At last, an ending.
Or a beginning.
Who can say?
My previous three weeks have featured a long series of carriages; conveyances of varied age, cleanliness and distinction, much like my fellow passengers. From Whitebarrow to Briarton, from Lelant’s Bridge to Angharad’s Breach, from decaying Lodellan where fires still smoulder to Cwen’s Ruin, from Bellsholm to Ceridwen’s Landing, and all the tiny loveless places in between. A circuitous route, certainly, but then I have my reasons. And this afternoon, the very last of those vehicles finally deposited me at my goal before trundling off to the village of Morwood Tarn with its few remaining travellers – three brittle blondes, sisters, with not a good thing to say about anyone, nor a word addressed to me in several hours – and despatches to deliver.
Or rather, at the gateway to my goal, and there now remains a rather longer walk than I would have wished at such a late hour and with such luggage as I have. Yet, having waited some considerable while with foolish hope for someone to come collect me, in the end I accept that I’ve no better choice than Shanks’s pony. My steamer case I push beneath bushes just inside the tall black iron gates with the curlicued M at their apex – as if anyone might wander past this remote spot and take it into their heads to rifle through my meagre possessions. The satchel with my notebooks is draped across my back, and the carpet bag with its precious cargo I carry by turns in one hand then the other, for it weighs more than is comfortable. I’m heartily sick of hefting it, but am careful as always, solicitous of the thing that has kept me going for the better part of two years.
The rough and rutted track leads off between trees, oak and yew and ash, so tall and old that they meet above me. I might have appreciated their beauty more had it been earlier in the day, had there been more light, had it been summer rather than autumn and my magenta coat been of thicker fabric, and had my nerves not already been frayed by the tasks before me. And certainly if I’d not, soon after setting off deeper into the estate, begun to hear noises in the undergrowth by the side of the drive.
I do not walk faster, though it almost kills me to maintain the same steady pace. I do not call out in dread, demanding to know who is there. I do, however, pat the deep right-hand pocket of my skirt to check for the long knife. I have walked sufficient darkened streets to know that fear will kill you faster than a blade to the gut or a garrotte to the throat because it will make you foolish, panicky.
Whatever it is has stealth, but somehow I sense it creates just enough noise on purpose that I might be aware of its presence. Occasional snuffles and wuffles that must seem quite benign, but which are not when their source is defiantly out of sight. Some moments I catch a scent on the breeze – a musky rich odour like an animal given to feeding on young meat and sleeping in dens – and that threatens to turn my belly to water. I lift my chin as if the sky beyond the branches is not darkening with storm clouds, as if I am not being stalked, as if my heart is not pounding so hard it almost drowns the close-rolling thunder. But I keep my steady, steady pace.
Eventually, I step from beneath the twisting, turning canopied road and get my first sight of the manor house spread out below. I pause and stare, despite the knowledge that something still lurks behind me. I take a deep breath, give a sigh I didn’t know was waiting in me. There is a tremble to it, a quaver I’d not want anyone to hear.
Courage, Asher. There is no one else to have it for you.
It might have appeared quite simple, the structure, if approached from the front: almost slender-looking, two storeys of pale grey stone – silvery – and an attic, but I’m coming at it on an angle and can see that the building is deeper than it is wide. It digs back into the landscape and I wonder how many rooms there might be. In front are flowering tiered gardens, three, leading up to ten steps and a small porch, and thence to a door of honey-coloured wood set beneath a pointed stone arch. A duck pond lies to the left, and to the right flows a stream, too broad to jump but too narrow to count as a river. I wonder if it ever floods.
Lightning flashes, great white streaks of fire casting themselves across the vault of the world. The crack of it seems to echo in my chest. I blink hard to rid myself of the strange effect it has on my sight. The colours leached to black and white like an engraving in a book are discombobulating.
Behind the house itself is a smallish structure, dark wood and white plaster, of such a size as might contain four rooms. It has a tall chimney and a waterwheel is attached to the side, fed by the not-quite-stream-not-quite-river.
Once again, the lightning flashes, striking the ground in two places in front of me in quick succession and a third time hitting an old yew not far away. It stands, a lone sentinel by the side of the drive, and it burns so quickly that I’m astonished rather than afraid. I’d stay to watch, too, except the heavens open and thick angry drops fall hard and inescapable; they will extinguish the tree. In spite of everything, I smile. From the undergrowth behind me there comes a definite growl, all trace of sneakery and concealment gone.
Finally, I run.
I leave the path, which meanders back and forth down a gentle slope to the manor, and take the shortest route over the rolling lawn. The journey would be less fraught were I not concerned with twisting an ankle and clutching the carpet bag so tightly that my ribs bruise against its contents. I arrive at the entrance no less wet than if I’d simply strolled. My progress has obviously been noted as the door is pulled open before I set foot on the first step.
Inside that door, a blaze of light and a tall man waiting, attired in black, a long pale face, thinning grey hair scraped back over his scalp. For all his skeletal demeanour he wears a gentle smile and his eyes, deep-set, are kind. His hands are raised, gesturing for me to hurry, hurry.
Just before I pass beneath the archway, I glance over my shoulder, at the lawn and gardens across which I’ve come. Lightning flares once more and illuminates the grounds, silvering a strange, hunched silhouette back up on the curve of the drive, and I think of… something. Something large but of indeterminate shape, something I cannot quite place, nor does its colour even remain in my memory; there’s only the recollection of red eyes. Resolute though shivering with more than cold, I cross the threshold and the door is swiftly shut.
The entry hall is surprisingly small, not grand at all, but well-lit; a silken rug like a field of flowers takes up part of the floor space and I make a point not to step on it with my muddy boots. There are compact pieces of furniture: plain occasional tables, a single cherry-wood chair, an umbrella stand hollowed from a sparkling rock of some sort, a rosewood hallstand bearing scarves and a parasol, but little else. Closed doors with ornate brass knobs lead left and right. The burnished staircase to the upper levels is quite narrow; its carved newel posts are the heads of girls with nascent antlers on their foreheads; hind-girls. I wonder if they come by here on their migrations. On the landing partway up there are tall windows that show the dark grey of the clouds, the play of the lightning.
‘Miss Todd,’ says the man with certainty; no surprise, really, unless this place is frequented by random young women. Or not so young in my case; not old, but I’m certainly older than the last governess. His gaze travels up and down me – not in a sexual fashion, merely curious: I’m a little taller than he, broader across the shoulders. Statuesque, my mother said on good days; hefty on the bad ones. He waves his hands as if doing so might squeeze the moisture from my thin jacket and thick black skirt. I catch sight of my reflection in the enormous mirror that is the centrepiece of the hallstand; almost unrecognisable. The tiny green silk hat appears to have melted, and I can feel the extra weight of the rain in the tight braided bun of my mousy hair. It will take hours to dry. My face is pale and I appear ghostly, although I’ve never felt so solid in my life. I glance away before I can examine too closely the look in my eyes, and blink, hold it for a few moments to compose myself so the man cannot see inside me either.
‘Yes,’ I say and it feels not enough. ‘I’m Asher Todd.’
‘I am Burdon. We did not expect you until tomorrow, my dear Miss Todd.’ His hands clasp together like penitent wings. From behind the door to the left I hear cursing and scurrying but no one appears. ‘I do apologise; we’d have had Eli meet you with the caleche. Although given the current weather perhaps the caleche would not have offered much protection.’
‘Ah, the walk was refreshing, Mr Burdon; I’ve been trapped in coaches and carriages for days’ – weeks, but he does not need to know that − ‘the open air did me good.’ There’s a rose-gold mourning ring on the middle finger of my right hand; it’s slippery from the rain and I try to dab it dry with the least soaked part of my skirt for I cannot allow it to slip off.
‘Just Burdon, Miss Todd. Well, I hope you don’t take a chill; the family would not be best pleased were you to fall ill from our neglect.’ He gives a little bow, strangely sweet. ‘Come along, I shall take you to your room.’ He eyes the carpet bag clutched to my side, the satchel dripping noisily on the flagstones. ‘Is that everything?’
‘Oh no. My trunk.’ I frown. ‘I left it by the gate.’
Burdon looks over my shoulder and juts his chin. I turn to see a figure stoop to pass beneath the stone arch of the door, my steamer trunk nestled on a broad shoulder.
The figure gently puts the trunk on the fine rug as if it – and he – weren’t gushing with raindrops, then shakes himself like a dog. An oilskin cloak and a broad-brimmed hat are removed with a great cascade of droplets, and the shape resolves into a tall young man with black hair, green eyes and stubbled chin. He glances at me, then away as if I hold no interest.
‘Eli Bligh,’ Burdon says and at first I think it’s an introduction, but no: a reprimand. ‘Mrs Charlton’ll not be pleased at that.’ The butler nods meaningfully at the small lake that has collected on the floor, soaking into its covering.
Eli shrugs. ‘To the lilac room?’
‘If you please.’
Eli hefts my luggage once more, as if it contains nothing more burdensome than feathers, not books and boots, frocks and carefully wrapped bottles, as well as a basalt mortar and pestle blessed by the Witches of Whitebarrow. He turns and is gone up the polished staircase before Burdon and I even take a step to follow. As he passes I catch a scent of port-wine pipe smoke and something I cannot quite place. The butler touches my shoulder but lightly, to direct me upwards.
‘It’s a good thing you got to us before evening fell; the estate can be a dangerous place for those unfamiliar with the lay of the land. There’s a disused quarry you’d not want to discover by accident.’ He smiles to take away any suggestion of fearmongering. ‘I daresay you’ll learn our ways soon enough.’
‘Thank you, Burdon.’ Using a person’s last name thus, speaking as if I were his better, is not natural to me; in my life I’ve often sought refuge with servants. ‘And the family…?’
‘At a fete in Morwood Tarn,’ he says, then glances through the great windows as we step onto the landing. ‘Although I daresay they’ll have taken shelter somewhere to avoid the storm.’
‘Ah.’
‘Just between me and thee, Miss Todd, if I were you I would take the opportunity to rest this evening. You’ll be earning your coin soon enough with those three children, and you might be a day early, but you’ll be expected to begin work on the morrow.’ He smiles fondly to let me know they’re not entirely monsters, then the expression stales. ‘And I’ve no doubt the elder Mrs Morwood will put you through your paces as well.’
I look askance at him, but he merely smiles again and presses my elbow: Go left.
Along the first-floor corridor, to a pretty room (so, no servants’ hideaway in the attic for me). I don’t enter quite yet, but survey the space: a fire fresh in the grate but no sign of who set it; an armoire, dressing table and secretaire all in a pale, honey wood. By the hearth are an armchair and a small table with a tray on it: a bowl of steaming stew, a plate of bread, a single cake, and a glass of what looks like tokay await. My stomach rumbles. I can only assume my progress was noted well before Burdon went to the front door. The curtains are a washed-out purple, as are the draperies around the bed. On the bedside table with mother-of-pearl inlay there is a small crystal bowl of dried lilac, so the air is lightly scented. My trunk sits at the foot of the bed, and Eli is gone but for that hint of pipe smoke and a trail of wet footprints on the silk rug.
‘Are there other staff, Burdon? Apart from yourself and Mrs Charlton and Eli Bligh?’
He snorts a laugh. ‘I don’t think Eli would like to hear himself called “staff”. He’s got a cottage in the grounds; Enora Charlton’s the housekeeper, then there’s Luned, the maid – we three live in. There are twenty tenant families scattered across the estate; part of their contract is to pitch in to keep us running – Owen Reiver doubles as coachman and his boy Tew as footman when required. Tib Postlethwaite brings the milk every morning, and her eight sons work the fields. Two of the Binion girls come in to help clean once a week – it’s a big place – now, they’re twins, impossible to tell apart; don’t even bother. There’s the coppice-worker out in the woods. But I daresay we’re a bit different from grand houses in cities. We make do.’
I enter the room; Burdon does not follow. I face him and he bows, a courtly gesture.
‘I trust you will be comfortable here, and perhaps even happy with us.’ He smiles again. ‘Should you need anything, the cord by the fireplace will bring myself or Luned or Mrs Charlton. Sleep well, Miss Todd.’
‘Thank you, Burdon,’ I say, thinking I won’t retire for an age; then I glance out the windows and see that night has fallen whilst I paid no attention. I’m aware of the door closing as I stare at the rain throwing itself against the glass as if it would burst in. As I hear the click of the snib I’m overcome with exhaustion. I stumble to the armchair, tremors overtaking my entire body and I think I will be sick, right here in this pretty, pretty room. I let the carpet bag slide to the floor; there’s the gentle thud of the contents on the rug (not too much of a protest), the satchel follows it, and I slump.
After a while, the shaking subsides, as does the roar in my head, but my stomach is still all-at-sea, so I break off a piece of bread and stuff it into my mouth like I wasn’t brought up better than that. It’s salty and sweet, and soon I’ve eaten it all too quickly. Then the stew, which is delicious, meaty and rich with red wine. The tokay and the cake I leave for later so as not to make myself ill.
I’m drowsing in the chair, one side of me dried by the fire, the other still sodden and cold, when there’s a knock. I call out, ‘Yes?’ but receive no reply, so I heave myself upwards and go to answer the door.
No one is there.
I step into the long, dimly lit corridor, and look around. To the right another door is open, partway along, so I tiptoe towards it. Inside there’s a bathtub, clawfooted, rose-scented steam rising from it. Two thick towels are folded neatly on the corner of a dark wood cabinet, a bar of soap perched on top.
But again, no sign of who drew it.
I shrug; I will take it.
Such a beginning is mine at Morwood Grange.