have to find out what it was.
Claw and beak and wing and eye.
Wind me up and let me fly.
After her bath and back in her old dress, Seren sat in the windowseat of her bedroom, looking gloomily out at the white lawns.
So no one else was here. No Captain Arthur and Lady Mair, no Tomos. But why had Mrs Villiers been so strange about Tomos? She had seemed really angry. There was obviously some secret, or Denzil wouldn’t have said what he had. It was all very odd.
Then she thought of what it would mean for her. A lonely dreary house, and all the long empty winter days to come with just dull adults to talk to. And what sort of Christmas?
It made her feel so miserable that just for a second she wished she was back in St Mary’s, with its chilly dormitory and all the noisy girls, the horrible food and the bare schoolroom.
But no.
That was stupid.
Because here she had a whole house to herself. It was like a palace. And she was the princess.
Looking round at the fine bed and the wardrobe, the shelf with her few precious books arranged in a row, she felt happier.
Until her eye fell on the newspaper parcel and she groaned aloud.
She had to do something about that!
She went downstairs and tried every room until she found the library. Peering round the door she saw it was cold and dark, but when she had pulled back one of the high curtains to let in some light she stared in awe at the hundreds and hundreds of books lining the wooden cabinets. Denzil was right. She certainly had plenty to read.
In a drawer she found what she needed – a pencil and some paper – and wrote a note. It said:
Dear Sir
If a tall thin man comes looking for a newspaper parsel containing a clockwork toy, could you please give him my adress and ask him to call here for it? I am sorry I took it by mistake.
Yours sinserely
Seren Rhys
She frowned. Maybe there were a few spelling mistakes. But it wouldn’t matter.
She put it in an envelope and addressed it to:
THE STATION MASTER
CASTLE HOLLOW STATION
WALES
That should be enough to get it to the right place. She sealed it with wax and took the letter down to the hall – she was starting to find her way a bit more easily now – and saw Denzil on his hands and knees scrubbing the tiled floor. He certainly seemed to have plenty of work to do. She stood looking down at him a moment, then said, �
�How do I post this?’
He sloshed water, hot and breathless. ‘What is it?’
‘A letter.’
‘Leave it in the postbox there, on the table. I’ll take it in with the kitchen orders this afternoon.’ Watching her put it in the box he said, ‘So who are you writing to then, little orphan?’
She shrugged. ‘That’s private.’
He grinned, and went back to scrubbing; the brush rasped hard on the bare tiles. After a while she said, ‘Do you do all the work?’
‘Someone has to.’
‘Where are all the servants?’
‘Sent away,’ he said.
It would take a lot of work to keep a house this size clean. Why send the servants away? Seren put her hands in her pockets; she wanted to ask more, but she sensed he was already cross. But there was something else, something that had popped from nowhere into her memory.
‘Denzil. Did a clock strike, late in the night?’
‘The stable clock strikes every hour.’
‘No, not that, that’s loud, like a clang. This was something … silvery. Sort of icy. I think it was inside the house.’
The brush stopped scrubbing.
For a moment he was still, then he looked up. She thought he looked scared. He said, ‘There’s no bell like that here. Dreaming, you were.’
‘Maybe.’ She wandered off, but at the turn of the corridor stopped and peeped back.
He was kneeling, staring into space, and the brush was lying forgotten in a pool of water.
Seren spent the rest of the day exploring. There were so many rooms in the great house she lost count of them, but everywhere was the same: dreary and dark, the windows shuttered and the furniture covered with white dustsheets. She peeped under some of these, and found delicate tables and mahogany cupboards that would have looked lovely all polished in candlelight. She spent a while staring up at the rows of portraits on the stairs, faces of men and women long dead, gazing down at her. Most of them were old but two were new. One showed a tall man with sandy hair; he wore a red uniform with gold braid on his shoulders, and was riding a great black horse.
Underneath it said: CAPTAIN ARTHUR JONES.
So this was him! He really did have a moustache.
Next to him, sitting in a chair with a small dog on her lap was LADY MAIR JONES, and Seren saw she was pretty, with long dark hair and laughing eyes, and her dress was of green velvet and lace.
They looked nice. She so wished they were here.
There was no picture of Tomos.
Finally, after an hour, Seren had explored everywhere. All that was left was the small stairway to the attics. She walked to the bottom and looked up. Mrs Villiers had been very clear. Don’t go up to the attic. In fact she had said it twice, and that was what was making Seren suspicious. What secret was kept up there?
She frowned, and tapped her foot. If she were a real detective, like Mr Sherlock Holmes, she would find out.
She looked round, but the house was silent. So she crept up the attic stair.
At the top was a white-painted corridor, the ceiling very low. She tiptoed along it, opening the doors on each side, but every single room was empty, with absolutely nothing in them. The last door faced her down the corridor. When she got to it, she turned the handle.
It was locked.
She crouched down, put her eye to the keyhole and looked in.
She took a breath of delight. A nursery! She could see toys – there was a beautiful rocking horse with a long mane, some toy soldiers and the corner of a puppet theatre, all painted yellow and red.
It must be Tomos’s room. If only she could get in.
She rattled the door again, but it was solid and unmoving. Why was just this room, out of all the rooms in the house, kept locked? What was so secret in there?
Inside the room, something dark crossed the light.
Seren jumped back.
Was there someone in there?
For a moment she couldn’t move. Then, very carefully, she crouched down and peeped through again.
Had it been someone, or just a bird’s shadow crossing the window? She could see the rocking horse again, and the puppet theatre. Surely the horse was moving, just a tiny bit?
Very scared, she whispered, ‘Hello?’
There was no answer.
‘Is anyone in there?’ And then, ‘Tomos? Is that you?’
A small sound. She listened, intently. Was there somebody breathing, just on the other side of the door? Or was it the wind, softly gusting under the roof?
Far below, the luncheon gong clanged.
She waited a moment. Then she whispered, ‘If anyone’s there, my name is Seren. I’ve got to go now. But I’ll be back.’
Then she turned and ran.
All the way down the stairs her heart thumped with excitement. Was it Tomos in there? If so, why was he locked up? She had to get into that nursery and see, just like Mr Sherlock Holmes would have done.
But she also had to be careful and not let anyone guess she knew. So she tidied her dress and wiped cobwebs off her face, and walked into the kitchen looking as prim and innocent as she could.
Luncheon was a hot meal of gravy and dumplings. Alys, the cook, was serving it out. She was a short and plump woman with glossy black hair like a doll’s. She stared at Seren curiously and bobbed a curtsey. ‘Bore da, miss.’
Seren stared. ‘Hello. Is that Welsh? I don’t know any Welsh.’
‘Ah, but you do, lovely!’ Alys carried the hot plate to the table in a cloth and uncovered it carefully. ‘Because your very own name is Welsh, isn’t it?’
‘Is it?’
‘You don’t know that Seren means star? How could you not know that, lovely?’
Star! Seren liked that. But she didn’t waste time talking; instead she ate quickly. It was a habit left over from her years at St Mary’s, because there, if you didn’t gobble it down at once, the bigger girls took your food. She knew why no one had ever told her about her name; no one at St Mary’s would have even known where Wales was.
As she licked the last morsel of meaty gravy from her fork, she frowned. She had never had a home, not really, all her life. Maybe Wales was her home.
But you couldn’t have a home without a family, and there was none here.
Just then a boy with black hair and a rough grey coat came in and spoke to the cook; he was given a plate and a glass of ale and he carried them out. Clots of mud slid from his boots.
Mrs Villiers shook her head at him in annoyance. ‘Wipe your boots next time, boy, or you’ll get no dinner.’
As he went he glanced at Seren, curious and quick.
He must be the boy who did the garden.
Gwyn.
By three o’clock Seren was bored and lonely, lying on her bed. There was no one to talk to. She was desperate to find out more about the locked room, but Mrs Villiers had ordered her to her bedroom to rest. She didn’t need rest. She had been trying to read, but her favourite books – even Mr Sherlock Holmes himself – couldn’t hold her attention.
If only she could be like him, brilliant and energetic! She would solve the mystery of the locked attic and everyone would be amazed, and there would be a celebration and a Christmas tree!
Outside the window it was already getting dark. Only the faint outline of the moon hung over the dark woods.
She lay on her bed and stared up at the ceiling. Surely there was something she could do. Draw a picture? Write a story? Sew that button on her grey chemise?
Instead she rolled over and looked at the newspaper parcel.
It lay on the table as if it was waiting for her. That was a silly idea, but suddenly all she wanted to do was put the clockwork crow together and see what it looked like. There would be no harm in it; if the thin stranger turned up she could always take it apart again.
She slid down and went to the table. There was a stump of yellow candle in the holder. She lit it from the fire, and it threw fluttering shadows round the room. She
pulled up a chair. The moon was shining in now, and on the paper she read the words again. For the journey is long and may be dark.
For a moment a shiver went down her spine.
Don’t be silly, she told herself firmly. It’s only a toy.
She tipped all the pieces out.
It took a while to get the idea of how to put it together. It was like a jigsaw – you had to work out which piece fitted where – but it was more interesting. There were small cogs that clicked into each other, tiny wheels that screwed in. If you turned one it moved with soft whispery clicks. She ranged all the pieces in order, small right up to big, and tried each cog and wheel in turn, and gradually as the hours passed and the moon climbed in the window and the candle guttered, the clockwork bird came together.
When she finally paused and sat back she saw a small metal skeleton had been assembled. She slipped it inside the feathered body and fastened some buttons. Two wings fitted into slits in the side. A pair of thin legs, made from wire, had to be pushed in too, and their talons carefully unfolded. The head screwed on, a bit rustily, and then she added the beak, though it was hard to get that to fit straight and it ended up with a wry twist that she couldn’t get rid of.
The Crow stood on the table. All that was needed now were its eyes. Bright as diamonds, they glinted wickedly in the firelight.
She clicked one in, and then the other.
The Clockwork Crow Page 3