Abigale Hall (12 page)

The room fell silent save the quietly bubbling stock.

Mrs Pollard laughed. ‘I just remembered. Her name meant “pure”. Wishful thinking on behalf of her parents, wouldn't you say? Oh, Miss Haverford. I nearly forgot. Mr Brownawell would like you to join him for dinner this Friday. You'll need a proper dress. The master always dresses for dinner and none of the frocks you brought will do.'

‘Have you gone through my things?' The story had so angered Eliza that she didn't fully understand what Mrs Pollard said. Such stories shouldn't be told, not in front of her sister.

‘I'll send you into town with Mr Drewry so you can purchase some suitable fabric. Mr Brownawell is very much looking forward to meeting you, Miss Haverford.'

The housekeeper's announcement began to sink in. She was to see him, the master, Mr Brownawell. ‘And what of Rebecca?'

‘He has no need of her. Not yet.'

She was to see him, alone. Eliza expected Rebecca to pout over her exclusion, but instead she simply smiled.

‘Very well.' Unable to eat, Eliza took her plate to the compost pile outside. Aunt Bess had never gone through her things, not once. She valued privacy, Aunt Bess, even in that tiny flat. Eliza had never known what it was like to have absolutely none, until now.

As she turned to go back inside, she heard a scratching near the back door and found a young rabbit caught in a snare.

‘Poor thing. Hang on.'

Before she could release it, Mrs Pollard was by her side.

‘Ah. So it's you who's been nibbling at my garden. Rebecca, come here. What do you think of that?' She pointed to the struggling rabbit.

‘Is it hurt?' Rebecca asked.

‘I don't think so,' Eliza said. ‘Here, you can help me free him.'

‘Free him? When good meat is hard to come by?' Mrs Pollard asked. ‘That seems a waste, don't you think? Or are you city folk happy living off sardines and Spam?'

‘We have plenty of meat on the estate.'

The panicked animal was frozen in fear beneath Eliza's hand. She could feel the frantic beating of its tiny heart through the soft brown fur.

‘So we allow it to eat most of our vegetables? We've had a hard enough winter without having this vermin destroy what little we have. Go on, Rebecca. You know what to do.'

Rebecca knelt by her side and replaced Eliza's hand with her own.

‘It's all right, Liza. I've done this before. You don't have to be scared.' Rebecca petted the rabbit with one hand while she reached for the stone doorstop with the other. ‘Hello, little rabbit. Don't worry. It'll all be over soon. Shh.'

The rabbit watched Eliza until Rebecca smashed the stone once, twice, three times against his head, crushing his small skull. Bits of blood splattered their dresses. Eliza watched the rabbit's long feet twitch, again hearing the song as its fur became brittle with blood.

Run rabbit, run rabbit,
run run run . . .

Their house grew to Thornecroft's size, but the rooms shrank once she stepped inside. Mother was in the kitchen, stirring explosives in the mixing bowl. She let Rebecca taste the dough. Eliza wanted to help but was shooed away.

You're needed elsewhere
, said Mother's voice, and she put the bomb in the oven.

Eliza left the kitchen and entered Mr Brownawell's small parlour which should not have been there, but it was part of her life now, and she needed to accept that. The red calfskin armchair was by the fire with Beloved Victoria curled upon it, a bandage round her eyes. Her hair kept her dry from the water dripping through the ceiling, though it wasn't meant to rain tonight.

Read to me
, said Father's voice, so Eliza chose a book from the shelf. The rabbit watched, nose twitching, as she opened the leather cover. Blood flowed freely from the pages. She threw the book into the fire and the flames came towards her like Mother's arms outstretched.

Eliza screamed.

Her hands. They were clean. But the floor . . . Why was she on the floor? She looked up at the empty bed. Had she fallen? No. The memory of last night returned to her. She had chosen the floor. She stretched her stiff body as she returned the pillows and top sheet to the bed. It would only be for another night or two, until she grew accustomed to the idea of someone dying in her bed.

After sweeping the north hall that morning, she spent her afternoon repairing the doll she decided to call Victoria. Handling the doll made her uncomfortable, like hearing nails drawn against a blackboard, but, for Rebecca's sake, she needed to repress her own dislike. Ever since they arrived at the manor, Rebecca seemed to be slipping into her old ways, everything the hospital fixed breaking once again. Eliza knew she needed to do whatever she could to hold her sister together. She warmed some paraffin wax in her fingers and inserted it where the eyes belonged. After smoothing it into the gouges, she took up her pen and began drawing Victoria new eyes, trying to think how such damage could have occurred.

She imagined Mr Brownawell as a young man, perhaps attractive. As a wealthy landowner, women would have fought for his attentions no matter his appearance. Yet there was only one woman for this Mr Darcy of Wales – the paintings made it obvious – beautiful, young Victoria. Yet what became of his beloved? An illness, surely, before they could be married. Consumption, perhaps. Mr Brownawell must have sat by her bedside for hours, holding her hand as she succumbed to fever. Day after day he would whisper in her ear, telling her of his love for her, of all the wonderful things they would do together once she was well. It was not to be. Beloved Victoria would pass into eternal sleep, using her last breath to return his declaration of love. He would shake her, beg her to wake, even slap her, to no avail.

Consumed by grief, Mr Brownawell would lash out at anyone who came near, destroy everything that reminded him of their love. In the room meant for children now never to be, there would sit the doll, perched on a small four-poster bed. It was made to match his love, a perfect replica in miniature that was now no more alive than its likeness. He would grab it and throw it across the room, but the doll was too well made and would not break. In his study was a letter opener, the silver one she gave him for his last birthday. He would run for it. Grab it from its place of pride on the desk and thrust it into the doll, desperate to blind it so that the eyes, which were so like hers, would stop gazing upon him.

It must have been this – his fiancée's death – that had made Mr Brownawell such a bitter, twisted old man. Nothing but love could turn men so cruel, and he must be a cruel man to engage a housekeeper such as Mrs Pollard, a caretaker like Mr Drewry. Eliza wondered if that would happen to Peter if she never returned. No, Peter was young. He would find another girl. She glimpsed the unfinished scarf by the wardrobe and felt a pain in her chest. If she hadn't lost their clothing cards . . .

She interrupted the thought. It would do her no good.

The eyes finished, Eliza hurried to the kitchen. Rebecca stood at the sink peeling potatoes. She attacked them with relish, humming as she sliced away the skin. The potato could easily be a rabbit, Eliza thought, and Rebecca would behave the same way.

‘Rebecca, look.' Eliza held out the doll.

‘Oh. That's nice.'

‘I know she's not finished, but doesn't she look pretty now she can see?'

‘It's only a doll, Eliza. Dolls can't see. They're not real.'

‘No, I suppose they're not. But what do you think about her hair? Is there any particular style you'd like?'

‘It doesn't matter to me.'

‘I thought you wanted me to fix her?'

Rebecca shrugged. ‘That was before.'

‘Before what? Suddenly, you don't like dolls?'

‘I don't want a doll that looks like that whore.'

Eliza's face flushed. ‘You're not to use that word.'

Rebecca gathered the peels into her hands. Eliza saw the rabbit's bloodied fur slipping through her small fingers. She set Victoria aside. ‘Rebecca?'

‘Yes?'

‘You said yesterday, about the . . . rabbit.' Her tongue tripped over the word. ‘You said you had done it before. When was that?'

‘When we were on holiday,' she said, handling a skinned potato as gently as she had the animal's corpse.

‘Holiday?'

‘During the war.'

‘You mean when we were evacuated?'

‘I don't like that word.'

‘The family you stayed with, they kept rabbits?'

‘They would catch them in the forest. I wasn't allowed to tell anyone because it was the old man's land. But I suppose it doesn't matter now.'

‘They were poachers?' Eliza fiddled with the potato peeler.

‘They said it was fine because they were poor and the old man had lots of food.'

‘But they made you do the slaughtering?'

‘Not until the camping trip. Until then, that was Mary's job. She said she came from Brixton, but I didn't like her much. She smelled like vinegar and gave me lice.' She dropped the potato in a bowl. ‘I caught her one day, crying as she came out of the bedroom. Mr Meeler followed her out. He had a red mark on his cheek and said Mary hadn't been a good girl. He wasn't sure if he could trust either of us any more, so we had to go on a camping trip to prove ourselves worthy. Could you hand me the masher?'

Eliza did so. ‘What happened on the camping trip?'

‘Oh, nothing too terrible. Mr Meeler made Mary and me sleep alone in the forest for a few nights. It wasn't too bad except it was a bit cold and he didn't give us much water.'

Eliza felt her hand close around the peeler. ‘Rebecca, what did you do?'

‘Well, it's not my fault she disappeared. There really wasn't enough water for two. And the blanket was quite small.' A little smile appeared at the corner of Rebecca's mouth, which quickly morphed into a frown. ‘Really, Eliza, must you always assume I've done something wrong?'

‘Was she ever found?'

‘Just her shoes. They were by the river, I think.' She considered it for a moment. ‘Yes, that's where I last saw them. Mary had big feet, and her shoes were too large for me. Like yours, Eliza.' She smiled.

‘Rebecca, why haven't you ever told me this?'

‘Well, I don't see why it matters. It's all in the past, isn't it? And Father told us we should forget the past. Only weak men focus on the fuck––'

‘Ouch!' Eliza sliced her finger on the peeler.

‘Is that blood?' Rebecca hurried to her side. ‘Let me see.' She held out her hand, and Eliza obliged her. ‘Why, that's not very much at all. Not nearly as much as the rabbit.' She sighed, disappointed almost, and pulled out her handkerchief to dab the red bead away then bent down and kissed the cut. ‘There. All better.'

Eliza's eyes fixated on the speck of blood now dotting Rebecca's upper lip.

‘I see you've spent the day wisely.' Mrs Pollard held the doll by the leg, pinching it betwixt her thumb and forefinger, her lip curved in a sneer.

Eliza felt a surge of protectiveness and snatched Victoria away. ‘I had a few spare moments.'

‘Then we'll have to find something to fill them. My office, Miss Haverford.' The keys clanged against her hip as she swept through.

Mrs Pollard's office was a small room off the kitchen with a low ceiling and grey stone floor. A brown trapdoor with a heavy iron ring handle rested in the centre. An antique writing desk sat on the left side before two windows which looked out onto the east lawn. On the opposite wall hung an old tapestry, the colours so faded no image could be discerned.

There was a small fireplace on the back wall with an ash-covered iron grille in front. It was into this fireplace that Mrs Pollard tossed a slip of paper while Eliza stood in the doorway, awaiting her new orders. Mrs Pollard returned to her seat at the desk while Eliza watched the flames consume the rectangular half-sheet. A part of her wanted to cry out that there was a paper shortage. Father's voice told her to keep her mouth shut.

‘Mr Brownawell would like to have your dinner in the Ancestral Parlour,' Mrs Pollard said, her eyes on the correspondence before her. ‘It hasn't been used in quite some time so you must get it into proper working order.'

‘And Rebecca?'

‘Does your sister speak English?'

‘Yes.'

‘Does she have a grasp of basic commands?'

‘Yes.'

‘Then I will give Rebecca her orders myself. You have a great deal of work to do. I suggest you get on with it. I would hate to see Mr Brownawell's temper if the room is not prepared by Friday.'

Eliza left without giving a curtsey. It was a minor rebellion, she knew, but it brought her pleasure all the same. Rebecca stood on the wooden step stool, washing the potato peeler.

‘Rebecca, Mrs Pollard would like to see you.'

‘All right!' She dropped the peeler onto the drying rack and hopped off the stool, humming as she walked to the office door. Eliza watched, wanting to say something but not knowing what. ‘You don't have to wait,' Rebecca said as she entered the office. She smiled at Eliza and closed the door behind her. The doll trembled as Eliza's hands shook. She tried to reconcile the idea that Mrs Pollard – so disgusted with Rebecca when they first arrived – now seemed to take Rebecca in her confidence, and that Rebecca eagerly accepted the woman's guidance.

Despite Rebecca's words, Eliza waited. At this time of the afternoon, when the sun had moved further west, it was dull, dirty daylight that filled the kitchen. Little shadows lay everywhere, cast from the counters and hanging pots and pans. It reminded Eliza of a scene she had seen in a film – of a house that was left empty after the soldiers who lived there went off to die. A giggle sounded from behind Mrs Pollard's door. She could stand there no longer. She deposited Victoria in her room then continued down the hall.

Having armed herself with a Tilley lamp, Eliza stood in the doorway of the Ancestral Parlour. Long and rectangular, the damp room had six floor-to-ceiling windows along the left wall, their dusty shutters all latched shut. A crystal chandelier refitted for electric light hung from a high ceiling surrounded by a pattern of black mould. The number of dust sheets which covered the furniture and paintings made it look like a hospital ward.

Despite its degradation, it was still a grand room and, as Eliza opened the wooden shutters, she pictured the balls it must have hosted in its prime. She pulled away the sheets with a twirl, imagining lords and ladies and all sorts of aristocracy. Large, expensive dresses draped in silk and lace, sharply tailored dinner jackets and butlers offering champagne on silver trays. A four-piece orchestra playing in the corner. And the dancing! The last time she'd been dancing was in Piccadilly with Peter. But this would've been proper dancing – waltzes and cakewalks. It felt like those guests were here now, spectres keeping her company while she polished the furniture.

As Eliza piled the linen in the hall, a coughing fit shook the walls. She retreated into the parlour. Four days until she had to face him.

‘Maybe Death will find him first,' she sighed. The room swallowed her voice, reminding her how empty this place was. There were no royal guests or distinguished gentlemen, and despite the candles and the cleaning, it remained dark. Eliza Haverford, in her dungarees and turned-out blouse, dry hair wrapped in a scrap of cloth, looked more like an army nurse, the kind she read about in
Woman
magazine, preparing a ward for incoming casualties. This place might as well be an abandoned hospital – the stale air, lack of light, that special kind of stillness which only exists in half-forgotten houses. And always that distinct feeling she was being watched.

Eliza shivered. Standing here in this room, alone, she felt more crowded than in Aunt Bess's flat. But Mrs Pollard and Rebecca were in the kitchen, Mr Drewry somewhere on the grounds. Mr Brownawell, where was he? Could he be watching her now? Old houses like these, they always had secret passages, tunnels, spyholes. Just because no one was here did not mean no one was watching. Or waiting.

Someone stroked her cheek. Eliza gasped and turned, but it was only a dust sheet flapping in the breeze. Yet she felt no draught even as the ends of the sheet swayed gently as if hanging on a line outside. Indeed, all the sheets along the wall were waving. The one beside her came loose and floated to the ground.

Eliza raised her eyes to the painting. It was an oil-on-canvas portrait of an older gentleman mounted on a chestnut mare.

Sir Charles Brownawell
1760–1799
, read the plaque – the man who built Thornecroft. He had dark hair, and a large moustache spread out from his upper lip to cover his cheeks. An air of superiority emanated from his eyes, a smugness that implied it was beneath him to be in anyone's presence other than his own.