Abigale Hall (4 page)

When he offered them a hand into the carriage, Eliza climbed up by herself then helped Rebecca in. Mr Drewry ignored her refusal and hoisted himself into the driver's seat. With a flick of his wrist, the horse moved steadily forward. Eliza glanced behind her, watching the man's silhouette fade as they disappeared over the first hill.

‘Excuse me, Mr Drewry, may I ask how long till we arrive?'

‘Twenty minutes.'

A single lantern hanging towards the front of the carriage was all the light they had. Eliza searched around them for something to keep warm and eventually found an old wool blanket under their seats. She tucked it around herself and Rebecca. There was nothing to see in the dark. Eliza began humming to keep her nerves steady. She didn't realise what song it was until she reached the refrain – ‘We'll Meet Again'. She stopped mid-phrase. Memories came unbidden into her mind. Memories of that song playing on the wireless when Mr Littleton had handed her the telegram that informed her of Mother's death.

Eliza let the journey continue in silence. The biting wind prevented her from falling asleep. She focused on finding signs of life in the unfamiliar landscape. A house, a shop, a stray dog, anything. All she could see was the road they travelled on and the grass either side. The effort drained her and exhaustion tired her body. The increasing pulse of a headache created a growing pressure behind her eyes.

Despite her vigilance, Eliza didn't notice the stone and iron gates until they were passing through them. She turned round to try to get a better look, but they had already disappeared into the darkness. Facing forward, she saw a speck of light in the near distance, growing stronger with each pull of the carriage.

From the light emerged the outline of a manor house. Like Carroll's Cheshire Cat, it came into being piece by piece – there a window, there a chimney, there a hedge. The carriage drew closer. There appeared a door and, by that door, a thin, unmoving figure.

Mr Drewry pulled the carriage to a stop in front of the house. The still figure remained in the doorway. It was a woman – Eliza could see now – her hair pulled back in a loose bun, dark dress swaying in the night-time breeze. Eliza had barely enough strength to climb down from the carriage and nearly fainted as she and Rebecca waited to follow Mr Drewry into the house. As they did so, the woman stepped aside, allowing them entry, then approached the girls, a lantern held above their heads as she inspected them.

The shadows from the flame fell on her face, exaggerating the wrinkles around her mouth and eyes. Grey flecked her dark brown hair, and her serious manner reminded Eliza of their long-dead grandmother. When she spoke to Mr Drewry, her breath smelled of aspic and her voice sounded much younger than such a face should allow.

‘Why,' she asked, ‘are there two of them?'

Eliza lost her grip on Rebecca's hand as they walked through the serpentine halls. Gilded frames decorated the walls, reflecting the light from the lantern's low flame. The paintings themselves were near-black, swallowed by darkness, the lantern too weak to illuminate the full images within.

Her body, damp from the rain and heavy from exhaustion, lacked the strength to reclaim Rebecca's hand. Each step threatened collapse. The boiled ham she had eaten on the train sat undigested in her stomach, weighing her down. All she could do was follow the warm orange light and allow herself to be led deeper into the labyrinth.

The housekeeper seemed oblivious to Eliza's exhaustion. She strode ahead at a steady pace, weaving her way effortlessly through the house. Eliza's head pounded in time to her pulse. She focused on that pain, willing the rest of her stiff body numb. No longer could she feel her feet hitting the floor. Any moment her legs would give out beneath her.

Without warning, the housekeeper stopped. Holding the lantern up to an unmarked door, she removed a set of heavy iron keys from her waist. She spoke, but Eliza's tired mind made no sense of the words. What she saw through the opened door was a bed neatly made and waiting. She could feel the warmth of her sister's body beside her, but her head felt so light that if she turned to look, she knew she would faint.

There were more words, more things Eliza could not understand. Instead, she forced herself forward and fell onto the bed, her body spiralling into sleep as she felt Rebecca climb in beside her.

*

Rusty curtain rings scraped against a metal rod. Eliza jerked awake.

‘It's six thirty,' said a sharp voice. ‘Breakfast is in half an hour. Out, turn right. Third door on the left. The kitchen doors lock precisely at seven. Chores begin at seven thirty. From the kitchen, I'll give you a full tour of the manor then set you your list for the day. Your luggage is in the hall.'

The door banged shut.

Eliza sat in a momentary stupor. She felt queasy, her left leg only pins and needles, and the headache that saw her to bed remained to greet her this morning.

‘Rebecca, wake up.' She nudged the lump beside her.

A grunt sounded from beneath the blanket.

‘Yes,' Eliza said. ‘We have to eat.'

The lump would not move.

‘Come on, dearie.' Eliza prodded what she thought was a shoulder. An arm swung at her face. Eliza caught it before it could strike. ‘No,' she said firmly, looking Rebecca in the eye. ‘No.' When Rebecca relaxed, Eliza released her. ‘Let's get dressed.'

They pulled their suitcases into the bedroom and rummaged through them for something to wear. Dawn was just breaking and there was little light in the room. ‘Room' was a generous word, Eliza thought as she slipped on clean dungarees. The place was little more than a cupboard, barely able to accommodate even its few pieces of furniture – the single bed, a water-damaged wardrobe and a wobbling side table. The wardrobe and table were stained a dark brown, except where they were scratched or chipped. The bed frame, made of metal, had rust accumulating at the welds, reminding Eliza of the beds at Rebecca's former hospital. The curtains were a faded olive green patched together in several places. Dust circulated in the damp air, swirling in patterns illuminated by the oncoming dawn. Eliza sneezed and her head throbbed.

Rebecca struggled with her shoe. ‘Liza, I want to go back to sleep.'

‘Well, we can either sleep or we can eat. And I don't think we'll be able to get through today on empty stomachs.' Eliza finished lacing up her own shoes and rose from the bed. Rebecca remained seated.

‘I don't want to be here. I want to go home.'

‘I know. But there's nothing we can do about that right now.'

Rebecca refused to move. Eliza sat back down beside her.

‘We're still tired and we're hungry and we're grumpy. And that makes everything seem more awful than it is. But we'll eat well today, sleep well tonight, and tomorrow, everything will be a little bit better.'

‘I don't want to be here tomorrow. I don't want to be here at all!'

‘Neither do I and I promise I'll do whatever I can to get us home. But for now, let's make do as best we can.' Eliza stood and held out her hand. ‘All right?'

Rebecca rose from the bed but walked past Eliza into the hall, counting as soon as Eliza closed the door. Eliza's eyes, itchy and red from so little sleep, struggled to focus. She stared at blue floral wallpaper coated in coal dust as each whispered number aggravated her headache. So much dust lingered in this place. How much did she inhale with every breath? How much had she swallowed while she slept? Rebecca counted as Eliza pictured her lungs blackening. Mites lived in the dust, Mother once told her, too small to see. But Eliza could feel them, dancing up and down her arms, making their way into her hair, her eyes, her ears.

Once Rebecca counted to twenty-three, she started towards the kitchen. Eliza followed. The faded wallpaper peeled at the edges of the chipped moulding, revealing the cracked brown wall beneath. Eliza could almost see the mites crawling underneath the paper, up to the ceiling stained with yellow and brown water spots. The mites could fall on her from above. She brushed them off her skin and clothes, but more dust greeted her as she walked. She tried not to breathe, afraid of further poisoning her lungs, but this made her light-headed. She felt herself teetering as if balancing on the edge of a pier. Before she could recover, she swayed and lost her balance. Her palms smacked into the thin carpet as she narrowly avoided cracking her chin. Her pulse quickened and her breath caught in her chest. The high walls loomed over her, pressing in from either side. She tried to stand but had no strength in her legs. Eliza closed her eyes, rid her mind of thoughts of mites, and took a deep breath before trying again. This time her legs did not fail her.

Rebecca continued down the hall, blind to her sister's need. Eliza frowned. While she went out of her way to ensure Rebecca was safe and happy, soothing her over something as simple as a splinter, she could be sat bleeding on the pavement and Rebecca would walk past her without a second look. As she brushed off her red palms, she remembered the time Rebecca caught her crying in their bedroom. Instead of asking what was wrong, Rebecca told her they were out of jam and vanished. Eliza knew Rebecca loved her, but Rebecca had no grasp of how to care. Caring was Eliza's responsibility and, before that, Mother's. It was Mother who would sing to Rebecca when she cried. Mother who would cradle her after a bad dream. Mother who would tell her that everything would be fine. Eliza's songs and comforts never had quite the same effect. Whenever Eliza said everything would be fine, something would go wrong.

The kitchen door mirrored the state of the hall. Clumps of unappetizing pea-green paint clogged the once intricate carvings decorating the door's border, while specks of gold peeked through the muddy brown of the tarnished brass knob. Rebecca started tapping the door before Eliza could stop her.

The war taught her to be patient, to remain calm in the most dire situations, but with her legs like jelly and back aching like a witch's hump, the memory of imagined mites still tickling her skin, all she wanted was for Rebecca to stop her incessant counting and let her have some breakfast.

Twenty-three.

The opened door released a harsh morning light. Eliza raised a hand to shield eyes accustomed to the dim hall.

‘This must be the east wing,' she said, trying to enjoy the sun's warmth instead of focusing on how much it burned.

‘Well spotted.'

The housekeeper, her hair in an elaborate plait, stood by a square wooden table that sat in front of a set of long windows. Sunlight illuminated the multiple counters and cabinets. Their white paint reflected the light and revealed the dirt and grease which had accumulated over the years. One cabinet door was missing from its hinges.

Rebecca started tapping the doorknob. ‘One, two, three, four . . .'

‘What is she doing?' the housekeeper asked.

‘She's making sure the door is closed,' Eliza replied. It was time yet again to explain. Eliza prepared the oft-said words in her mind. By now she could almost say them without the fierce flush which accompanied shame.

‘Eight, nine, ten . . .'

‘It is closed. I can see that from here.'

‘Thirteen, fourteen . . .'

‘She'll be done in a moment. We weren't properly introduced last night. I'm Eliza Haverford, and this is my sister—'

‘I know very well who you are. I hired you, didn't I?'

‘Eighteen, nineteen . . .'

‘You – girl! Stop that.'

Eliza stepped to the side, trying to block the woman's view of Rebecca.

‘Please, it's better if you . . . if she's left to it.'

‘So your aunt sent me an extra mouth to feed who's a simpleton as well.' She turned to a large bowl on the counter beside her.

‘Twenty-three.' Rebecca joined her sister by the table.

‘She's not––'

‘Sit down.' The housekeeper pointed to a chair.

‘Excuse me, I . . .'

‘You sit or you don't eat.'

The chair wobbled as Eliza sat. She grasped the table to steady herself. Cold, congealing porridge was ladled into each of their bowls. A thin skin had already formed across the top.

‘My name is Mrs Pollard. I run the estate. I'll handle the cooking until you prove yourself adequate. Luncheon is cold meats and bread. Dinner, the daily menu approved by Mr Brownawell. Luncheon is at precisely twelve thirty and dinner at seven. If you're not here by then, you don't eat.'

Rebecca stared into her bowl. Eliza kicked her under the table before she could make a face.

‘I'm sorry, Mrs Pollard, but who is Mr Brownawell?' Eliza asked.

Mrs Pollard swivelled round and fixed her gaze on Eliza. Her eyes were a deep brown and sparked as she spoke. ‘Mr Brownawell owns this house and most of the surrounding land in Carmarthenshire. Didn't that aunt of yours tell you anything?'

‘No, ma'am. I'm afraid she didn't.'

Rebecca nibbled at her porridge. Eliza kicked her again, and she started taking bigger spoonfuls.

‘Then you'll have to learn quickly. Hurry up and eat. There are plenty of jobs that need doing today.'

Eliza and Rebecca ate in silence while Mrs Pollard cleaned the breakfast dishes. When the clock on the wall read precisely seven thirty, Mrs Pollard returned to the table.

‘Done? Good. Leave your bowls. Since you're unfamiliar with the kitchen, you're liable to cause a mess. Don't expect the same courtesy tomorrow. Now follow me.'

As they rose from the table, Eliza reached to straighten Rebecca's dress, which had crumpled in the back, but Rebecca darted away.

‘Hold still. Let me fix it,' Eliza said.

‘I'm fine. Leave it.'

Eliza grabbed Rebecca's arm and held her while she sorted out the fabric. ‘This is getting to be too small. Give it to me tonight and I'll let down the hem. Look, it's too tight in your arms as well. No, you simply cannot wear this again until I've altered it.'

The plain brown dress coupled with her unruly hair made Rebecca resemble a peasant. Mother had dressed them in beautiful, bright colours – frocks with matching bonnets, shining black shoes without the slightest scuff. To see them both now – rumpled, fraying clothes, colour faded from too many scrubs on the washboard – she would not recognize her daughters.

Rebecca tugged her arm free. ‘If you hadn't lost our clothing cards, I could buy a new dress.'

‘With what money, may I ask?'

‘Girls!' Mrs Pollard glared at them. ‘If you do not wish to be locked in this kitchen for the rest of the day, I suggest you do as you're told.'

They entered a wide hallway where dusty wood panelling covered the bottom half of the walls while on the top hung the paintings Eliza had glimpsed last night. They were idyllic scenes reminiscent of the Sir Fildes paintings Father once showed her at the National Gallery, the flowers and fields painted in intricate detail while a woman in a ghostly-white muslin gown drew the eye. This same woman in the same gown was at the centre of every painting. In one she picked flowers; in another she stood with a small, scruffy dog.

Though once beautiful, the paintings were uncared for. The paint was cracked, the lines filled with dust. The woman's brown plaited hair possessed a dull grey sheen as if she had aged with the painting.

When Father had walked her through the National Gallery, it frightened Eliza – the way the eyes of those painted figures followed her wherever she went. This woman was different. Every painting depicted her with her back to the observer, and it was she who seemed scared, shielding her face from the living figures passing through her hall. Eliza wanted to reach out a hand and tell her everything would be all right.

There was no plaque on any of the paintings to indicate who the woman was, and it saddened Eliza that no one deemed her important enough to identify.

Mrs Pollard's voice broke the silence which, until then, had been punctuated only by the padding of their feet on the floorboards. ‘This is Thornecroft, built in 1793 by Mr Brownawell's great-grandfather, Sir Charles. This is indeed the east wing. We use mostly this and the west wing. Mr Brownawell's rooms are the only areas open on the first floor. The second floor is completely shut. The main entrance is located in the south hall. Though fitted for electricity, we've had none since the generators broke several years ago. You must learn to do without.'

‘Were any soldiers billeted here during the war?' Eliza asked, trying to make friendly conversation.

‘I should certainly think not,' Mrs Pollard replied.

‘Oh. Only, it's such a grand house, I would've thought the government had forced some on you.'

‘Child, His Majesty's government has no concern with Plentynunig, so long as the coal keeps coming.' She stopped in the middle of a great circular foyer where passageways darted off in four directions. ‘This is Abigale Hall,' she said. ‘Named for Sir Charles's wife. Above you is a glass dome installed by John Nash himself. He designed most of Thornecroft, with the late master's help.'