Tilly forced herself to smile. “Shall we pass the time in my room?” she husked, linking arms with the judge and shutting my door behind them.
I was left with an anxious feeling like tiny waves across the sea before a squall. I frowned as I crossed my feet on the ottoman, and my eyes fell back to the advertisement: Highgate House. The place seemed like a dream at times, at others a nightmare, but it was mine, I thought again with alarming intensity.
Remember when you ran to your aunt Patience with roses and your ears were boxed for ruining the gardener’s chances at the flower show.
Remember when you visited the horses with carrots, preferring their company because they wouldn’t warn you against hellfire.
Remember when Mamma let you take her hair down before bedtime and the firelight painted it red and gold and copper.
I did not want to remember very much of my life—but when I thought of Highgate House, its shape shifted in my memory that day, its stark lines tangling with ivy and sentiment and something disturbingly like fanatical ownership.
? ? ?
The decision that I would apply for the governess position by creating false references, instructing that replies be addressed to pedigreed London post offices to be left until called for, was made as I walked home through Covent Garden three days later. The market was packed to bursting so close to the holiday, donkey barrows edged nose to tail, the mournful-eyed creatures strapped to their carts with everything from knotted handkerchiefs to braided string. The air bit like an errant pup, and I skirted impossible configurations of cabbages and salted fish, smelling the barnyard ripeness of fresh-killed chickens and the sweet sap of the festive pine boughs.
My plan was nearly formed when gaslights began blinking to life under the Pavilion, and by the time I reached Henrietta Street, it was complete; the fact that the solicitors had named Charles Thornfield next of kin (doubtless due to petty machinations set in place long ago by Aunt Patience) would not be a problem if Charles Thornfield was dead. I did not precisely want to kill him, mind—thus far I had reserved murder for those I had actually met—but I could kill him, and that was a comfort. Meanwhile, my mother left me woefully unprepared; there would be papers to recover, lineage to trace, but the occupation of governess (for which I was eminently qualified) would enable me to spy from within. I had convinced myself that if anyone remained who might recognise me, it would be my own Agatha—and surely I could explain to my old caretaker why I had left, and stayed away, and returned home once more.
After striking the snow and walnut shells off my boots, I ascended the stairs. When I saw no paisley kerchief tied to the knob (our signal she was working), I banged my way into Tilly’s rooms and found her alone with a mug of hot whiskey and honey, sitting at the table next to her place of business, its pillows lovingly fluffed.
“Tilly, I know it’s sudden but—I’m leaving,” I announced breathlessly. “I’m going to try for the job at Highgate House.”
Tilly Cate burst into tears.
“Oh, God.” I rushed to pull another chair over, spreading my fingers over her back. “Tilly, I. What—”
“He’s going to take her.”
“I don’t . . .”
Tilly slumped into my side, her heavy chest heaving. “Judge Frost. That filthy cove’s been after eyein’ my Kitty fer six months and more, askin’ if she takes after ’er mum, askin’ if she likes ’im. I says to ’im, Kitty’s only a girl, but he bullied and fussed and finally no, I says, and he says smug as a cat, I’ll have ye arrested fer whorin’, and then she’ll need a friend anyhow, won’t she? Oh, Jane, I ’ave to tell her . . . I ’ave to . . .”
Collapsing, Tilly wept as if her heart had shattered.
“Tilly,” I said into her coarse hair. “Shh. No one is going to hurt Kitty. We’ll think of something, you and I.”
“If she’d turned bad as I did—later, on ’er own, like—I couldn’t ha’ judged, but this is unnatural cruel, and there’s naught to think on. He’ll take me and then take her.”
I have never longed for children. At times, I suspect this curiosity is due to the fact I have learnt to find Death beautiful—and if I had children, then perhaps I should not think so anymore. The idea of Judge Frost with his pale flesh glowing like a maggot in the light through Tilly’s window as he enjoyed a virgin Kitty, however, was not to be endured.
“All right, Tilly.” I released a small sigh. “We’ll not think of something. You stop fretting; I’ll think of something.”
FOURTEEN
On a dark, misty, raw morning in January, I had left a hostile roof with a desperate and embittered heart—a sense of outlawry and almost of reprobation . . . The same hostile roof now again rose before me: my prospects were doubtful yet; and I had yet an aching heart. I still felt as a wanderer on the face of the earth: but I experienced firmer trust in myself and my own powers, and less withering dread of oppression.