There was nothing to do but trudge on through the darkness, not knowing where I was going. And so I trudged.
I did not see the wall—I simply walked into it. Then along it, feeling my way, my hands on the cold, slick stones. At last I felt something—the wood of a door. There was a handle, which turned under my hand. And then I was inside, my shoes squelching on the floor. I took them off and walked carefully, feeling my way. Where was I? A barn of some sort?
There was something soft under my feet—and then something hard against my knee, something I had walked into with a thump. I cried out in pain, and the cry echoed, as though I were in a large space. A barn then, I was certain. I felt around me—there was a sort of pallet, covered with cloth. I could do no more. Without light, I would only wander aimlessly. Whoever discovered me here in the morning might take me to prison—I was so tired and wet that I no longer cared. I clutched at the pallet and fell upon it, sobbing with exhaustion. And then I believe I lost consciousness, overwrought with the fears and horrors of that night.
The next morning, I woke and looked around me with astonishment. Sunlight streamed through the windows. I was in a large room, as magnificent as any in the Frankensteins’ house. The floor was covered with a carpet in dim, rich colors. On the walls were paintings of men and women in the garb of previous centuries, and shelves upon shelves of books—hundreds of books. Sunlight glinted off the gold titles on their spines. The pallet on which I had fallen the night before was a sofa, upholstered in velvet, and what I had bruised my knee on was a low table with designs inlaid in ivory and exotic woods. It was the library of a wealthy family—Justine Moritz knew that. But everywhere, there was a sense of neglect. The carpet was moth-eaten. The books and furniture were covered with dust. The curtains that hung at the windows had faded, and there were cobwebs in the corners of the room. The barn I thought I had stumbled into was a grand house—magnificent, but utterly deserted.
I wandered through that house in astonishment, my bare feet cold on the floors. Everywhere it was the same—dust and decay. I did not know, until much later, that the house was the seat of an aristocratic family. When the old earl died, his son had inherited the property, but had so indebted himself that he could no longer afford to live there or keep it up. Neither could he sell, for the property was entailed. The house, its contents, and the surrounding estate could not be sold, but passed automatically to the next heir. The son had gone off to farm in Africa, and his son after him stayed there, never returning to England. So the house was left to the moths and spiders.
And to me.
I had nowhere to go, no one in the world to whom I belonged, for I did not consider myself bound to Adam. That morning, I found a broom and swept away the cobwebs from the moldings and chandeliers. I took the rugs outside and beat them until you could see their colors again, like jewels. I wiped the tables and chairs with a soft cloth, and promised them I would find beeswax, so they would shine as they had before. I washed the windows with white vinegar from the butler’s pantry. Finally, I dusted the books, as Justine Moritz would have done. Remember that I had been a maid. What I had known best in the world, before my father taught me philosophy and literature, was cleaning. I knew how to launder fine linen, polish silver, keep a great house. My brain might have forgotten, but my hands remembered. I found myself a room, one of the maid’s rooms, for I did not wish to be presumptuous. When I was done cleaning, I washed my clothes and myself in a tub I filled from a well behind the house. It was a relief to be truly clean for the first time in weeks.
But I was hungry, and there was no food. Whatever had been left in the house had been eaten long ago, probably by mice, for I found their droppings. So I went outside. Through the second-floor windows, I had seen a walled garden beyond the hedges that surrounded the house. I discovered it was a kitchen garden, large although neglected. It had once provided produce for the entire household, and I could still see vegetables among the weeds. Beyond it was an orchard, also walled to protect the fruit trees from the sea winds. I could not tell what kinds of fruit grew there, for I did not know how to distinguish apples and pears and quinces, but Justine Moritz remembered they would someday be good to eat. Slowly, I began to discover that there would be enough food for me: now there were asparagus and lettuce, later there would be cabbage and cauliflower and courgettes. If I tended the garden now, there would be a full harvest in autumn, and for winter I could store the cabbages that were already developing.
The house stood on a high cliff above the shore, but there was a path down to the rocks. There, I found mussels and snails, which I already knew I could eat. Later, I would find a way to fish—I had seen men do it with nets, and there must be a net somewhere in that house. I stood on the rocky shore, eating the green sprouts of asparagus and broccoli that I had brought with me to assuage my hunger. Yes, I could live here. I had food and water, a bed for the night. I had that library of neglected books. What more did I need?
I was completely alone, except for the mice and the owls that nested in the attic, whom I did not disturb. It was my own Eden, and I was its Eve. I thought it was paradise.
I will not tell you the story of those years, for there is no story to tell. Season after season, I planted my garden, fished from the sea with what had once been a tennis net, and read the books in the library. It had been the library of an educated man, so I read the philosophers and great poets. I taught myself English and Latin, and also a little Greek. In what had been a lady’s chamber, I found pencils and paints, and amused myself by sketching and painting until my supplies ran out. Sometimes I found a honeycomb and stole part of it from the bees. Their stings could not wound me. I always felt like a thief, but what sweetness! Once, a stray cat came, and her progeny lived with me for the rest of my time there, keeping down the population of mice.
I rarely left the environs of the house. Although I did not realize it, the estate surrounding that house was extensive, and no one had reason to trespass on it but poachers after hare. Sometimes I saw and disabled their traps. I thought, surely someone will come? A caretaker, if no one else? I kept a bag packed, ready to flee should I need to. But no one ever came. I lived simply and happily enough, although I missed my father and my kind, the companionship of another with whom I could converse. I had everything I needed but a friend.