It was only a dream, his mother used to tell him. It meant nothing. It was only a dream. Count to ten and go to sleep. That was her advice. Count to ten. Peter couldn’t get past one.
13
The grey mare slowed to a stop in front of Davies Market. Eliza climbed down from the carriage and landed in a soft mud puddle. As she yanked her foot free, a smell of sewage wafted up to greet her, bringing memories of home. Was Mrs Hodgkins chucking rubbish onto the street? Did Mr Pendleton still let his canary fly up and down the stairwell? Did Aunt Bess complain Mrs Granderson’s wireless was too loud?
‘Shop’s that way.’ Mr Drewry pointed down the road, interrupting her thoughts.
There was no sign of anyone as Eliza walked down the street, shaking the mud from her shoe. London on a Thursday afternoon would be teeming with people. She would have to fight her way down the street just for a box of gravy salt. But here, nothing. Everyone was hidden away as if warned by an air-raid siren. It made her nervy, the silence ringing in her ears becoming the whistle of an incoming incendiary.
She recognised the shop by the blanched sign above the door. Weather had cracked the wood, drawing a line through the word Drapery. A pale girl looked down on her from the windows above, stepping out of view when she was spotted.
A bell tinkled weakly as Eliza entered. The shop front was large but bare. Long shelves where bolts of multicoloured fabrics should have rested sat empty. A mouse skittered across the boards, disappearing behind an open cupboard from which flour bags, potato sacks and tablecloths spilled onto the soiled stone floor.
A knock from above caused the wooden support beams to sprinkle dust onto her shoulders. Buildings shook like that when bombs hit, she thought, brushing off her clothes. The dust clung to her fingers, and she searched for something on which to wipe them.
She sifted through the potato sacks, hoping the fresh dirt streaks would go unnoticed. The scent of soapless detergent surfaced from the damp and mildew. That same cheap detergent worked its way into her hands every time she washed Aunt Bess’s clothes. If she closed her eyes, she could picture the wooden scrubbing board propped by the kitchen sink, the one Aunt Bess hadn’t touched in nearly two years. Eliza doubted she even knew how to use it.
As she reached for a tablecloth, someone grabbed her by the elbow. Before Eliza could pull away, the auburn-haired girl hugged her. Eliza remained stiff, remembering the time during her evacuation when Mrs Littleton’s niece had been rude to her the first time they were introduced. The second time they met she kissed Eliza’s cheeks and called her pretty, then stole her hair ribbons. Eliza gently pushed away the girl who was not Pip.
‘I heard the carriage and followed you. I hope you don’t mind.’
‘No. It’s fine. I . . . I found your note. Ruth?’
She nodded.
‘How did you . . . ?’
‘Never mind that now. Are you all right? Have you felt at all ill?’
‘No, I don’t think so, but why do you . . . ?’
Ruth pulled her to the side of the shop. ‘Pip was a perfectly healthy girl before she took up with that house. Less than a year later she died of an illness no doctor could name. Or so I was told.’
Someone coughed. Behind the counter, a sallow woman in a pale-green dress carried a bundle of flour bags in her thin arms.
‘Oh, Mrs Tew.’ Ruth smiled. ‘Could you fetch some of that lovely curtain fabric you keep in the back so as Miss Haverford can have a look? Thank you!’
The woman left the sacks on the counter and disappeared without a word.
‘Any headaches?’
‘No,’ Eliza lied. ‘No, I . . .’
‘Chills? Fever? Nosebleeds? Pip never mentioned nosebleeds, but I wonder . . . any muscle aches or weakness?’ Ruth stared into Eliza’s eyes as if seeking out any sickness hidden within her.
‘No, really. Only I’ve been a bit tired.’
‘Fatigue? Since when?’
‘Since long before I came here. Really, Ruth, I’m perfectly all right. You ask more questions than a doctor!’ She laughed. A long silence followed.
‘My father is a doctor. I know what to ask. What to look for.’
‘Is your family still in Ireland?’
‘Northern Ireland. Belfast.’
‘They must miss you.’
‘Not since I married a Catholic.’ Ruth continued her questions, but seemed more unsure of herself. ‘Is there any history of heart disease in your family? Anyone prone to fainting spells or palpitations?’
‘No, not that I . . . My parents both died young. I didn’t know you had a husband.’ There was no ring on Ruth’s hand. She caught Eliza looking and hid her fingers behind her back.
‘I don’t. He died. After he brought me to Wales. Merchant Navy. If it weren’t for Pip . . .’ The hard lines disappeared from Ruth’s face as she struggled to hold back tears. Eliza handed her a handkerchief. Ruth admired the stitched maroon E before dabbing her eyes.
‘This is lovely. Did you . . . ?’
‘My mother.’ She rested her hand on Ruth’s arm. ‘What happened to Pip?’
‘When the war ended, neither of us had any place to go, except here. Joseph inherited the house and when he . . . He left it to me. Told me stories about his thriving village. Plentynunig used to supply miners to pits all over the county, but most have closed. All except Brownawell’s. Those who could went elsewhere. Some who couldn’t left anyway.’ Ruth refolded the handkerchief and returned it Eliza. ‘We tried to work as seamstresses, but there simply wasn’t enough work for two. I was the better of us both, and Pip couldn’t . . . When we heard a job was going at Thornecroft, I encouraged her to take it, even though he told me not to. That Pip should stay away . . .’
Ruth paused, staring at the handkerchief though her mind was elsewhere. Eliza tried to interject, to ask who ‘he’ was, but before she could Ruth recovered and continued her story, her voice stronger than before.
‘Pip was a strong woman – saw her lift a hundred-pound log once, all by herself – and she were always in her right mind. The stories never bothered us. But it only took a few weeks . . . She said it was harder not to believe them once you were out there. And I saw her less and less . . .’
‘Stories about the house? About a woman called Victoria?’
‘You’ve heard?’
‘I’ve found her portraits. They’re all over the manor. What happened to her?’
Ruth sighed and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. Her hair was the same colour as Peter’s. He had a stray curl that fell onto his forehead that Eliza was forever brushing back for him. She tried to forget Peter as Ruth recommenced speaking.
‘According to the townspeople, when Mr Brownawell was young he fell in love with a local woman. Though she was flattered by his attentions, she didn’t think it proper – he, English; she, Welsh, and from a poor family as well. She never took him seriously, as Brownawell’s father would never allow such a union. Then Richard Brownawell died – quite unexpectedly. His horse got spooked and tossed him into the quarry.’ In her mind Eliza saw the quarry’s steep edge, Mr Drewry’s awful face.
‘But, even after he inherited the estate, Victoria refused. She did not love him and never could. It was then that Brownawell’s love became obsessive. He threatened her family. Bludgeoned her little dog to death right in the village square. To save her family the same fate, she agreed to marriage. But the wedding never happened. The day prior, Mr Brownawell caught her speaking to one of the male servants. Berwin heard this first- hand from the servant himself down the pub, when he were a young lad. Victoria were only asking him about arrangements for the wedding, flowers or the like. But when Mr Brownawell saw them together, he flew into a jealous rage. Pulled her up the stairs by the hair.’
Romantic scenes of true love separated by tragic illness flew from Eliza’s mind. ‘He killed her.’
‘No one knows. The servants heard her crying all night, pleading her innocence. The next morning she was g
one, never to be seen again. Brownawell claimed she fell ill and he sent her away to convalesce. Several months later, he claimed she died. He buried a coffin in the estate’s cemetery in a private ceremony. But no one believed he was innocent.’ Ruth tapped her nose. ‘Victoria’s father went mad with grief, tried to convince the whole town she was alive – being held somewhere in Thornecroft as a prisoner – but no one believed him, either, even though her body was never seen. The last anyone saw of him, he was raving about going to confront Brownawell on his own. Mr Brownawell began to unravel soon after. He always had a temper, but every day he threatened to blow up the mines or burn down the village. He broke several windows in the manor, set books on fire. Even started catching rats and stringing them up by their necks, leaving them hanging for the staff to find. Servants left without warning, abandoning him to his rants. They say it’s Victoria what drove him to madness. That her vengeful spirit haunts Thornecroft, snatching any woman who resides there as a way to punish him for his crime.’
The air in the room grew cold, as if Victoria’s ghost had arrived to corroborate the story.
‘And, they say, housemaids have gone missing from Thornecroft ever since Victoria disappeared. That Berwin’s own daughter was one.’
‘Berwin?’ Eliza asked.
‘The elderly man who stays with me.’
Eliza pictured the old drunk then wrapped her arms around herself, trying to keep from her mind those feelings she had at Thornecroft – that she was always being watched, the lights and strange sounds . . .
‘You said Pip died of an illness.’
Ruth slammed her fist onto a bare shelf, jolting Eliza from her reverie. ‘And she did! It’s rubbish! All of this. Ghost stories. Nonsense. A fairy tale to hide the misdeeds of others. Pip was murdered, Eliza. Plain and simple. Poisoned, I think, based on her symptoms. But I can’t prove it. They never let me see her body, let alone examine it. The locals call her the curse’s latest victim. They’re more than happy to believe the legend. Don’t care what happens to outsiders if it keeps their daughters from entering that place.’
‘But you said, your note, you said I should leave. For my own safety.’
‘Someone murdered Pip. Someone who hasn’t been caught. Who wants to keep the story of Victoria alive. To do that, they need another housemaid. Another victim.’
‘What if I can’t leave?’
‘Then pray to God someone’s coming to find you.’ Ruth again examined Eliza’s eyes. ‘Any dry mouth? Double vision?’
Eliza shook her head.
‘What about hallucinations?’
‘Hallucin––’
‘Are you hearing things? Seeing things?’
Eliza laughed. ‘Don’t be silly.’
‘Good. What about your family? Any history of mental illness?’
‘No.’ Eliza felt herself go still. ‘No, absolutely not. Why . . . ?’
Ruth opened her mouth to say more but stopped. Mrs Tew returned, carrying a stack of fabric.
Eliza greeted her. ‘I’m sorry. We were . . .’
The front door bell tinkled. Ruth had fled the shop.
*
A haunted air lingered over Thornecroft when she returned. The manor was more than a sad old house now; it was a grieving victim recounting a painful history. As Eliza sat in the kitchen unpicking an old frock, every bump she heard, every groaning floorboard, became an echo of Victoria’s memory. She tried to convince herself Ruth was right. The stories were rubbish. Girls didn’t simply go missing, not without anyone searching for them. Not in England. Not even in Wales.
Fabric covered the kitchen table. Eliza searched under the mess for her scissors but, unable to find them, walked down the quiet corridor to her room. Mother would never have allowed them to be taken. If Eliza and Rebecca had gone missing, Mother would stop at nothing to find them.
Scissors located, she paused to examine the damaged photo. If Mother were here, Aunt Bess could never have sent them away. If Mother were here, they never would have lived with Aunt Bess at all. When had her aunt become so heartless towards them? Eliza remembered a time when she was a child and Aunt Bess brought her sweets from the seaside. She was always bringing them treats when they were little, rolling her eyes at Father’s strict rules, volunteering to take them on shopping trips or to the zoo. How had the war changed all that?
For the first time since leaving London, Eliza missed her aunt – the smell of her perfume, the way she sometimes smiled, her insistence that Eliza could be a beautiful young woman if only she tried harder.
They would see each other again one day. Aunt Bess would ask for forgiveness and Eliza would give it because it was what Mother would do.
A heavy melancholy rested within her chest as she returned to the kitchen and looked at the massive project before her. Her unpicked frock provided a pattern for her to work with, but how would she ever be able to sew all this by tomorrow evening? She knew that Mother could have done it. Mother had been excellent at everything – sewing, cooking, cleaning.
Eliza stuck her finger with a pin. She hissed and sucked on the wound. A carbon copy: at her best that’s all she was. She knew how to do those same things but could never get anything quite right. There were always flaws.
She searched through the sewing basket for the right thread. The fabric she had chosen was a nice shade of light blue, only faded on one side, and the silk soft to the touch. If she tried very hard, she knew she could almost make a dress that would impress Aunt Bess.
‘What is that?’ Mrs Pollard appeared at her side.
‘The fabric I purchased in town.’
‘I sent you to purchase suitable material for a dress. Not a used sofa covering.’
‘They’re used curtains, actually.’ Eliza smiled.
‘Come with me.’ Mrs Pollard took her by the arm and escorted her to a small dressing room in the north hall.
The housekeeper positioned her before a mahogany cheval mirror. A streak ran through the dust that coated the glass, as if someone had swiped their hand across it. The floor smelled strongly of wood polish.
‘One does not wear curtains when meeting Mr Brownawell. Now, don’t just stand there. Undress yourself.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
Mrs Pollard opened a large trunk and sifted through clothes wrapped in yellowed tissue paper. ‘You’re incapable of producing anything suitable for dinner. As I will not have this house shamed because of you, I’ll loan you acceptable attire for the duration. Now, undress and put this on. I believe it should fit.’ She held out a cream-coloured lace and muslin dress.
‘I would really rather not. I’m sorry, Mrs Pollard, but I’d like to decline Mr Brownawell’s invitation. It wouldn’t be appropriate.’
Mrs Pollard smiled. ‘You were talking to that Irish girl today. That little friend of Miss Vlasto’s. I needn’t tell you she’s unstable. The stories she’s filled your head with I’m sure made it plain. She’s been ever so distraught since Miss Vlasto took ill. Grief does strange things to people, you see, but death is what happens in places like this. The same would happen in India. People you cared for, and people you didn’t, alive one day and snatched away the next, driving their families to ruin and despair, destroying everything they hoped to achieve.’
‘Is that what happened to your family?’
The dress threatened to tear in Mrs Pollard’s grip. She regarded it as if that was what she wanted – to rip it to pieces herself. Almost imperceptibly, she composed herself, stretching her neck from side to side and smoothing back a stray hair that came loose from her plait.
‘My family returned to England to pursue better opportunities.’
‘So being a housekeeper here is better than India?’
‘Tending to Mr Brownawell is the greatest honour one could achieve. And, believe me, Miss Haverford, I have worked very hard to achieve my position.’ She plucked a piece of lint from the dress. ‘Those who serve Thornecroft well are well rewarded in return. Those who
disobey are less fortunate. This house has a way of weeding out the weak. Like Pip.’
She pressed a cloth into Eliza’s hand.
‘I found that in the hall, by the way.’
It was Rebecca’s monogrammed handkerchief.
‘Tell her not to leave her things lying about, will you?’ She held out the dress. ‘Now, would you like to try this on?’
For so many years Mother had cared for them, protected them. But Eliza was not her mother. Only a copy. She turned away from the mirror as she undressed and kept her eyes on Mrs Pollard. Exposed in only her brassiere and underpants, she quickly slipped the dress over her head then stared at her feet while Mrs Pollard buttoned up the back.
‘There. Now you’re almost beautiful.’ She took Eliza by the chin and tilted her head up to the mirror.
Mother had been beautiful. Aunt Bess, too, was once a woman others envied. Eliza had never seen herself as such and could not see it now. Eliza could only see Victoria, for it was Victoria’s dress she wore.
14
Yes! We have no bananas read the sign beside Peter’s ghostly image as he checked his reflection in the shop window. His best suit strangled him. He had grown since he last wore it on VE Day, and it was now too tight in the arms and inside seam. He felt the strain as he reached to smooth a curl which had escaped the Brylcreem’s hold. The more nervous he became, the more the suit constricted him. He could barely move his limbs as he crossed the street to Bess Haverford’s office.
The pain in his leg wasn’t so bad today. His lower back carried the ache as he limped up the building’s narrow staircase. Sweat dampened his underarms, and he pictured his white shirt staining yellow. His palm slipped on the banister. He wiped both hands on his trousers and saw them shaking.
It was simple, he told himself as he tackled the next flight. It would be like walking into a pub. An unfamiliar pub where everyone stopped and stared when a stranger entered. Peter paused for breath. He knew he could do this. He owed it to Bess.
Abigale Hall Page 14