Wildthorn by Jane Eagland
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.
Part One
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.