I had almost dozed off when shouts came from the hall. Footsteps followed, heavy and uneven. I touched Lizzy’s shoulder. ‘Lizzy, wake up. They are coming back to the kitchen.’
The fire had burnt low. A chill crept in through the stone walls. The wind was wild now, shaking the door, banging at the window. I looked up and tried to see outside, but ice marbled the glass.
‘Lizzy.’
She grunted and stirred. ‘What time is it, mistress?’
‘I do not know. Time for us to be a-bed. Come, I cannot stand to bide here. They might burst in singing.’
We were nearly at the servants’ stairs when a blow fell upon the door to the stable yard. I froze. Who could be out in that storm?
Glass rattled in the window frames. The chimney gusted.
The knock came again.
Lizzy moved towards the door, her servant’s habits ingrained. I grabbed her sleeve.
‘Lizzy . . .’ I could not say what I feared. Panic rose from my chest to my throat.
The noise of the servants grew louder.
‘I must answer it, mistress. A body could freeze to death in that blizzard!’ Her woollen sleeve rubbed across my fingers and was gone.
She reached the door to the yard just as the servants burst in from the other direction. Mark staggered into the roasting jack, his face blotched red. Next came Jane, giggling, then Cook and a string of footmen who looked quite foreign to me, out of their livery. At their heels, haunting every step, wafted a sour cloud of alcohol.
‘Lackaday! What’s this? Mistress in the kitchen?’
Lizzy darted a glance at them before she turned and pulled the door open. It blew inwards, thudding against the wall. Snow flurried onto the tiles, melting in an instant as the fire gibbered, casting shadows on the ceiling.
Roars of disapproval came from the drunken servants.
‘Why did you open that door, damn you?’ hollered Mark. ‘It’s cold as a witch’s tit out there.’
I could not see who had knocked for admittance; the snow was too dense. I squinted, shivering. Something moved in the flurry. Something the height of Lizzy’s waist.
‘Oh! God save us, what is it?’ Lizzy reared back, stumbling into Jane. Now I saw it: the queerest creature; black as the devil, but dotted all over with white. It lurched forwards, mumbling in tongues. Jane shrieked.
‘Mercy.’ A single, comprehensible word. Everything fell still. The creature held out its dark hands; the atmosphere prickled around it. ‘M-m-mercy.’
And I saw it was no demon, but a meagre child, her hair loose and torn by the wind, dripping from the tips.
‘No beggars here!’ barked Lizzy. I had never seen her so afraid. ‘We don’t want your sort.’
I opened my mouth to say that she could sleep in the stables. Then I remembered what had happened the last time I let a stranger into those stalls.
The girl shook her head. Something in her black eyes was familiar. ‘Josiah Bainbridge,’ she stumbled over the name – it was clear that she did not use her native tongue. ‘I see Josiah Bainbridge. Mercy.’
Mark bumbled forward, pushing Lizzy behind him. ‘You’ll get nowhere near my master. Now hop it.’
I could not stop myself. The question flew from me. ‘Mercy . . . Mercy for whom?’
Those dark eyes turned in my direction. Diamonds of snow stuck to the long lashes. ‘Brother.’
The floor spun away from me. Gooseflesh crept over my skin and I knew in that moment what it really was to have the second sight. Not my strange forebodings and dreams, but the power in this girl’s ink-black eyes. I did not need to hear the name, yet she gave it.
‘Brother. Merripen.’
Jane shrieked again.
‘God’s blood! It’s that gypsy,’ Mark roared. ‘It’s the kin of that foul boy!’
‘Take her through to the master,’ cried Cook. She steadied herself against the wall and belched. ‘String her up alongside him, he will.’
As one, the servants surged. There were fewer than a dozen of them, but they had become legion: a mass of grasping fingers and furious red faces.
Lizzy was jostled sideways. Her black partlet ripped. She clung onto the brick chimney, a plea passing from her eyes to mine. Stop them. I started forwards, but they grabbed at the child, clumsy and rough in their liquor.
‘Stop!’ Lizzy launched herself from the chimney and tried to wrench their hands away. ‘Run, child!’ she cried. ‘Run!’
I added my voice. They did not heed it. Who was I to halt them, now? The disgraced mistress, the wife Josiah treated like refuse in a street kennel.
Lizzy managed to free one of the child’s wrists. Scratching and hissing, the girl pulled the other one to liberty. Just then, a stray fist caught the side of Lizzy’s head. She went down – there was nothing between the girl and the mob.
I have never moved so fast in all of my life. Heedless of the benches, of my skirts, I darted into the space Lizzy had left and made my decision. They would not dare to strike me, but I could not hold them at bay for long. I had to get the girl away.
Planting both hands on her bony shoulders, I shoved her back through the door, into the waiting claws of the storm. Her hands flailed and caught at my throat – I felt my diamond necklace lift from my skin. Our eyes met again for the shock of an instant. Then she was gone, obscured by a drift of snow.
I whipped around and slammed the door shut behind me. My spine was firm against the wood, my arms out to bar the way.
‘Back!’ I shouted. ‘Get back!’
Mark met my gaze. His face twisted. ‘I will tell Master of this.’
One by one they fell away; either to their rooms or to the floor. Jane lies now, stretched snoring before the burnt-out fire. It is deathly cold. Yet Lizzy and I sit here together by a single candle, unable to stir ourselves.
All we can do is listen to the wind as it chitters and thumps through the woods. Nothing shows through the window: it is coated with snow, and we are buried.
‘It is very cold,’ Lizzy says, every so often. ‘It is very, very cold.’
End of the first volume
THE BRIDGE, 1866
Elsie sat rock solid on the squabs, staring straight ahead as the carriage rumbled towards Fayford. Outside, the weather was mild. Pale, soft light showed buds in the hedgerows and blossom on every tree. But this year spring was a spiteful mockery.
Her cheeks felt hard, like set wax. A thrush trilled in the woods and it seemed the most painful, jarring noise she had ever heard.
How could this have happened?
An accident, Mrs Holt said. Mabel was washing greens for the servants’ dinner and didn’t take the time to dry her hands before preparing the meat. The cleaver must have slipped.
Slipped. A convenient word: out of control; hard to hold, even in the mouth. Too fast. You could not prove a slip. Elsie knew that well.
But if Mabel’s hand had slipped, why didn’t she run for help? Why did nobody hear her scream? How could it be that no one knew about the accident until Helen found her in a pool of blood on the kitchen floor, a vertical slash running from her wrist to her elbow?