John Boyne - This House is Haunted

First published in Great Britain in 2013 by Doubleday,
an imprint of Transworld Publishers

Production Editor: Yvonne E. Cárdenas

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from Other Press LLC, except in the case of brief quotations in reviews for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper, or broadcast. For information write to Other Press LLC, 2 Park Avenue, 24th Floor, New York, NY 10016. Or visit our Web site: www.otherpress.com

The Library of Congress has cataloged the printed edition as follows:

Boyne, John, 1971-
This house is haunted / by John Boyne.
pages cm
eISBN: 978-1-59051-680-5
1. Governesses—Fiction. 2. Family secrets—Fiction. 3. Haunted houses—East Anglia (England)—Fiction. 4. Ghost stories, English—19th century—Fiction. 5. East Anglia (England)—Fiction. I. Title.
PR6102.096T49 2013 823′.92—dc23
2013012034

Publisher’s Note:
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

v3.1

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Cover

Other Books by This Author

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter OneChapter TwoChapter ThreeChapter FourChapter FiveChapter SixChapter SevenChapter EightChapter NineChapter TenChapter ElevenChapter TwelveChapter ThirteenChapter FourteenChapter FifteenChapter SixteenChapter SeventeenChapter EighteenChapter NineteenChapter TwentyChapter Twenty-oneChapter Twenty-twoChapter Twenty-threeChapter Twenty-fourChapter Twenty-fiveChapter Twenty-six About the Author

Chapter One

London, 1867

IBLAME CHARLES DICKENS for the death of my father.

In tracing the moment where my life transformed from serenity to horror, twisting the natural into the unspeakable, I find myself seated in the parlour of our small terraced home near Hyde Park, observing the frayed edges of the hearth rug and wondering whether it might be time to invest in a new one or try to repair it myself. Simple, domestic thoughts. It was raining that morning, an indecisive but unremitting shower, and as I turned away from the window to catch my reflection in the looking glass above the fireplace, I grew disheartened by my appearance. It was true that I had never been attractive but my skin appeared paler than usual, my dark hair wiry and unkempt. There was a certain hunched aspect to my shoulders as I sat, my elbows propped upon the table, a teacup positioned between my hands, and I tried to relax in an attempt to correct my posture. I did something foolish then—I smiled at myself—hoping that a manifestation of contentment would improve the rendering, and was startled when I noticed a second face, much smaller than my own, staring back at me from the lower corner of the mirror.

I gasped, a hand to my breast, then laughed at my folly, for the image I observed was nothing more than the reflection of a portrait of my late mother that was pinned to the wall behind my chair. The mirror was capturing both our likenesses side by side and I did not benefit from the comparison, for Mother was a very beautiful woman, with wide, bright eyes where mine were narrow and pallid, a feminine jawline where mine tended towards harsh masculinity, and a slender build where my own had always felt outsized and absurd.

The portrait was a familiar one, of course. It had been hanging on that wall for so long that perhaps I never really noticed it any more, in the way that one often ignores familiar things, like seat cushions or loved ones. However, that morning her expression somehow captured my attention and I found myself lamenting her loss anew, despite the fact that she had passed from this world to the next more than a decade before, when I was little more than a child. And I wondered then about the afterlife, about where her spirit might have settled after death and whether or not she had been watching over me all these years, taking pleasure in my small triumphs and grieving for my numerous mistakes.

The morning fog was beginning to descend on the street outside and a persistent wind was forcing its way down the chimney, tracking a path along the loose stonework within and diminishing only slightly as it entered the room, forcing me to wrap my shawl more closely around my shoulders. I shivered and longed to return to the warmth of my bed.

I was pulled out of my reverie, however, by a cry of delight from Father, who was sitting across from me, his herrings and eggs half-eaten, scanning the pages of the Illustrated London News. The issue had been lying unread since the previous Saturday on a small table in that same room in which we sat, and I had intended on discarding it that morning, but some impulse had made Father decide to glance through its pages over breakfast. I looked up in surprise—it sounded as if something had passed his throat the wrong way—but his face was flushed with excitement and he folded the paper in two, tapping it several times with his fingers as he passed it across to me.

“Look, my dear,” he said. “The most wonderful thing!”

I took the newspaper and glanced at the page he had indicated. The article seemed to have something to do with a great conference that was scheduled to take place in London before Christmas in order to discuss affairs related to the North American continent. I read through a few paragraphs but quickly became lost in the political language, which seemed designed both to provoke and intrigue the reader simultaneously, before looking back at Father in confusion. He had never before shown any interest in American matters. Indeed, he had professed his belief on more than one occasion that those who lived on the opposite side of the Atlantic Ocean were nothing more than barbarous, antagonistic scoundrels who should never have been permitted independence, an act of disloyalty to the Crown for which the name of Portland should for ever after be damned.

“Well, what of it?” I asked. “You don’t plan on attending as a protester, surely? The museum would take a very dim view of your engaging in political matters, I think.”

“What?” he asked, confused by my response, before shaking his head quickly. “No, no,” he said. “Not the article about those villains. Leave them well alone, they have made their beds and they may lie in them and be damned for all I care. No, look to the left. The advertisement at the side of the page.”

I picked up the paper again and realized immediately what he was referring to. It was announced that Charles Dickens, the world-famous novelist, would read from his work the following evening, Friday, in a Knightsbridge speakers’ hall, a venue no more than a half hour’s walk from where we lived. Those who wished to attend were advised to come early, as it was well known that Mr. Dickens always attracted a substantial and enthusiastic audience.

“We must go, Eliza!” cried Father, beaming in delight and taking a mouthful of herring to celebrate.

Outside, a slate fell from the roof, unsettled by the wind, and crashed in the yard. I could hear movement in the eaves.

I bit my lip and read the advertisement again. Father had been suffering from a persistent cough that had weighed heavily on his chest for more than a week, and it was showing no sign of improvement. He had attended a doctor two days before and been prescribed a bottle of some green, glutinous liquid which I had to force him to take but which did not, in my view, appear to be doing much good. If anything, he seemed to be growing worse.

“Do you think it’s wise?” I asked. “Your illness has not quite passed yet and the weather is so inclement. You would be sensible to remain indoors in front of the fireplace for another few days, don’t you agree?”

“Nonsense, my dear,” he said, shaking his head, looking dismayed that I might deny him this great treat. “I’m almost entirely recovered, I assure you. By tomorrow night I shall be myself again.”

As if to belie that statement he immediately let forth a deep and sustained cough that forced him to turn away from me, his face growing red, his eyes streaming with tears. I ran to the kitchen and poured a glass of water, set it before him and he took a deep draught, finally smiling at me with an expression that suggested mischief. “It’s just working its way out of my system,” he said. “I assure you that I’m improving by the hour.”

I glanced out the window. Had it been springtime, had the sun been shining through the branches of the blossoming trees, I might have felt more persuaded by his argument. But it was not springtime, it was autumn. And it seemed imprudent to me that he would risk further ill health for the sake of hearing Mr. Dickens speak in public when the novelist’s words could be more honestly located between the covers of his novels.

“Let’s see how you feel tomorrow,” I said, an attempt at conciliation, for surely no decision needed to be reached just yet.

“No, let us decide now and be done with it,” he insisted, setting the water aside and reaching for his pipe. He tapped the remains of last night’s fug into his saucer before refilling it with the particular brand of tobacco that he had favoured since he was a young man. A familiar scent of cinnamon and chestnuts drifted through the air towards me; Father’s tobacco held a strong infusion of the spice and whenever I detected it elsewhere it always recalled the warmth and the comfort of home. “The museum has permitted me to remain away from my post until the end of the week. I shall stay indoors all day today and tomorrow and then in the evening we shall don our greatcoats and go together to hear Mr. Dickens speak. I would not miss it for the world.”

I sighed and nodded, knowing that for all he relied upon my advice, this was one decision upon which he was determined to have his way.

“Capital!” he cried, striking a match and allowing it to burn for a few seconds to disperse the sulphur before holding it to the chamber and sucking on the bit so contentedly that I could not help but smile at how much pleasure it afforded him. The darkness of the room, coupled with the mixed light from candles, fire and pipe, made his skin seem ghostly thin and my smile diminished slightly to recognize how much he was ageing. When had our roles altered so much, I wondered, that I, the daughter, should have to grant permission for an outing to him, the parent?

Chapter Two

FATHER HAD ALWAYS been an impassioned reader. He maintained a carefully selected library in his ground-floor study, a room to which he would retire when he wanted to be alone with his thoughts and memories. One wall housed a series of volumes dedicated to his particular study, entomology, a subject that had fascinated him since childhood. As a boy, he told me, he rather horrified his parents by keeping dozens of samples of living insects in a glass box in the corner of his bedroom. In the opposite corner he kept a second display case, exhibiting their corpses post mortem. The natural progression of the insects from one side of the room to the other was a source of great satisfaction to him. He did not want to see them die, of course, preferring to study their habits and interactions while they were still alive, but he was industrious in keeping a series of journals relating to their behaviour during development, maturity and decomposition. Naturally the maids protested at having to clean the room—one even resigned in protest at being asked—and his mama refused to enter it. (His family had money back then, hence the presence of domestics. An older brother, dead many years by now, had squandered the inheritance and so we had enjoyed few such extravagances.)

Gathered next to the volumes describing the life cycles of queen termites, the intestinal tracts of longhorn beetles and the mating habits of strepsiptera, was a series of dossiers that gathered his correspondence over the years with Mr. William Kirby, his particular mentor, who had offered him his first paid employment in 1832, when Father had just acquired his majority, as an assistant at a new museum in Norwich. Subsequent to this, Mr. Kirby had taken Father with him to London to help with the establishment of the Entomological Society, a role which would in time lead to his becoming curator of insects at the British Museum, a position he loved. I shared no such passion. Insects rather repelled me.

Mr. Kirby had died some sixteen years earlier but Father still enjoyed re-reading their letters and notes, taking pleasure in following the progress of acquisition which had led the society, and ultimately the museum, to be in possession of such a fine collection.

All of these, “the insect books” as I facetiously referred to them, were shelved carefully, with a curious order that only Father truly understood, on the wall next to his desk. Gathered together on the opposite wall, however, next to a window and a reading chair where the light was much better, was a much smaller collection of books, all novels, and the most dominant author on those shelves was of course Mr. Dickens, who had no peer in Father’s mind.

“If only he would write a novel about a cicada or a grasshopper instead of an orphan,” I remarked once. “Why, you would be in heaven then, I think.”

“My dear, you are forgetting The Cricket on the Hearth,” replied Father, whose knowledge of the novelist’s work was second to none. “Not to mention that little family of spiders who set up home in Miss Havisham’s uneaten wedding cake. Or Bitzer’s lashes in Hard Times. How does he describe them? Like the antennae of busy insects, if memory serves. No, insects appear regularly throughout Dickens” work. It is only a matter of time before he devotes a more substantial volume to them. He is a true entomologist, I believe.”

Having read most of these novels myself, I am not so certain that this is true, but it was not for the insects that Father read Dickens, it was for the stories. Indeed, the first time I remember Father smiling again after Mother’s passing, in the wake of my return from my aunts’ home in Cornwall, was when he was re-reading The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club, whose protagonist could always reduce him to tears of laughter.

“Eliza, you must read this,” he said to me in my fourteenth year, thrusting a copy of Bleak House into my hands. “It is a work of extraordinary merit and much more attuned to the times than those penny fancies you favour.” I opened the volume with a heavy heart which would grow heavier still as I tried to discern the meaning and intent of the lawsuit of Jarndyce vs. Jarndyce, but of course he was quite right, for once I had battled through those opening chapters the story opened itself up to me and I became deeply sympathetic to the experiences of Esther Summerson, not to mention utterly captivated by the romance pursued between her and Dr. Woodcourt, an honest man who loves her despite her unfortunate physical appearance. (In this, I could relate quite well to Esther, although she had of course lost her looks to the smallpox while I had never found mine in the first place.)

Prior to his bout of ill health, Father had always been a vigorous man. Regardless of the weather, he walked to and from the museum every morning and evening, discounting the omnibus that would have taken him almost directly from our front door to the museum entrance. When, for a brief few years, we had the care of a mongrel dog named Bull’s Eye, a far kinder and more temperate creature than Bill Sikes’ mistreated companion, he would take further exercise twice daily, taking the dog into Hyde Park for a constitutional, throwing a stick for him in Kensington Gardens or allowing him to run free along the banks of the Serpentine where, on one occasion, he claimed to have spotted the Princess Helena seated by the waterside weeping. (Why? I do not know. He approached her, enquiring after her health, but she waved him away.) He was never late to bed and slept soundly through the night. He ate carefully, did not drink to excess, and was neither too thin nor too fat. There was no reason to believe that he would not live to a good age. And yet he did not.

Perhaps I should have been more forceful in attempting to dissuade him from attending Mr. Dickens’ talk but in my heart I knew that, although he liked to give the impression that he deferred to me on domestic matters, there was nothing I could say that would prevent him from making the journey across the park to Knightsbridge. Despite his ardour as a reader, he had never yet had the pleasure of hearing the great author speak in public and it was well known that the performances the novelist gave on stage were the equal, if not the superior, of anything which might have been found in the playing houses of Drury Lane or Shaftesbury Avenue. And so I said nothing, I submitted to his authority, and agreed that we might go.

“Don’t fuss, Eliza,” he said as we left the house that Friday evening when I suggested that, at the very least, he should wear a second muffler for it was shockingly cold out and, although the rain had held off all day, the skies were turning to grey. But Father did not like being mollycoddled and chose to ignore my advice.

We made our way, arm in arm, towards Lancaster Gate, passing the Italian Gardens on our left as we bisected Hyde Park through the central path. Emerging some twenty minutes later from the Queen’s Gate, I thought I saw a familiar face appearing through the fog and, when I narrowed my eyes to make out the visage, I gasped, for was this not the same countenance that I had seen in the mirror the previous morning, the reflection of my own late mother? I pulled Father closer to me, stopping on the street in disbelief, and he turned to look at me in surprise just as the lady in question appeared from the miasma and nodded a greeting in my direction. It was not Mother of course—how could it have been?—but a lady who might have been her sister, or a cousin, for the resemblance around the eyes and brow was uncanny.

The rain began almost immediately then, falling heavily, great drops tumbling on our heads and coats as people ran for shelter. I shivered; a ghost walked over my grave. A large oak tree a little further along the pavement offered shelter and I pointed towards it but Father shook his head, tapping his index finger against his pocket-watch.

“We’ll be there in five minutes if we hurry,” he said, marching along the street faster now. “We might miss it entirely if we seek refuge.”

I cursed myself for having forgotten my umbrella, which I had left by the front door during the business about the muffler, and so we ran through the forming puddles towards our destination unprotected and when we arrived, we were soaked through. I shivered in the vestibule, peeling my sodden gloves from my hands, and longed to be back in front of the fireplace in our comfortable home. Beside me, Father began a fit of coughing that seemed to build from the very depths of his soul and I despised those other entrants who glanced at him contemptuously as they passed. It took a few minutes for him to recover and I was for hailing a hansom cab to take us home again but he would hear none of this and marched ahead of me into the hall, and what, in the circumstances, could I do but follow?

Inside, perhaps a thousand people were gathered together, equally damp and uncomfortable, a stench of wet wool and perspiration pervading the atmosphere. I looked around, hoping to find a quieter part of the room for us to sit, but almost every chair was taken by now and we had no choice but to choose two empty seats in the centre of a row, surrounded by shivering, sneezing audience members. Fortunately we did not need to wait long, for within a few minutes Mr. Dickens himself appeared to tumultuous applause and we stood to receive him, cheering loudly to his evident delight, for he stretched his arms wide as if to take us all into his embrace, acknowledging the wild reception as if it was entirely his due.

He showed no sign of wanting the ovation to subside and it was perhaps five minutes more before he finally moved to the front of the stage, waving his hands to indicate that we might suspend our admiration for a few moments, and permitted us to take our seats once again. He wore a sallow expression and his hair and beard were rather dishevelled but his suit and waistcoat were of such a rich fabric that I felt a curious urge to feel the texture beneath my fingers. I wondered about his life. Was it true that he moved as easily in the back alleys of London’s East End as he did in the privileged corridors of Balmoral Castle, where the Queen in her mourning had reputedly invited him to perform? Was he as comfortable in the company of thieves, pickpockets and prostitutes as he was in the society of bishops, cabinet ministers and leaders of industry? In my innocence, I could not imagine what it would be to be such a worldly man, famous on two sides of the ocean, beloved by all.

He stared out at us now with a hint of a smile on his face.

“There are ladies present tonight,” he began, his voice echoing across the chamber. “Naturally I am delighted by this but also distressed for I hope that none of you are of the sensitive disposition that is peculiar to your sex. For, my dear readers, my friends, my literati, I do not propose to entertain you this evening with some of the more preposterous utterances of that delightful creature Sam Weller. Nor do I plan on uplifting your spirits through the bravery of my beloved boy Master Copperfield. Neither shall I seek to stir your emotions through a retelling of the last days of that unfortunate angel Little Nell Trent, may God have mercy on her soul.” He hesitated, allowing our anticipation to build, and we watched him, already captivated by his presence. “Instead,” he continued after a long pause, his voice growing deep and mellifluous now, the words emerging slowly, “I intend to read a ghost story that I have only recently completed, one which is scheduled to appear in the Christmas number of All the Year Round. It is a most terrifying tale, ladies and gentlemen, designed to stir the blood and unsettle the senses. It speaks of the paranormal, of the undead, of those pitiful creatures who wander the afterlife in search of eternal reconciliation. It contains a character who is neither alive nor deceased, neither sentient nor spirit. I wrote it to chill the blood of my readers and despatch ghouls into the beating heart of their dreams.”

As he said this a cry went up from halfway down the hall and I turned my head, as did most of those in attendance, to see a young woman of about my own age, twenty-one, throwing her hands in the air and running down the aisle in fright. I sighed and secretly despised her for disgracing her sex.

“Should any other ladies wish to leave,” said Mr. Dickens, who appeared to be delighted by this interruption, “might I urge you to do so now? I would not like to interrupt the flow of the story and the time has come for me to begin.”

At these words, a small boy appeared from the side of the stage, approached the novelist and offered a low bow, before thrusting a sheaf of pages into Mr. Dickens’ hand. The boy ran off, the writer glanced at what he held, looked about him with a wild expression on his face and began to read.

“Halloa! Below there!” he shouted in such an extraordinary and unexpected roar that I could not help but jump in my seat. A lady behind me uttered an oath and a gentleman on the aisle dropped his spectacles. Apparently enjoying the reaction that his cry had caused, Mr. Dickens paused for a few moments before continuing, whereupon I quickly found myself entranced by his tale. A single spotlight illuminated his pale face and his tone fluctuated between characters, describing fear, confusion and distress with only a slight change of modulation to his tone. His sense of timing was impeccable as he said one thing that made us laugh, then another that made us feel unsettled and then a third that made us leap in fright. He portrayed the two characters at the centre of the story—a signalman who worked by a railway tunnel and a visitor to that place—with such gusto that one almost believed that there were two actors on stage performing either role. The tale itself was, as he had suggested in his introduction, a disconcerting one, centring on the signalman’s belief that a spectre was informing him of calamities to come. The ghost had appeared once and a terrible crash had ensued; he had appeared a second time and a lady had died in the railway carriage as it passed. It had appeared a third time more recently, gesticulating wildly, urging the signalman to get out of the way, but as yet no misfortune had occurred and the nervous fellow was distressed at the thought of what horror might lie ahead. I considered Mr. Dickens rather devilish in the manner in which he took pleasure in stirring the emotions of his audience. When he knew that we were scared, he would incite us further, building on the threat and menace he had laid out for us and then, when we were certain that a terrible thing was about to happen, he would let us down, peace would be restored and we who had been holding our collective breaths in anticipation of some fresh terror were free to exhale and sigh and feel that all was well in the world once again, which was when he took us by surprise with a single sentence, making us scream when we thought we could relax, terrifying us into the depths of our very souls and allowing himself a brief smile at how easily he could manipulate our emotions.

As he read, I began to fear that I might not sleep that night, so certain was I that I was surrounded by the spirits of those who had left their corporeal form behind but had not yet been admitted through the gates of heaven and so were left to trawl through the world, crying aloud, desperate to be heard, causing disarray and torment wherever they went, uncertain when they would be released to the peace of the afterlife and the quiet promise of eternal rest.

When Mr. Dickens finished speaking, he bowed his head and there was silence from the audience for perhaps ten seconds before we burst as one into applause, leaping to our feet, crying out for more. I turned to look at Father who, rather than appearing as thrilled as I had anticipated, wore a pale expression, a sheen of perspiration gleaming on his face, as he inhaled and exhaled in laboured gasps, staring at the floor beneath him, his fists clenched in a mixture of determination to recover his breath and a fear that he might never do so.

In his hands, he clutched a handkerchief stained with blood.

Departing the theatre into the wet and cold night, I was still trembling from the dramatics of the reading and felt certain that I was surrounded by apparitions and spirits, but Father seemed to have recovered himself and declared that it was quite the most enjoyable evening he had spent in many years.

“He’s every bit as good an actor as he is a writer,” he pronounced as we made our way back across the park, reversing our earlier walk, the rain starting yet again as we marched along, the fog making it almost impossible for us to see more than a few steps ahead of ourselves.

“I believe he often takes part in dramatics,” I said. “At his own home and the homes of his friends.”

“Yes, I’ve read that,” agreed Father. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful to be invited to—”

Another coughing fit overtook him and he struggled for air as he bent over, assuming an undignified position on the street.

“Father,” I said, putting my arm around his shoulders as I attempted to right him. “We must get you home. The sooner you are out of those wet clothes and lying in a hot bath the better it will be.”

He nodded and struggled on, coughing and sneezing as we leaned on each other for support. To my relief the rain came to an abrupt halt as we rounded Bayswater Road for Brook Street, but with every step I took I could feel my feet growing more and more soaked through my shoes and dreaded to think of how wet Father’s must be. Finally we were home and he forced himself into the metal bathtub for a half hour before changing into his nightshirt and gown and joining me in the parlour.

“I shall never forget tonight, Eliza,” he remarked when we were seated side by side by the fire, sipping on hot tea and eating buttered toast, the room filled again by the scent of cinnamon and chestnuts from his pipe. “He was a capital fellow.”

“I found him truly terrifying,” I replied. “I enjoy his books almost as much as you, of course, but I wish he had read from one of his dramatic novels. I don’t care for ghost stories.”

“You’re frightened by them?”

“Unsettled,” I said, shaking my head. “I think any story which concerns itself with the afterlife and with forces that the human mind cannot truly understand risks disquiet for the reader. Although I don’t think I’ve ever experienced fear in the way that others do. I don’t understand what it is to be truly frightened, just how it feels to be disconcerted or uncomfortable. The signalman in the story, for example. He was terrified at the horror he knew was sure to come his way. And that woman in the audience who ran screaming from the hall. I can’t imagine what it must feel like to be that scared.”

“Don’t you believe in ghosts, Eliza?” he asked and I turned to look at him, surprised by the question. It was dark in the room and he was illuminated only by the glow of the reddened coals that made his eyes appear darker than usual and his skin glow with the colour of the sporadic flames.

“I don’t know,” I said, uncertain how I truly felt about the question. “Why, do you?”

“I believe that woman was an imbecile,” declared Father. “That’s what I believe. Mr. Dickens had barely even begun to speak when she took fright. She should have been excluded from the start if she was of such a sensitive disposition.”

“The truth is I’ve always preferred his more realistic tales,” I continued, looking away. “The novels that explore the lives of orphans, his tales of triumph over adversity. Masters Copperfield, Twist and Nickleby will always hold a greater place in my affections than Mr. Scrooge or Mr. Marley.”

“Marley was dead, to begin with,” stated Father in a deep voice, imitating the writer so well that I shuddered. “There is no doubt whatever about that.”

“Don’t,” I said, laughing despite myself. “Please.”

I fell asleep quite soon after going to bed but it was a fitful and unhappy sleep. My dreams were supplanted by nightmares. I encountered spirits where I should have undertaken adventures. My landscape was dark graveyards and irregular vistas rather than Alpine peaks or Venetian canals. But nevertheless I slept through the night and when I woke, feeling groggy and out of sorts, the morning light was already coming through my curtains. I looked at my wall clock; it was almost ten past seven and I cursed myself, knowing that I would certainly be late for work and still had Father’s breakfast to prepare. However, when I entered his room a few minutes later to see whether his condition had improved in the night, I could see immediately that he was far more ill than I had previously realized. The rain of the evening before had taken hold of him and the chill seemed to have entered into his very bones. He was deathly pale, his skin damp and clammy, and I took great fright, dressing immediately and running to the end of our mews where Dr. Connolly, a friend and physician of long standing, lived. He came back with me and did everything in his power, I have no doubt of that, but he told me there was nothing we could do but wait for the fever to break, or hope that it would, and I spent the rest of the day by Father’s bedside, praying to a god who did not often trouble my thoughts, and by early evening, when the sun had descended again to be replaced by our perpetual and tormenting London fog, I felt Father’s grasp of my hand grow weaker until he slipped away from me entirely, gathered quietly to his reward, leaving me an orphan like those characters I had spoken of the night before, if one can truly be called an orphan at twenty-one years of age.

Chapter Three

FATHER’S FUNERAL TOOK place the following Monday morning in St. James’s Church in Paddington and I took some comfort in the fact that half a dozen of his co-workers from the British Museum, along with three of my own colleagues from St. Elizabeth’s School where I had employment as a teacher of small girls, attended to offer their sympathies. We had no living relatives and so there were very few mourners, among them the widow who lived next door to us but who had always seemed loath to acknowledge me in the street; a polite but shy young student whom Father had been mentoring in his insect studies; our part-time domestic girl, Jessie; and Mr. Billington, the tobacconist on Connaught Street who had been providing Father with his cinnamon-infused tobacco for as long as I could recall and whose presence made me feel rather emotional and grateful.

Mr. Heston, Father’s immediate superior in the Department of Entomology, held my right hand in both of his, crushing it slightly, and told me how much he had respected Father’s intellect, while one Miss Sharpton, an educated woman whose employment had initially caused Father some disquiet, informed me that she would miss his lively wit and excellent humour, a remark that rather astonished me but which I nevertheless found consoling. (Was there a side to Father that I did not know? A man who told jokes, charmed young ladies, was filled with bonhomie? It was possible, I supposed, but still something of a surprise.) I rather admired Miss Sharpton and wished that I could have had an opportunity to know her better; I was aware that she had attended the Sorbonne, where she was awarded a degree, although naturally the English universities did not recognize it, and apparently her own family had cut her off on account of it. Father told me once that he had asked her whether she was looking forward to the day when she would get married and thus not have to work any more; her reply—that she would rather drink ink—had scandalized him but intrigued me.

Outside the church, my own employer, Mrs. Farnsworth, who had taught me as a girl and then hired me as a teacher, informed me that I must take the rest of the week to grieve but that hard work could be an extraordinary restorative and she looked forward to welcoming me back to school the following Monday. She was not being heartless; she had lost a husband the year before, and a son the year preceding that. Grief was a condition that she understood.

Mercifully, the rain stayed off while we laid Father to rest but the fog fell so deeply around us that I could barely make out the coffin as it descended into the ground and, perhaps a blessing, I missed that moment when one is aware of laying eyes on the casket for the final time. It seemed to be simply swallowed up by the mist, and only when the vicar came over to shake my hand and wish me well did I realize that the burial had come to an end and that there was nothing left for me to do but go home.

I chose not to do so immediately, however, and instead walked around the graveyard for a time, peering through the haze at the names and dates etched into the tombstones. Some seemed quite natural—men and women who had lived into their sixtieth or, in some cases, their seventieth years. Others felt aberrant, children taken while they were still in their infancy, young mothers buried with their stillborn babies in their arms. I came across the grave of an Arthur Covan, an erstwhile colleague of mine, and shuddered to remember our one-time friendship and his subsequent disgrace. We had developed a connection for a brief period, Arthur and I, one that I had hoped would blossom into something more, and the memory of those feelings, combined with the knowledge of the damage that troubled young man had caused, only served to upset me further.

Realizing that this was not perhaps a sensible place for me to linger, I looked around for the gate but found myself quite lost. The fog grew thicker around me until I could no longer read the words on the headstones, and to my right—extraordinary thing!—I was certain I heard a couple laughing. I turned, wondering who would behave in such a fashion here, but could see no one. Uneasy, I reached a hand out before me and could make nothing out beyond my gloved fingertip. “Hello,” I said, raising my voice only a little, uncertain whether I truly wanted a response, but answer came there none. I reached a wall where I hoped for a gate, then turned and almost fell over a group of ancient headstones piled together in a corner, and now my heart began to beat faster in anxiety. I told myself to be calm, to breathe, then find the way out, but as I turned round I let out a cry when I was confronted by a young girl, no more than seven years of age, standing in the centre on the path, wearing no coat despite the weather.

“My brother drowned,” she told me and I opened my mouth to reply but could find no words. “He was told not to go towards the river, but he did. He was disobedient. And he drowned. Mama is sitting by his grave.”

“Where?” I asked, and she stretched a hand out, pointing behind me. I spun round but could see no lady through the vapour. I looked back only to discover the girl turning on her heels and breaking into a run, disappearing into the mist. Panic rose inside me; it might have developed into an hysteria had I not forced myself to walk quickly along the paths until finally, to my great relief, I was returned to the street, where I almost collided with an overweight man I was quite certain was our local Member of Parliament.

Walking home, I passed the Goat and Garter, a public house I had of course never entered, and was astonished to observe Miss Sharpton seated by the window, drinking a small porter and engrossed in a textbook while she made notes in a jotter. Behind her I could see the expressions on the men’s faces—naturally, they were appalled and assumed that she was some sort of deviant—but I suspected that their opinions would have caused her not a moment’s concern. How I longed to enter that establishment and take my place beside her! Tell me, Miss Sharpton, I might have said, what shall I do with my life now? How can I improve my position and prospects? Help me, please, for I am alone in the world and have neither friend nor benefactor. Tell me what I should do next.

Other people had friends. Of course they did; it was the natural way of things. There are those who are comfortable in the company of others, with the sharing of intimacies and common secrets. I have never been such a person. I was a studious girl who loved to be at home with Father. And I was not pretty. In school, the other girls formed alliances which always excluded me. They called me names; I will not repeat them here. They made fun of my unshapely body, my pale skin, my untamed hair. I do not know why I was born this way. Father was a handsome man, after all, and Mother a great beauty. But somehow their progeny was not blessed with similar good looks.

I would have given anything for a friend at that moment, a friend like Miss Sharpton, who might have persuaded me not to make the rash decision which would nearly destroy me. Which still might.

I looked through the window of the Goat and Garter and willed her to glance up and spot me, to wave her arms and insist that I join her, and when she failed to do so I turned with a heavy heart and continued for home, where I sat in my chair by the fireplace for the rest of the afternoon and, for the first time since Father’s death, wept.

In the late afternoon, I fed some more coals on to the fire and, determined to achieve some sort of normality, made my way to the butcher’s shop on Norfolk Place, where I purchased two pork chops. I wasn’t particularly hungry but felt that if I lingered at home all day without food I might sink into an inexorable melancholy and, despite the early nature of my grief, I was determined that I would not allow this to happen. Passing the corner shop I even decided to treat myself to a quarter pound of boiled sweets and picked up a copy of The Morning Post for later perusal. (If Miss Sharpton could attend the Sorbonne, after all, then surely I could at least familiarize myself with the events of our own nation.)

Back home again, my spirits sank to a new low when I realized my error. Two pork chops? Who was the other chop for? My habits had superseded my needs. I fried them both, however, ate the first mournfully with a boiled potato, and fed the second to the widow-next-door’s spaniel, for I could not bear either to save it for later or to eat it now. (And Father, who loved dogs, would I’m sure have been delighted by my charity.)

As evening fell, I returned to my armchair, placed two candles on a side table, the bag of boiled sweets on my lap, and opened the newspaper, flicking through it quickly, unable to concentrate on any stories and almost ready to throw the entire thing on the fire when I came upon the “Situations Available” page, where a particular notice caught my attention.

An “H. Bennet,” of Gaudlin Hall in the county of Norfolk, was advertising for a governess to attend to the care and education of the children of the house; the position needed to be filled without delay by a qualified candidate and the remuneration was promised to be satisfactory. Applications should be despatched immediately. Little more was said. “H. Bennet,” whoever he was, did not specify how many children required supervision, nor did he offer any details regarding their ages. The whole thing lacked a certain elegance, as if it had been written in haste and submitted to the newspaper without proper consideration, but for some reason I found myself drawn to the urgency of the appeal, reading it from start to finish over and over, wondering what this Gaudlin Hall might look like and what kind of fellow H. Bennet might be.

I had only been outside London once in my life and that was a dozen years before, when I was nine years old, in the immediate aftermath of my mother’s death. Our small family had lived together in a state of considerable harmony during my early childhood. My parents had a marked characteristic that distinguished them from those of most of my school friends: they were affectionate towards each other. The things which seemed natural in our home—the fact that they parted every morning with a kiss, that they sat side by side in the evening reading their books rather than in separate parlours, that they shared a bedroom and laughed together and were unsparing in how often they touched or shared a joke or simply remarked upon how happy they were—were alien in the homes of others. I knew this quite well. On the rare occasions when I visited the houses of neighbouring girls, I found a distance between their parents, as if they were not two people who had met and fallen in love, exchanged intimacies and joined each other at an altar with the purpose of spending their lives together, but a pair of strangers, cell mates perhaps, thrust into a mutual confinement with little in common except the decades that they were forced to endure each other’s company.

My parents could not have been more different in their behaviour, but if their affection towards each other was obvious, it was as nothing compared to the fondness they displayed towards me. They did not spoil me; staunch Anglicans both, they believed too much in discipline and self-restraint for that. But they delighted in my presence and treated me with great kindness and we were a happy group until, when I was eight, they sat me down and informed me that I was to have a younger brother or sister in the spring. Naturally they were delighted, for they had hoped for a long time to be blessed with a second child and, with the passing of the years, they had grown to believe that it was not to be. But to their great delight, they announced that our small family of three would soon expand to four.

I confess that when I look back on those months, I did not comport myself with as much dignity as I wish I had. I did not feel the same degree of joy that my parents felt at the notion of welcoming a baby into our home. I had been an only child for so long that selfishness may have hidden in my heart and displayed itself in unruly passions on a number of occasions. Indeed, so ill behaved was I, so uncharacteristically naughty, that Father took me aside during the last month of Mother’s confinement and told me that I was not to worry, that nothing would change, for there was enough love in our house to be shared with a new baby, and that I would look back one day and find it hard to imagine how I had ever done without this younger brother or sister, whom I should very soon grow to love.

Sadly, this expectation, which I had begun to come around to, was not to be fulfilled. Mother struggled during her delivery, giving birth to a second daughter who, within a few days, would be lying in a coffin, safe in the arms of the lady who had carried her for nine months, under a headstone that read: Angeline Caine, 1813–1855, beloved wife and mother, and baby Mary. Father and I were now alone.

Naturally, given his great love for my mother, Father struggled in the immediate aftermath of her death, secluding himself in his study, unable to read, barely eating, succumbing too often to the vice of alcohol, neglecting his work and his friends and, most importantly of all, me, a situation which, had it been allowed to continue, might have led us both in time to the workhouse or the debtors’ gaol, but fortunately matters were taken in hand by the arrival of Father’s two elder sisters, Hermione and Rachel, who appeared unannounced on a visit from Cornwall and were shocked to discover the conditions in which their brother and niece were now living. They took it upon themselves to clean the house from top to bottom, despite Father’s protests. He tried to chase them out with a sweeping brush, as one might expel some unwanted vermin, but they were having none of it and refused to leave until the obvious decline of our living standards could be reversed. They took charge of Mother’s clothes and personal effects, saving some of the more precious items—her few pieces of jewellery, for example, a pretty dress that I might grow into in a decade or so—and distributing the rest among the poor of the parish, an act which drove Father into a fury but, wise and temperate ladies, they took little notice of their brother’s anger and simply got on with things.

“We refuse to pander to self-indulgence,” they informed me as they took charge of our pantry, disposing of the food that had gone stale and replacing it with fresh produce. “We have never been ones to wallow in misfortune. And you must not wallow either, Eliza,” they insisted, sitting on either side of me and attempting to balance kindness and understanding with disapproval of our new, slovenly ways. “Your mother has passed, she is with the Lord now, it is a sad and terrible thing but there it is. Life for you and our brother must go on.”

“Life, as I know it, is at an end,” replied Father bitterly, standing in the doorway and making us jump in surprise for we had not realized that he was eavesdropping on the conversation. “My only wish now is to join my dear Angeline in that dark place from which no man may return.”

“Stuff and nonsense, Wilfred,” said Aunt Rachel, standing up and marching across to him, hands on her hips, her expression one of fury mixed with compassion, both emotions struggling to attain the upper hand. “I’ve never heard such rot in all my days. And don’t you think it cruel to say such a thing in front of the child when she has already suffered such a terrible loss?”

Father’s face descended into the very picture of misery—he did not wish to cause me further pain but was suffering so badly that he could not resist his self-indulgent language—and when I looked at him and he turned away, unable to meet my eyes, I burst into tears, feeling for all the world that I wanted nothing more than to run out on to the street and leave this place as far behind me as I could, to disappear into the nameless crowds of London and become an indigent, a traveller, a nobody. Before I knew it my aunts were fussing around the both of us, chastising us and comforting us in equal parts, trying to control their natural frustration. It soon became clear that Father was too deeply lost in grief to take care of me and so it was decided that I should return to Cornwall with Aunt Hermione for the summer, while Aunt Rachel stayed in London to minister to her younger brother, a decision which turned out to be a very sensible one, for I spent a happy summer in the country, coming to terms with my loss and learning to cope with it, while somehow Aunt Rachel brought Father back from the depths of his despair to a place where he could take charge of his life, his responsibilities and his daughter once again. By the time I returned to London in the autumn and we were reconciled to each other, it was clear that the worst was over. We would miss Mother, of course, and we would speak of her often, but we had both grown to understand that death was a natural phenomenon, albeit a sorrowful one for those left behind, but one that every man and woman must accept as the price we pay for life.

“I let you down, I fear,” Father told me when the two of us were alone in the house again. “It will not happen another time, I promise you that. I will always look after you, Eliza. I will keep you safe.”

We made a happy, if somewhat resigned, pair in our home from that day on. Naturally, I attended to the domestic duties. I took charge of the cooking while Father’s salary allowed us to employ a maid-of-all-work, a Scottish girl called Jessie, on two afternoons a week, when she would clean the house from top to bottom and complain about the pains in her back and the arthritis in her hands, although she was only a year or two older than I. Despite her cantankerous nature, I was grateful that we could afford her, for I hated cleaning with a passion and she took that duty away from me.

At St. Elizabeth’s School, which I had attended since girlhood, I had always been an excellent student, and soon after completing my education, I was offered the position of teacher to the small girls, a position that suited me so well that it became permanent within six months. I took great pleasure in my young charges, who were between five and six years of age, teaching them the rudiments of sums and spelling, the history of the Kings and Queens of England, while preparing them for the more difficult subjects which would be theirs to endure at the hands of Miss Lewisham, into whose calloused hands I would deliver them, trembling and crying, within twelve months. It was difficult not to form an attachment to my small girls. They had such pleasant dispositions and were so entirely trusting when it came to their dealings with me, but I learned early on that if I was to thrive as a teacher—and I took it for granted that I would always be a teacher, for marriage seemed unlikely given the fact that I had no fortune, no particular place in society and, worst of all, a face that my aunt Hermione once said could curdle milk (“I don’t mean it unkindly, child,” she added, noticing my disquiet, leaving me to wonder how else she could possibly have meant it)—then I must balance affection with resilience. This notion, however, sat fine with me. I would live as a spinster, I would have my small girls to teach and the summer holidays perhaps to take a little trip—I dreamed of visiting the French Alps or the Italian city of Venice and would occasionally wonder whether I might even find paid employment as a lady’s companion during the summer months—I would take care of Father and our house. I would sympathize with Jessie about her numerous inflammations and ask her whether or not she had seen to the skirting boards yet. I would not worry about suitors, who in turn would certainly not worry about me, and I would face life with a seriousness of intent and a positive outlook. And for all this, I was content and happy.

The only slight change in these circumstances came about with the arrival of Arthur Covan as instructor to our oldest girls and with whom, as I mentioned, I formed a particular friendship. Mr. Covan arrived to us from Harrow and was taking a year’s experience in teaching before heading up to the Varsity to read classics. Arthur made me laugh—he was a fine mimic—and flattered me with his attentions. He was a handsome boy, a year younger than me, with a mop of dark hair and a ready smile. To my shame I allowed myself the most indulgent fantasies of what it might be like if we were to “step out” together, although he never did anything to encourage this delusion. And even when it all came out a few months later, when his name was in the papers and the public was baying for his blood, I still could not find it in myself to condemn him fully, although naturally I never spoke to him again. And then, of course, he took his own life. But no more of that now. I was speaking of my position at St. Elizabeth’s, not indulging in sentimental daydreams.

It was only now, with Father gone, that it occurred to me how alone I truly was and whether this simple plan for my future would be enough to satisfy all my needs. My aunts had passed away in the intervening years. I had no siblings to take care of, and none who might take care of me, no cousins in whose lives I might take an interest, and none who might take an interest in mine. I was entirely alone. Should I disappear in the middle of the night, should I be murdered as I walked home from school one day, there was no one who would miss me or question my withdrawal from society. I had been left a solitary figure.

Which, perhaps, is why the advertisement for the governess position in Norfolk seemed like such an inviting opportunity.

Should I have waited longer before making my rash decision to leave? Perhaps, but I was not in my right senses, so struck was I by the grief which had fallen upon my mind. And a knock on the front door a little later in the evening sealed the matter when I was confronted by a thug of a man who called himself Mr. Lowe—a fitting name—who informed me that the house I had grown up in did not in fact belong to Father, but that we were mere tenants, an assertion he backed up with incontrovertible paperwork.

“But I thought it would be mine now,” I said in astonishment and he smiled at me, revealing a row of yellow teeth and one black one.

“It can be if you want it,” he declared. “But here’s the rental figure and I expect my money every Tuesday without fail. Your father never let me down on that score, may God have mercy on his soul.”

“I can’t afford that,” I said. “I’m just a schoolteacher.”

“And I’m a businessman,” he snarled. “So if you can’t, then you best pack your things. Or take in a lodger. A quiet girl, that is. No men. I won’t run a bawdy house.”

I flushed, humiliated, and felt an urge to kick him. I knew not why Father had never told me that the house did not belong to him, nor why he never asked me to contribute to the rent when I found employment. At any other time I would have been deeply upset by this but it seemed at that moment like just one more trauma and, recalling the notice in the newspaper, I sat down later that night and wrote my letter of application, dropping it into the post-box first thing the following morning before I could change my mind. Tuesday and Wednesday were busy days—I sorted through some of Father’s effects and, with Jessie’s help, organized his bedroom in such a way that it betrayed few signs of its previous occupant. I wrote to Mr. Heston at the museum and he replied immediately to accept my offer of Father’s insect books and correspondence. I placed all of Mr. Dickens’ novels in a box and hid them away at the back of a wardrobe for I could not bear to look at them now. And then, on Thursday morning, a letter made its way back to me from Norfolk, expressing satisfaction with my qualifications and offering me the position without interview. I was surprised, of course. The advertisement had stressed urgency but for all that H. Bennet knew, I could have been completely wrong for the job, and yet he seemed content to place the well-being of his children in my hands.

Of course, I was uncertain whether or not such a radical transformation of my life was sensible, but now that the offer was there, I believed that a change of circumstances could be just the thing, and met with Mrs. Farnsworth in her office later that morning, tendering my notice, which she accepted with a great deal of irritability on her part, pointing out that I was leaving them high and dry in the middle of the school year and who could she possibly find to tutor the small girls at such short notice? I accepted the blame and rather played on my grief, nefarious creature, in order to avoid further scolding, and finally she could see that my mind would not be changed and reluctantly shook my hand and wished me well for the future. I left St. Elizabeth’s that afternoon torn between feelings of excitement and utter terror.

By Friday, less than a week since Father and I had made our way towards Knightsbridge in pouring rain, not even a full seven days since Mr. Dickens had entered the speakers’ hall to discover more than a thousand of his loyal readers huddled together, steaming with perspiration, I had closed up our house, dismissed Jessie with a week’s pay in lieu, and was seated on a train to a county I had never visited, to work for a family I had never met in a position I had never held before. To say that this was an eventful and emotional week would be to understate matters considerably. But to suggest that it was any more shocking than what was to come over the weeks that followed would be simply a lie.

Chapter Four

IT WAS A SURPRISINGLY sunny day when I left London. The city had contrived to kill my beloved father, but now that it had succeeded in its cruel adventure it was satisfied to be benevolent once again. I felt an antipathy towards the place as I left, an emotion that surprised me, for I had always loved the capital, but as the train pulled out of Liverpool Street Station, the sun pouring through the window and blinding my eyes, I thought it harsh and unfair, an old friend who had turned on me for no good reason and whom I was now happy to see the back of. At that moment I believed that I could lead a contented life and never lay eyes on London again.

Seated opposite me in the railway carriage was a young man of about my own age and although we had not spoken since boarding the train I allowed myself several surreptitious glances in his direction, for he was rather attractive, and I found that, however hard I tried to look away and focus my attention on the passing fields and farmlands, I kept being drawn back to his face. He reminded me of Arthur Covan, that’s the truth of it. As we pulled into Colchester, I noticed that he grew rather pale and his eyes filled with tears. He closed them for a few moments, perhaps hoping to stem their tide, but when he opened them again a few fell down his cheeks and he used his handkerchief to wipe them away. Catching me looking at him, he ran a hand across his face and I felt a desperate urge to ask him whether he was quite all right, whether he might like to talk for a little while, but whatever hurt was lingering in his heart, whatever trauma was causing him to lose control of his emotions, was not to be shared, and once the train pulled out of the station, he stood up, embarrassed by his display, and moved to a different carriage.

Of course, with the benefit of hindsight, I can see that the decisions I made that week were impulsive and foolish ones. I was lost in shock, my entire world had fallen apart over the course of seven days, and where I should have taken solace in my work, in my school, in my small girls, and yes, even in the company of the likes of Mrs. Farnsworth and Jessie, I made the hasty decision to uproot myself from everything I had ever known, the streets around Hyde Park where I had played as a child, the Serpentine that still filled me with memories of Bull’s Eye, the twists and turns of the laneways that would lead me from home to the familiarity of my classroom. I was desperate for change, but the curtains of that dark room upstairs that had claimed both my parents’ lives, and the life of my infant sister, might have been opened, the windows might have been flung wide, it might have been aired thoroughly with good, honest London air, it might have been redecorated and made inviting once again, a place to live and not to die. I was leaving all of these things behind and going to a part of the country I had never visited, and to do what? To be a governess to who knew how many children for a family who had not even sent an agent to meet with me before offering me the position. Foolish girl! You might have stayed. You might have lived a life that was happy.

The sun of London gave way to a cold wind in Stowmarket which blew against the train and made me feel rather unsettled, and by the time we reached Norwich in the early evening that in turn had been exchanged for a thick fog, the kind of pea-souper which reminded me of home, despite the fact that I was doing all I could to put that place out of my mind. As we came closer to Thorpe Station, I pulled the letter I had received the previous morning from my bag and read it thoroughly for perhaps the tenth time.

Gaudlin Hall,
24 October 1867

Dear Miss Caine,Your application received with gratitude. Your experience acceptable. You are offered paid employment as Governess, by rates and conditions specified in the Morning Post (21st October number). You are expected on the evening of the 25th, by the five o’clock train. The Gaudlin man, Heckling, will collect you in the carriage. Please do not be tardy.Sincerely,H. Bennet On reading it again, it struck me, as it had on every previous occasion, how curious a letter it was. The phrasing was so hurried, and once again there was no mention of how many children would be under my authority. And who was this “H. Bennet” who omitted the requisite “esq.” after his name? Was he a gentleman at all, or perhaps the head of a diminished household? What was his business? There was nothing to tell me. I sighed and felt a degree of anxiety as the train pulled into the station but determined to be strong, no matter what lay ahead. That, at least, would stand me in good stead in the weeks that followed.

I descended the train steps and looked around. It was almost impossible to see anything through the murky greyness of the fog but the direction that the other passengers were walking in assured me that the exit might be found if I followed them, and I began to walk even as I heard the doors of the train carriages slamming shut again for the return journey and the signalman’s whistle. Several people were running past me, making haste to board the train before it departed and, perhaps unable to see me through the mist, one collided with me, knocking my case from my hand and letting her own fall at the same time.

“Excuse me,” she said, not soundin

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