Chapter Four
IT WAS A SURPRISINGLY sunny day when I left London. The city had contrived to kill my beloved father, but now that it had succeeded in its cruel adventure it was satisfied to be benevolent once again. I felt an antipathy towards the place as I left, an emotion that surprised me, for I had always loved the capital, but as the train pulled out of Liverpool Street Station, the sun pouring through the window and blinding my eyes, I thought it harsh and unfair, an old friend who had turned on me for no good reason and whom I was now happy to see the back of. At that moment I believed that I could lead a contented life and never lay eyes on London again.
Seated opposite me in the railway carriage was a young man of about my own age and although we had not spoken since boarding the train I allowed myself several surreptitious glances in his direction, for he was rather attractive, and I found that, however hard I tried to look away and focus my attention on the passing fields and farmlands, I kept being drawn back to his face. He reminded me of Arthur Covan, that’s the truth of it. As we pulled into Colchester, I noticed that he grew rather pale and his eyes filled with tears. He closed them for a few moments, perhaps hoping to stem their tide, but when he opened them again a few fell down his cheeks and he used his handkerchief to wipe them away. Catching me looking at him, he ran a hand across his face and I felt a desperate urge to ask him whether he was quite all right, whether he might like to talk for a little while, but whatever hurt was lingering in his heart, whatever trauma was causing him to lose control of his emotions, was not to be shared, and once the train pulled out of the station, he stood up, embarrassed by his display, and moved to a different carriage.
Of course, with the benefit of hindsight, I can see that the decisions I made that week were impulsive and foolish ones. I was lost in shock, my entire world had fallen apart over the course of seven days, and where I should have taken solace in my work, in my school, in my small girls, and yes, even in the company of the likes of Mrs. Farnsworth and Jessie, I made the hasty decision to uproot myself from everything I had ever known, the streets around Hyde Park where I had played as a child, the Serpentine that still filled me with memories of Bull’s Eye, the twists and turns of the laneways that would lead me from home to the familiarity of my classroom. I was desperate for change, but the curtains of that dark room upstairs that had claimed both my parents’ lives, and the life of my infant sister, might have been opened, the windows might have been flung wide, it might have been aired thoroughly with good, honest London air, it might have been redecorated and made inviting once again, a place to live and not to die. I was leaving all of these things behind and going to a part of the country I had never visited, and to do what? To be a governess to who knew how many children for a family who had not even sent an agent to meet with me before offering me the position. Foolish girl! You might have stayed. You might have lived a life that was happy.
The sun of London gave way to a cold wind in Stowmarket which blew against the train and made me feel rather unsettled, and by the time we reached Norwich in the early evening that in turn had been exchanged for a thick fog, the kind of pea-souper which reminded me of home, despite the fact that I was doing all I could to put that place out of my mind. As we came closer to Thorpe Station, I pulled the letter I had received the previous morning from my bag and read it thoroughly for perhaps the tenth time.
Gaudlin Hall,
24 October 1867
Dear Miss Caine,
Your application received with gratitude. Your experience acceptable. You are offered paid employment as Governess, by rates and conditions specified in the Morning Post (21st October number). You are expected on the evening of the 25th, by the five o’clock train. The Gaudlin man, Heckling, will collect you in the carriage. Please do not be tardy.
Sincerely,
H. Bennet
On reading it again, it struck me, as it had on every previous occasion, how curious a letter it was. The phrasing was so hurried, and once again there was no mention of how many children would be under my authority. And who was this “H. Bennet” who omitted the requisite “esq.” after his name? Was he a gentleman at all, or perhaps the head of a diminished household? What was his business? There was nothing to tell me. I sighed and felt a degree of anxiety as the train pulled into the station but determined to be strong, no matter what lay ahead. That, at least, would stand me in good stead in the weeks that followed.
I descended the train steps and looked around. It was almost impossible to see anything through the murky greyness of the fog but the direction that the other passengers were walking in assured me that the exit might be found if I followed them, and I began to walk even as I heard the doors of the train carriages slamming shut again for the return journey and the signalman’s whistle. Several people were running past me, making haste to board the train before it departed and, perhaps unable to see me through the mist, one collided with me, knocking my case from my hand and letting her own fall at the same time.
“Excuse me,” she said, not sounding particularly apologetic, but I did not mind too much for it was obvious that she did not want to miss her train. I reached for her suitcase, which had fallen to my left, and handed it across to her, and as I did so I noticed the monogrammed initials, etched red in the dark-brown leather. HB. I stared at them, wondering briefly why those initials meant something to me. At that moment I caught the lady’s eye and it seemed almost as if she knew me, for she stared with an expression of recognition, one that mingled pity with regret, before pulling the case from my hand, shaking her head quickly and disappearing into the fog and the carriage ahead.
I stood there, surprised by her rudeness, and then remembered why “HB” had seemed so familiar. But it was ridiculous, of course. A coincidence, nothing more. England must be littered with people with those initials.
Turning round now, I grew rather disoriented. I walked in the direction of what I believed to be the platform exit but as there were no passengers either departing or boarding trains from here, it grew difficult to be sure whether or not I was correct. To my left, the engines of the train returning to London were growing noisier as it prepared to depart; to my right, there was another track and I could hear the sound of a second train approaching. Or was it just behind me? It was hard to know. I turned round and gasped; which way should I walk? There was noise everywhere. I reached a hand out, trying to feel my way along, but nothing was where I expected it to be. The sound of voices began to grow louder around me and now there were people again, pushing past with their suitcases and valises, and how could they see where they were going, I wondered, when I could not even see my own hand stretched out before my face? I had not felt so unsettled since the afternoon in the graveyard, and a panic rose inside me, a sense of great terror and foreboding, and I thought that if I did not march forward with intent, then I would be left on this platform for ever, unable to see or breathe, and that I should live out my days here. And so, taking my heart in my hands, I lifted my right foot and started to press forward once again just as a great whistling noise—the sound of the second train—increased to a violent scream and to my horror I felt a pair of hands on my back, pushing me forward with a sharp thrust, and I stumbled, ready to fall headlong just as a third hand gripped my elbow, pulled me back quickly, and I stumbled over my feet towards a wall where, almost immediately, the fog began to disperse a little and I could make out the man who had dragged me so violently from where I had been standing.