Wildthorn

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN
Houghton Mifflin Harcourt
Boston New York 2010

For Sheila

I am indebted to many people for their help with my research,
in particular Dr. Brian Bowering, Dr. Alex Contini, Dr. Hywel
Evans, Professor John Hannavy, Dr. Paul Skett, and Dr. Peter
Wothers for their assistance with details of science, medicine,
and photography.

Thanks to the Writers' Pool and the Royal Literary Fund. I
was privileged to be mentored in the early stages of this novel
by Julia Darling, sadly missed, and the brilliant Jill Dawson.

Many other people have helped me, including fellow writers
and long-suffering friends. I don't have the space to thank them
all; they know who they are, and how much I owe them.

First U.S. Edition
Copyright © 2009 by Jane Eagland
First published in Great Britain in 2009 by Young Picador, an imprint of
Pan Macmillan Limited.

All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from
this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company,
215 Park Avenue South, New York,
New York 10003.

Houghton Mifflin is an imprint of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt
Publishing Company.

www.hmhbooks.com

The text of this book is set in Centaur MT Std.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file.

ISBN
978-0-547-37017-0

Manufactured in the United States of America
DOC 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
4500248414

The carriage jolts and splashes along the rutted lanes flooded by the heavy November rains. Through its grimy window, all I can see of the unfamiliar Essex countryside are bare hedgerows, the skeletons of trees, looming out of the morning mist. I shiver and clutch my travelling wrap around me more tightly—the familiar roughness of its wool collar on my neck is comforting.

It smells in here—of damp, rotting straw and something else, like sour milk. Nausea rises in my throat, but I swallow it down and, despite the ache in my bones caused by a night on that lumpy mattress, I sit upright on the hard seat. Even if the bed had been the most comfortable in the world, I doubt I would have slept. But I won't let Mrs. Lunt see how apprehensive I am.

Typical of Mamma to insist I have a chaperone. But I'm not a child any longer, I'm seventeen, and I travelled by myself before and came to no harm. I would have managed perfectly well on my own.

It's ironic, really, Mamma's concern—she didn't think twice about packing me off to live with strangers...

Perhaps it's because the journey is so long and we had to break it in London. But if I had to have a companion, why couldn't Mary have come with me? Or if she couldn't be spared, why couldn't they have engaged someone friendly? We could have grumbled together about the grubby rooms in the inn and perhaps I could have confided in her.

I'd never tell this unsmiling woman anything. She makes me uneasy.

Her cloak is worn, her umbrella spotted with mildew, the bag she clasps on her lap is shabby, but, in her pinched monkey face, her eyes are bold, inquisitive. And she has hardly spoken a word, not yesterday all the way down in the train from the north, nor this morning on the journey from Liverpool Street by rail and then this carriage. But she has never stopped watching me. Even without looking at her, I know she's watching me now.

Perhaps she's wondering why I've been sent away. It's unlikely that Tom has told her anything, I'm sure, except that she must see that I arrive safely. My brother would not want a stranger knowing our business.

How will these people, the Woodvilles, receive me? I know almost nothing about them, only that they have a charming son, whose mother wants a companion for her eldest daughter. "Just remember," Tom said, "you should be grateful. They're taking you in as a favour to me."

Taking you in.
As if I were a vagrant, a beggar.

How long must I remain there, trying to be agreeable to this girl who will probably despise me? And will I have time for my studies? I wouldn't be surprised if Mrs. Woodville really wants an unpaid governess for the younger ones.

It's Mamma's fault. How could she be so unjust?

This isn't what I planned for my life.

When I'm settled in, I'll write to Aunt Phyllis and tell her what's happened. I'm sure she'll have forgiven me for my rudeness by now. She might even invite me to Carr Head. Despite everything, that would be so much better.

As long as she doesn't know. As long as Grace has kept her promise.

We reach a crossroads, turn right. This lane is more deeply pitted, rocking the carriage from side to side. The trees cluster thickly here, deepening the gloom.

"Do you think it's much farther?" I ask Mrs. Lunt.

"Not far now." She twists her mouth into a smile, but her eyes slide past mine.

The forest on one side of the lane is replaced by high stone walls stretching into the mist. Before long, the carriage jerks to a halt.

Looking out, I see that we have stopped by some tall iron gates. My pulse beats faster. "This isn't the place, is it?"

Mrs. Lunt nods.

The knot in my stomach tightens. This is far grander than I expected. But I tell myself,
Keep your face smooth. Don't betray your feelings to this stranger.

A thickset man slouches out of the lodge, clamping a half-eaten crust between his teeth as he shrugs his shoulders into a crumpled jacket. He unlocks the gates. As the carriage passes, he stares in, his jaws moving slowly. I'm surprised the Woodvilles don't have a smarter servant.

The gravel driveway winds through the grounds leading to an imposing house set on a rise, with an ornate roofline of turrets and cupolas. At the sight of it my heart sinks. Tom was right. The family must be very wealthy.

What will they think of me?

When we stop again, my companion says, "Here we are." She's smiling again, encouraging. She opens the door and descends from the carriage, beckoning me to follow. But
I shrink back, feeling a fluttering in my chest like moths trapped behind my breastbone.

I've made a mistake. I should never have agreed to this.

The coachman is unloading my box. Mrs. Lunt has climbed the steps and is tugging at the bell. A tall gentleman in a frock coat appears in the doorway and speaks to her in a voice too low for me to hear. She passes him some papers from her bag.

What are those papers?

The gentleman comes to the door of the carriage and looks at me from under dark bushy eyebrows. "You must get out now." His voice is polite, but not warm.

He must be Mr. Woodville, my new employer. Why is he not greeting me, welcoming me?

Something is wrong.

I hold tight to the seat, my heart bumping in my chest. Over my employer's head I can see, lurking in the doorway, a servant in shirtsleeves and canvas apron, his arms crossed over his broad chest. Mr. Woodville nods and the servant unfolds his arms and takes a step forward. Surely he doesn't mean to—?

I will not be dragged from this carriage.

Somehow my feet carry me down to the ground. Next to me is a low railing surrounding the lawn. I could easily step over it, walk away across the grassy space, away from all these staring faces.

But I can't.

For a moment we stand, frozen, then Mr. Woodville coughs and Mrs. Lunt moves towards the carriage. I go to speak to her as she brushes past me, but without looking at
me, she gets in. The door slams, the wheels start to turn, and she has gone, leaving me behind.

***

In the misty light, a weight of stone looms over me, the house looking even more forbidding now I can see it properly.

Mr. Woodville forms his lips into a bland smile. "My name is Mr. Sneed."

Mr. Sneed? Not my employer then. Is he the butler?

He has a slight cast in one eye and I try not to stare at it, addressing myself to his necktie, neat between the points of his stiff collar.

"Will you take me to Mrs. Woodville, please?"

He regards me gravely. "Mrs. Woodville? There is no Mrs. Woodville here."

My mouth dries.

"But isn't this her house?" Despite myself, my voice quavers.

"No, this is Wildthorn Hall."

"
Wildthorn Hall?
But I'm supposed to be at the Woodvilles' ... they're expecting me." I look from Mr. Sneed to the servant, then back to Mr. Sneed.

He smiles again. "
We
have been expecting you."

This is a horrible mistake.
But he said they were expecting me. How can that be possible?

Blood drums in my ears, darkness slides in at the edge of my vision.

A hand touches my arm and my sight clears.

"Please come with me." His grip on my arm is firm.

I want to run, but my legs won't obey me.

I glance at my box.

"Don't worry, John will bring that in."

I walk up the steps, past the stout heavily studded door. In the porch I stumble on the coarse mat, but Mr. Sneed's arm prevents me from falling. My feet carry me through the inner doors past twin suns rising in stained glass.

Inside, I find myself in a wide vestibule tiled in black and white diamonds that dazzle my eyes. A vaulted ceiling arches overhead. Directly in front of me is a set of tall double doors. The vestibule is empty apart from a polished table that holds arrangement of wax flowers under a glass dome. The colours of the flowers have faded; they look pallid and damp, like flesh.

Mr. Sneed presses me on. Our footsteps echo on the tiles.

We go down a corridor on the right, the tiles replaced by a narrow strip of green matting. After passing several shut doors, we come to a halt outside another one. Mr. Sneed holds up his hand. "Please wait." The door closes behind him, leaving me standing outside.

Now, now I must flee. Before it's too late.

But the burly servant, silent as a cat, has come up behind me and leans against the wall, watching me.

I hear a jingling noise and a young woman in a blue dress and an apron appears out of the gloom. A bunch of keys hangs on a chain from her belt. Under her white cap, her complexion is sallow, as if she rarely goes out of doors. Ignoring me, she nods at the servant, then knocks on the door.

Mr. Sneed appears. "Ah, Weeks. Come in." The door closes behind her.

I can hear voices, but not what they are saying. Then the
door opens again and Mr. Sneed calls, "Come in." I hesitate and the servant shifts his position. I find myself crossing the threshold.

***

Immediately my eye is drawn to the elegant desk by the window where Mr. Sneed is standing, looking at two or three pieces of paper lying on its polished top. He studies them, leaning down and frowning, as if the writing is hard to decipher.

The young woman, Weeks, waits, her hands clasped in front of her, eyes cast down. The room is quite large but it feels airless. I can't breathe. A distant ringing begins in my ears, making my head swim. I sway slightly.

Mr. Sneed notices. "Take a chair." He gestures to one in front of the desk.

I sink on to it, clutching the arms.
Don't faint. Whatever you do, don't faint.

Mr. Sneed scrutinises me for a moment with his one good eye, then feels my brow. His hand is clammy.

"You are very pale, Miss Childs."

My head reels. "What did you just call me?" My voice is as thin as tissue paper.

"Miss Childs. That is your name."

Is this a trick?

And then my blood starts to flow again—they have the wrong person. That's the explanation. It isn't me they're expecting at all.

"That
isn't
my name. I am Louisa Cosgrove." I look from Mr. Sneed to Weeks, waiting for them to exclaim, to show surprise. But Weeks's expression doesn't change.

Mr. Sneed sits down at the desk and leans forward. "You only think you are Louisa Cosgrove. But we know who you are. You are Lucy Childs." His manner is kind, as if explaining the situation to a child.

I stare at him, bewildered. They are mistaking me for someone else—this other girl. I swallow hard. "Why would I
think
I'm Louisa?"

"Because you're ill."

"
Ill?
" I am utterly confused.

"Yes, this is a hospital." He pauses. "Or you might prefer to think of it as a refuge—a place of safety, my dear young lady."

I don't understand what he's talking about. But I do know one thing. I'm not ill. This other girl, this Lucy Childs, she must be ill and that's why they're expecting her. Her, not me. I explain all this in a loud clear voice.

Mr. Sneed smiles. "Thinking you are someone else and thinking you are not ill are signs of how sick you are. You are lucky that you are here where we have the skill to cure you."

He would be looking at me directly if it weren't for the squint. "You are clearly an unusual young woman. But here you will find we are used to dealing with unusualness of all kinds. You will soon settle in."

Unusual?
What does he mean?

He turns to Weeks. "Miss Childs seems quiet enough at the moment, but we need to keep her under close observation. We will try her in the Second Gallery for now."