Wilful Impropriety (41 page)

“There’s no hurry,” he assures me. “Martha and the other girls can see to Mary. You must heal and recuperate. Meanwhile, you can tell me all about your homeland. I’m quite keen to learn more about it. I would dare say Misselthwaite owes its prosperity in no small part to the success of the East India Company. Such a shame about the revolution.”

After lunch, Mrs. Medlock returns with John and a wheelchair that looks more suited to a small child. John smiles when he sees me and says, “You’re lookin’ much improved, miss!”

The kindness in his voice makes my face feel warm. “I’m sorry that I was curt to you last night.”

“No one’s worried about tha,’” he assures me.

“Speak proper English, John,” Mrs. Medlock chides him. “Enough chitchat. Mr. Craven is waiting.”

Thief
, I think. Or maybe the culprit is John. In the book the officer’s wife read to us, the children that Oliver met all looked earnest and sincere, but meanwhile they were stealing handkerchiefs and purses. Thieves come in all sizes and shapes, some with purple-flowered hats, some with deep blue eyes.

John wheels me down a long hallway filled with oil paintings of stern-looking men and women. By day, Misselthwaite is no more welcoming than it was by night. Most doors are closed. Some rooms that we pass through have enormous, dim chandeliers. One has a grand piano larger than any I’ve ever seen before.

“Have you worked here long?” I ask John.

“Two years this past Christmas,” he says. It sounds like he’s working hard not to speak Yorkshire. “Do they have Christmas in India?”

“Christmas and Easter, and many other holidays.”

He makes a thoughtful sound. “Is Christmas the same there? I suppose it can’t be, can it, with no snow?”

It amazes me sometimes how much the English don’t know about their own Empire. “It snows in the mountains all year round. Some are so tall you can’t ever reach their tops, and you’d freeze to death if you tried.”

“I wouldn’t like year-round snow,” he says. “Winter doesn’t seem very interesting without summer. But I’d like to see the Taj Mahal once. Have you seen that?”

I admit I haven’t.

“And America, too,” he says. “That looks interesting. Or Australia! I’d like to see a kangaroo.”

“I don’t know where Australia is.”

“It’s very far away. The other side of the world. Bigger than all of Asia, they reckon. I had a great-uncle who was sent there as a convict. They did that before, but now it’s a civilized place. It takes months to get there on a ship, and it’s full of all kinds of strange creatures, like kangaroos and koalas and bunyips.”

Before he can tell me more, we arrive at Mr. Craven’s library. It’s a large room filled with books from floor to ceiling. Never, ever, have I seen so many books. I don’t think all of the memsahib’s money could buy so many books. Marble busts of famous white men sit atop the very highest shelves. The carpet is an enormous weave of red and gold, and Mr. Craven’s desk is like a ship anchored at the far end of it. There’s a blazing fire in the hearth, and at Mr. Craven’s instruction, John parks me right next to it.

“Have Mrs. Medlock send tea,” Mr. Craven says from his desk.

“Yes, sir,” John says, and gives me a respectful nod on the way out.

Mr. Craven has an ink pen and leather journal. His gaze is sharp. I feel like I’ve been called before a judge. For the next few hours he quizzes me about every aspect of life back home, from weather to tradition to food. He’s surprised to hear that the memsahib and her husband sometimes enjoyed sherbet made from ice carted down from the Himalayas. He’s equally startled that I’ve never seen a widow from my village throw herself on her husband’s funeral pyre. He’s pleased that I know Queen Victoria is the Empress of India, but not so pleased that I didn’t know her husband was named Albert and that he died of typhoid fever. Apparently this happened several years ago, and she hasn’t stopped wearing black ever since.

When he asks about religion I know he only wants to hear me say that I am faithful to the English God. I tell him I promised the Reverend’s congregants I would attend service each Sunday.

“An excellent vow,” he says, but doesn’t seem interested in holding me to it.

As the afternoon light wanes he moves from his desk to a settee, and from the settee to a chair next to mine. He spends more time studying me than writing on the cream-colored page. I don’t know if he finds me pretty or ugly, or simply something exotic, like a strange fruit brought from abroad.

“It’s very interesting, the plight of the colored man,” Mr. Craven says thoughtfully. “Once, when I was much younger, I saw a black American man perform in a theater in London. He played King Lear. Such an invigorating performance! Thrilling, simply thrilling. Have you heard of King Lear?”

“No, sahib,” I say truthfully.

Mr. Craven puts his pen and journal aside. “It’s a tragedy about a man with three daughters. He promises his fortune to the one who loves him best, and makes the mistake of thinking that love is best expressed by flattery and lies.”

The fire has warmed the room considerably, and too much tea has made my bladder full. I don’t care for stories about fathers and daughters, not since my own father ran away so many years ago.

Mr. Craven sighs. “I have no daughters, Ashna. No wife, not since the day mine died so tragically.”

He leans forward and puts his hand on my arm. His gaze is much more intent than Barney’s ever was.

“It is a tragedy unto itself to be alone in this house, surrounded by lies and flattery but no real love,” he continues. “Do you understand what I mean?”

“Yes, sahib.” I dip my head. “A terrible thing.”

He smiles softly. “Regardless of skin color, every man and every woman longs for love.”

Mr. Craven lifts himself from his chair and bends so close to me that I can see each strand along his hairline. He’s put some kind of oil in it that smells like cooking grease. His teeth are yellow from all that British tea and tobacco and his tongue trembles behind them. Before his lips can reach me I yelp and reach down to my twisted knee.

“Oh, the pain!” I cry out. “My knee!”

He jerks back with a start. “Your knee? What of it?”

I put on my most pitiful face. “I think I’ve sat too long in this chair.”

Mr. Craven backs away immediately. He pulls a cord on the wall and a footman appears.

“Take our guest to her room.” Mr. Craven returns to his desk. “We’ll resume this conversation tomorrow.”

I don’t know this footman, and he doesn’t say a word as he wheels me back to my room. Dusk is coming fast, which means Martha will bring dinner, and after that—well, I’ll have to wait until the house is asleep, and wrap my knee stiffly, and then it shouldn’t be any problem to slip away.

But this is not India. I don’t know the way back to the train station and there is no one to ask. Without the memsahib’s money I can’t even buy a ticket. I could follow the tracks one way or the other, but which way to London? I’ll need a map and a lantern, and food for the journey, and I don’t trust anyone who works for Mr. Craven to help me.

“Tha’s very quiet tonight, aren’t you?” Martha asks when she collects my dinner tray. “It’s good to see tha’ eat every bit, though.”

“Martha, do you live here in the house?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Do all the servants? The cook and footmen and Mrs. Medlock, too?”

“Yes, all of us, up on the third floor. Mrs. Medlock’s got a fine room. She and Mr. Pilcher, they’ve been here the longest. Why do you ask?”

I fiddle with the blanket over my bad knee. “I can’t stay in this room forever.”

“No, that’s true. Miss Mary has been asking for you. Demanding you, really.”

“She has?”

“No one can brush her hair just right, or fix her laces the way she wants them.” Martha carries the tray toward the door. “It’ll be a relief for all of us when you’re recovered.”

An enormous clock counts each hour for me until midnight. The house is very quiet. I tidy the bed because I don’t want Martha to have to do it, and rummage in the closet for my coat and shoes. If I hobble very carefully, my knee holds my weight. It aches with pain, but I’ve braced it by wrapping a pillow sheet around it, and that will have to do. I get ten steps down the hall, each one more precarious than the other, before I nearly fall over a big lump on the carpet.

“Oh!” I say, just as John cries, “Ow!” and sits up.

I throw my hand against the wall for support. “What are you doing there?”

John blinks and rubs the side of his head. “I must have fallen asleep cleaning the carpet. See? There was a spot right there. Where are you going?”

“Nowhere,” I say. “I was hungry.”

“You were hungry in your coat and hat?”

“You were cleaning the carpet in the middle of the night?”

He grimaces as he stands up. His voice is pitched low, as if worried someone might overhear. “All right. Truth be told, I was worried you might have a visitor in the night. Someone who might . . . take advantage of a young lady far from home.”

I nod slowly. It’s a relief to have someone who understands my problem, but that doesn’t mean either of us dares to say Mr. Craven’s name aloud. “I was worried about the same thing.”

“But you can’t just go off traipsing along the moor,” he insists. “Not in the middle of the night and not with that knee of yours.”

“I have no better plan. Do you?”

His gaze goes upward, toward the floors above us. “Misselthwaite has lots of secrets, miss. I think it can stand one more.”

Carefully, slowly, he escorts me to a back staircase. My knee really can’t stand to hold much, so I lean on him more than is proper. Before we reach the second floor I’m sweating and dizzy. John is patient, however. He lights a candle in a small silver holder to light the long, gloomy hallway.

“No one comes up here,” he says. “If tha’s quiet, no one will ever notice.”

We pass several doors before he extracts a brass key from his pocket. The room he picks is pitch black, but the weak candlelight reveals furniture covered by sheets. John pulls a chair free from its wrapping, helps me sit, and puts the candle on a table.

Hiding up here seems preferable to trying to cross the moor, but I’m worried. Maybe this is a ruse to get me alone, a way to claim first what Mr. Craven wants for himself.

“Why are you helping me?” I ask.

“Doesn’t matter,” he says. “Mr. Craven was meant to go to London today, but he changed his mind after you arrived. If he thinks you’ve run off, he’ll lose interest here. He always does. Once he’s gone, I can help you to the train station. Do you have people you can go to?”

“Yes,” I tell him, because it’s too embarrassing to admit otherwise.

John studies me for a long moment. “All right, then. I’ll find a way to bring you food in the morning. You must promise to be very quiet. If he finds you . . . well, never mind that. In the meantime I’ll need one of your gloves. I can drop it on the grounds and make it look like you lost it.”

As I give him a glove, our fingers touch. His are softer than they look, and far nicer than Mr. Craven’s were. I want to tell him how much I appreciate this, how much it means to me to have one friend, but the words get stuck in my mouth.

“Remember, be very quiet,” he says, and then leaves me all alone with the candle and darkness.

•   •   •

Mr. Craven does not leave Misselthwaite the next day. I know, because I sit by the window from dawn to dusk, peering at the main road from behind the heavy folds of the curtain. As promised, John brought me some bacon and biscuits at mid-morning, the food still warm from the kitchen. He said that Mr. Craven had sent the gamekeeper and some of the grooms out to find me, with no luck so far.

“And they won’t find you,” he promised.

The room is cold, and of course I can’t light a fire. I’ve explored it from corner to corner and back again, as slowly as my knee would allow. Velvet tapestries hang on the walls, embroidered with flowers and vines. There’s a big oak cabinet filled with small ivory elephants. A hundred elephants, easily, some bearing mahouts or tiny passengers riding in palanquins. The bed is big enough that Saidie and I could have both slept in it comfortably, and if the blankets smell old, at least they’re warm.

There’s nothing to read and nothing to do except look out the window. Once or twice I think I hear a distant cry, like a child in pain. I don’t think Mr. Craven would hurt Mary, or Mrs. Medlock either, but who else could be crying? Mr. Craven said he had no daughters of his own. At dusk, I curl up in the bed. The candle that John left me is almost burned to the nub, so I lie in the darkness and wait. My stomach is so empty it hurts. He comes sometime later, with another candle and a pail of food that smells delicious.

“Sorry that I had to wait so long,” he says. “Cook guards her domain like a rabid little dog.”

He’s brought chicken and biscuits and turnips, as well as a wedge of cheese and beer to wash everything down with. I try to eat slowly, like a proper Englishwoman would, but it’s hard when I just want to shove everything into my mouth at once.

“Don’t hold to manners because of me. I’d be starving, too,” he says.