There was an almost imperceptible roll of the girl’s eyes and she opened the door wider to let me in. “It’s only been a few hours,” she said.
“Since what?”
“Since the last one left. Miss Bennet. Still, at least she’s gone. She wanted to go, terribly. But she couldn’t, of course. Not until she found someone to take her place. That was kind of her, I suppose. It does her great credit. And here you are.”
I stepped inside, uncertain what to make of this extraordinary speech. Looking around, expecting her mother or father to descend the staircase despite what Heckling had said, I found myself immediately impressed by the grandeur of the house. It was very traditional and no expense had been spared on its ornamentation. And yet, for all that, it seemed to me to be a home which had been decorated perhaps several years before, and little had been done to keep it looking fresh in recent times. Still, it was clean and well ordered. Whoever took care of the place did a good job. As the little girl closed the door behind me, it sealed with a heavy sound, making me jump and turn round in fright, at which point I startled again, for standing next to her, wearing a similarly white, crisp nightshirt, was a little boy, perhaps four years her junior. I hadn’t seen him before. Had he been hiding behind the door?
“Eliza Caine,” said the little girl, tapping her index finger against her lower lip. “What a funny name. It sounds common.”
“The working classes all have names like that, I think,” said the little boy, scrunching his face up as if he was almost certain that this was true but not entirely so. I stared at him, wondering whether he meant to be rude, but he offered me such a friendly smile that I felt he was just stating the obvious. If we had to speak in terms of classes, then I supposed I was working class. I was here, after all, to work.
“Did you have a governess when you were a girl?” he asked me then. “Or did you go to school?”
“I went to school,” I told him. “St. Elizabeth’s in London.”
“I’ve always wondered what that would be like,” said the girl. “Eustace here would suffer dreadfully at a normal school, I think,” she added, nodding in the direction of her brother. “He’s quite a delicate child, as you can see, and boys can be terribly rough. Or so I’ve heard. I don’t know any boys myself. Other than Eustace, of course. Do you know many boys, Miss Caine?”
“Only the brothers of the small girls I teach,” I said. “Or taught. I was a teacher, you see.”
“At the same school you attended as a girl?”
“Yes.”
“My goodness,” she said, smirking a little. “It’s almost as if you never grew up. Or never wanted to. But it’s true what I say, isn’t it? About little boys. They can be terribly rough.”
“Some,” I said, looking around, wondering whether we were going to stand here chatting all night or whether I might be shown to my room and introduced to the adults. “So,” I said, smiling at them and attempting to speak in an authoritative manner. “Here I am anyway. I wonder, could you let your mama know that I have arrived? Or your papa? They might not have heard the carriage.”
I noticed the boy, Eustace, stiffen slightly as I made reference to his parents but chose not to remark on it. The little girl, however, allowed her demeanour to slip a little and she bit her lip and looked away with an expression approaching, but not quite reaching, embarrassment.
“Poor Eliza Caine,” she said. “I’m afraid you’ve been brought here under false pretences. That is a phrase, isn’t it?” she added. “I read it in a book recently and rather liked the sound of it.”
“It is a phrase, yes,” I said. “Although I don’t think it can mean what you think it means. I’ve been hired to be your governess. Your father placed the advertisement in the Morning Post.” I didn’t care what Heckling had said; the notion that the previous governess had placed the notice was quite absurd.
“He didn’t, as it happens,” said the girl lightly, and now Eustace turned and pressed his small body against hers, and she put an arm around him. It was true, he was a delicate child. I thought he could break quite easily. “Perhaps we should sit down, Miss Caine,” she said, leading the way towards the drawing room. “You must be tired after your journey.”
I followed in astonishment, both amused and disturbed by her grown-up manner. She waited until I had sat down on a long sofa before taking her place in an armchair opposite me, as if she was mistress of Gaudlin and not the daughter of the house. Eustace hovered between us but then chose to sit at the very end of the sofa, staring at his toes.
“Your parents are home, aren’t they?” I asked, sitting opposite her, beginning to wonder whether this entire position was some elaborate ruse, designed to fool a grieving young woman for no apparent reason. Perhaps the family was comprised of lunatics.
“They’re not, I’m afraid,” she said. “There’s just Eustace and me. Mrs. Livermore comes in every day to take care of various things. She does a little cooking and leaves meals for us. I hope you like overcooked meat and undercooked vegetables. But she lives in the village. And you’ve met Heckling, of course. He has a cottage out near the stables. Dreadful man, don’t you agree? He reminds me of an ape. And doesn’t he smell funny?”
“He smells of the horses,” said Eustace, grinning at me, displaying a missing front tooth, and I could not prevent myself, despite my disquiet, from smiling back.
“He does rather,” I said before turning back to his sister. “I’m sorry,” I said, my tone expressing my confusion. “You didn’t tell me your name.”
“Didn’t I?”
“No.”
She frowned and nodded, waiting the longest time before replying. “How rude of me,” she said. “My name is Isabella Westerley. I am named for one of the great Queens of Spain.”
“Isabella of Castille,” I said, remembering my history.
“That’s the one,” she replied, apparently pleased that I knew to whom she was referring. “My mother was born in Cantabria, you see. My father, on the other hand, was born here. In this very house.”
“So you’re half English, half Spanish?” I said.
“Yes, if you want to talk of me in terms of fractions,” she replied.
I stared at her, then looked around. There were some interesting paintings in the room—forebears of the current inhabitants, I assumed—and a rather lovely tapestry on the wall that faced out towards the courtyard, and it crossed my mind that I would enjoy studying these in more detail the following day, in sunlight.
“But you don’t,” I began, wondering how to phrase this. “You don’t live here alone, surely? Just the two of you?”
“Oh no, of course not,” said Isabella. “We’re far too young to be left alone.”
I exhaled a sigh of relief. “Thank heavens for that,” I said. “Well, if your parents aren’t here, then who is? Could you call for the adult of the house?”
To my astonishment, without moving even slightly on her seat, Isabella opened her mouth and let out an extraordinary and chilling scream. At least, I thought it was a scream until I realized that she had, in fact, simply called my name. Eliza Caine.