Abigale Hall (25 page)

Eliza stared down the hall at the carved doors leading to Mr Brownawell's rooms while the rain pelted the manor like shrapnel. Last night, in her nightmare, these doors had bled. Though she could see now they were clean, every time she blinked, she saw thick red blood running down through the carvings. She stuck her hands in her pockets to keep from scratching her arms. For now, these pockets were empty. Soon, if she followed Ruth's instructions, they would contain Mr Brownawell's tablets.

She still could not understand why Ruth wanted them. Last night in the larder she'd been too distracted by her own fears to question Ruth's intentions. Now in the daylight, with no strange smells bombarding her, the questions filled her mind.

Voices sounded from below – Mrs Pollard and Ruth taking more towels to the leaking veranda doors. Eliza waited until the sounds had passed then crept forward down the carpeted hall. Given time, Ruth would come to understand the true terrors of Thornecroft, just as she had, but they did not have time. Not if they were going to save Rebecca and stop Victoria from claiming Eliza as well.

Eliza looked at the carpet before her. How many times had the living Victoria Kyffin walked these halls? Had the carpet softened her steps as they did Eliza's or were the floors bare? Did her shoes smack against the wooden boards, marking her path in sharp beats that drilled fear into her heart? Eliza found the presence of an aged Mr Brownawell distressing. What must have it been like here when he was the strong, youthful brute seen in the portrait hanging in the Ancestral Parlour? Victoria had been unable to defeat him in life. No wonder she haunted him in death.

Eliza paused at the staircase that winded back to the east wing. Victoria stole girls because of him. To torment him. What would she do if he no longer existed? If he joined her in the netherworld? Would his torment finally cease or would he descend to the hell he so rightly deserved? If she were Victoria, Eliza would want him to live as long as possible. Let him suffer in body as well as mind. Perhaps that was the deal Mrs Pollard had struck with the ghost of the manor. Why she remained so concerned with the health of the old man even though she never seemed to speak to him kindly – so long as she kept Mr Brownawell alive to suffer, Victoria allowed her to live. Mr Brownawell's death could mean her own destruction. Perhaps it also meant the freedom of the taken.

Eliza became lightheaded and paused in the stairwell. If her theory were true, Rebecca's freedom would mean the death of another. And who would be responsible for that death? She looked at her hands. They had started to shake. These hands she used to cook, to clean, to mend – could she use them to kill? Bile rose in her throat. A man as terrible as Mr Brownawell deserved to die, didn't he? But murder was an equally terrible act. An act for the likes of men such as Mr Drewry, not little girls like Eliza Haverford. And suppose she did find a way to commit such an act, was it worth it for Rebecca? Would Rebecca, once rescued, rush into Eliza's arms, proclaim her thanks, show true remorse for the behaviour that had led them to Thornecroft in the first place? Or would she shrug her shoulders, turn away and say this was what she expected in the first place?

A vein pulsed in her throat, constricting her thoughts. Air barely passed through her lungs. Her mind became clouded as the smell of sulphur and marrow liqueur passed under her nose. Blindly, she made her way down the stairs. She had to get as far from these thoughts as she could – leave them behind with the dust in the north hall.

She found herself in the kitchen, her hands under the running water with no recollection as to how she had arrived or for how long her hands had been under the tap. She turned off the tap and reached for a flannel. Her fingertips were white and wrinkled. As she dried them, she walked to the kitchen door and opened it to let in the fresh, rain-scented air. She inhaled deeply, feeling her mind unravel, when she spotted Mr Drewry crossing the lawns with a bulky burlap sack tossed over his shoulder. The sack, tied at one end, was about the size of a small child. Eliza dropped the towel.

When Mr Drewry passed out of sight, she followed him out onto the grass and around the crumbling stone wall of the gardens. He kept a steady pace towards the little cemetery, grabbing a shovel from its resting place against the wall on his way. He was going to dig a grave.

Who would need a grave, except the girl Victoria had stolen away, kept locked up somewhere in the dank and cold, where she caught a chill? No blankets to warm her, no food to maintain her strength. Victoria had let her waste away in the darkness, and the tiny girl was unable to survive.

Hot tears welled in her eyes as she ran back to the kitchen. The guilt weighed down every muscle, every desire she ever had, winning control. With Rebecca gone, what would she do? How could she earn forgiveness? She would have to live with the guilt and let it consume her. Become a spinster to atone for her sins. Maybe take in orphaned children. Help them in ways she could never help her sister. She saw herself with grey-white hair pulled into a tight bun, wire spectacles balanced on her thin nose. Dressed always in black, like a widow. Losing what little looks she had in her youth to become a witch-like crone.

‘The dog.'

Mrs Pollard stood beside her. Eliza hadn't heard her approach. The housekeeper nodded towards Mr Drewry.

‘It was the dog. It never recovered from its injuries. I must thank your sister next I see her.'

The vision of her spinster self faded as another thought took its place. Rebecca had another innocent death to her name.

‘Stop staring like an imbecile, Miss Haverford. I need you to take luncheon to Mr Brownawell. The veranda doors are proving particularly troublesome today, and Mrs Owen and I are going into town to fetch additional supplies. Besides, it's time you took on more responsibility in this house. He is waiting in the north hall study.' Mrs Pollard swept out of the kitchen, leaving Eliza to prepare the tray.

Still recovering from the false shock, she lost herself in the luncheon preparations and did not let her mind linger on the thought that she and Mr Brownawell were to be alone together, again.

The silver tray was heavier than she expected, and it wobbled precariously as she carried it to Mr Brownawell's study. She smelled him as soon as she entered. The stench of sour milk and urine was so embedded in his skin no amount of bathing could remove it. She avoided breathing too deeply as she approached the red calfskin armchair in which he sat before the fire. He made no acknowledgement of her presence. His milky eyes were focused on the flames, each breath more difficult than the last. She set the tray on the side table.

‘Good afternoon, Mr Brownawell. I've come to give you luncheon.'

Eliza pulled up a chair and placed the bowl of cold porridge in her lap.

‘Have you heard that the veranda has flooded?' she asked.

He breathed in and out, the reflection of the fire bringing the illusion of light to his eyes.

She sunk the spoon into the porridge. ‘But you don't much care, do you?' She stuck the spoon into his mouth, not waiting to see if he was ready. He swallowed.

‘You don't care about this house. Only what hides inside it.'

She fed him again, her headache returning along with the thoughts she'd had upstairs only several minutes earlier.

‘Victoria. That's all you think about, isn't it?'

His head turned slowly towards her. She fed him another spoonful.

‘What you did to her is horrible. The worst thing one human being can do to another.'

She fed him again. The porridge dribbled down his chin. Maybe he wouldn't need to die. Maybe a confession would be enough.

‘But what she's doing now is just as wrong. These girls she's taken, they're innocent. She's only doing it to punish you.'

Eliza remembered their one, terrible dinner. Having to wear that dress. Eat that nauseating cold food. Another spoonful. Porridge dripped onto his shirt. He groaned.

‘She's keeping you trapped here, isn't she? She and Mrs Pollard? You should be dead, but she's making you suffer by keeping you alive.'

He closed his mouth, but Eliza forced the spoon in. He would not get off that easily.

‘If I can stop her, I'll get my sister back and you can finally die. Though I can't say you deserve it.' She dropped the spoon into the bowl. ‘Admit what you've done. Admit you killed her. Then you'll be free. Her curse will be broken.'

Mr Brownawell opened his mouth. She leant in close.

‘Yes?'

He coughed, spewing regurgitated porridge over Eliza's face and clothes. She dropped the bowl, the remainder of his food spilling to the floor. He continued coughing while she searched desperately for a handkerchief.

‘You wicked old man! You did that on purpose. No wonder Victoria didn't love you. How could she?'

Mr Brownawell groaned in displeasure. More porridge dribbled down his chin.

‘No one ever loved you and no one ever will.' Eliza rushed out of the room, wiping away the disgusting, creamy lumps, and grabbed a towel from the nearest linen cupboard. She walked blindly down the hall, wiping herself clean but unable to rid her skin of that sour milk smell.

She came to rest at the damp and water-damaged veranda doors. Towels were stuffed into the doorframe, but more water kept trickling through. With her eyes closed, she could smell where rot had already begun to take hold. She never would have treated a person like that before, no matter how cruel they were. A customer once purposely spilled his drink on her uniform, but had she cursed him and dumped hot tea down his suit? No. She walked away, informed Mr Purvis, and continued on with her shift.

This entire place was rotting from the inside out, and she was rotting along with it. What she couldn't decide was if Thornecroft was infecting her or if it was the other way round.

*

Eliza hid in her room for the remainder of the afternoon. Though she looked for
Mrs Miniver
to keep her company, she could not find it anywhere and so occupied her thoughts by darning a hole in her green dress. When Ruth and Mrs Pollard returned in the late afternoon, Mrs Pollard relegated Eliza to the kitchen, where she was to prepare the evening meal, while Ruth was to continue fixing the veranda doors. As soon as Mrs Pollard left to check on Mr Brownawell, Eliza abandoned the kitchen and hurried out of the east wing towards the veranda.

When she passed the garden doors, she saw Ruth weaving her way through the overgrown hedges. Eliza immediately ran out to her, cornering her beside the fountain.

‘Eliza!' Ruth glanced at the windows as if afraid of being spotted. ‘We can't be seen together in the daytime.'

‘We'll be fine. Mrs Pollard is with Brownawell in the north hall study. Aren't you supposed to be at the veranda?'

Ruth looked away. ‘I needed Mr Drewry's help. But now you're here, tell me, what did you find?'

Eliza felt the weightlessness of her still-empty pockets. ‘Nothing.'

‘We were gone for hours! You had plenty of time to––'

‘I have my own concerns here. And I suppose I don't see why Mr Brownawell's medications are so important since you won't tell me.'

Ruth sighed and fiddled with a stray lock of hair. ‘Mr Brownawell is said to have silicosis.'

‘Yes, from visiting the mines.'

‘Not according to the old miners. They say he never went down the pits and only came to the sites if he had to. There's no way he could have a miners' disease.'

‘So he has something else. You said you came here to help me find my sister and yet all you do is ask questions about everyone's health. So either tell me why or forget about helping us at all.'

Ruth grabbed Eliza's hands. They were damp and cold. ‘I am here to help Rebecca. I'm here to help her by catching Mrs Pollard in all her lies. She's hiding something about Mr Brownawell. I don't know what it is, but if – when I find it, it could be the key to discovering what happened to Rebecca and Pip. And I may have already found something.' Ruth pulled out a burnt glass pill bottle. ‘Do you know what this is?'

Eliza recognised it instantly. The guilt she had so carefully controlled these past few days could no longer be kept at bay.

‘It's a prescription for lithium bromide. The name's been scorched from the label, but . . .'

‘Where did you get that?' Eliza asked, finding it difficult to breathe.

‘Mr Drewry found it cleaning up the bonfire. You wouldn't give it to a silicosis patient. Lithium bromide is used in the treatment of mental disorders.'

‘I know exactly what it's for.' Rebecca's pale, placid face rose up and took hold of Eliza's memory.

‘I don't know why Mrs Pollard had it. It could be for her or she's using it on Mr Brownawell. But this could be what Mrs Pollard used to poison Pip! Bromism causes weakness, ataxia, nausea and vomiting, erythematous rashes . . .'

She slapped the bottle from Ruth's hand. ‘No one cares about Pip! Pip is dead and they'll never prove who did it, but Rebecca can be saved. And instead you're . . . you're fixated on some poisoning theory. I was wrong. I don't want your help and I don't need it. You never came here for Rebecca. You only came for yourself. You must feel so guilty, making Pip take the Thornecroft job. Well you should.'

Eliza left the garden, stamping the bottle into the ground as she went. If Ruth called after her, she couldn't hear. There was only the sound of blood in her ears, the throb in her temple indicating a headache was looming, as she forced the remaining coldness back into its safe.

*

She was running – running through the halls, catching glimpses, hearing footsteps – but Rebecca remained just ahead, out of sight, out of reach. The dog was barking, chasing after her, after them. Blaming them. Eliza ran through the north hall, Rebecca chasing the dog that led the way. The carved doors lay ahead, but Eliza ran too fast to stop. She crashed straight through and teetered over the edge of the quarry. Wisps of mist reached up to greet her and she leant back to stay out of their reach. Rebecca, smiling, pushed her in.