CHAPTER 4.
There was no one to meet me at the train station. I stood in a fog of coal fumes, clutching my bag, wondering if my head was fastened on straight. Eileen had been right. I could have followed her to St. Louis and found work. But that would defeat the purpose. My mother’s family had made it clear they wanted nothing to do with me, and I was determined to pave my own way.
I was also reluctant to leave London, somehow knowing my brother and father’s deaths were related. I needed to stay. To find out what really happened the night Joshua was murdered.
The police arrested a man, then let him go saying there wasn’t enough evidence to hold him. There had been too many people, and each one swore up and down they saw nothing. Though that didn’t prevent them from gathering around my dead brother’s body as he lay in a pool of blood.
“Vultures,” I muttered in disgust as I navigated a platform completely devoid of people. I had the complete misfortune of arriving after the ticket office closed. I was tired and dirty. Food didn’t even enter my mind. I sat down to gather my thoughts, thinking I had made a dreadful mistake.
Fumbling in my pocket for the letter, I skimmed it to see if I had missed anything. All they said was to take the train to Whitby. In my haste, I neglected to read the fine print. I was responsible for my own transportation to Briarwood Hall. At that moment, I felt so defeated that I curled up on the bench and fell asleep.
“Excuse me,” an annoyed man’s voice was saying. “Excuse me, miss?”
One eye blinked open, then closed. “Who are you?” I mumbled, still half asleep. “Go ’way.”
“Are you the one who answered the advertisement?”
Both eyes flew open. “That all depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether you’re from Briarwood.” I sat up, wincing. I was unused to sleeping on a hard wooden bench and felt like an old woman. I rubbed my eyes, willing them to focus. A very tall and very disgruntled looking gentleman stood before me. I slipped my spectacles on and instantly regretted it. “I arrived last night,” I said, yawning. “There was no one to meet me.”
“You were instructed to find your own way to Briarwood.”
“I forgot.”
“I’m sure.” He scowled with an impatient gesture toward my bag. “Is this all you brought with you?”
I nodded.
“How old are you?” he demanded, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. “We specifically asked for a woman, not a little girl.”
“I am nineteen, good sir.”
His displeasure was evident in the way he eyed me as if I were a scavenging rodent. “I suppose you spent all the money we sent you.”
“Oh, no,” I said, fishing out the change. I held it out.
“Keep it,” he grunted. He did not offer to help me with my bag and stood aside as I struggled with its weight. “This will not do,” he said crisply. “You are but a slip of a girl. How will you care for my employer if your bag is larger than yourself?”
“I am stronger than I look, sir.”
“Well,” he said, giving me the once over. “I suppose we can put some meat on you. But the position will be on a trial basis. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, at least you remember your manners. Come along.”
He turned and marched down the platform, his long strides leaving me in his wake. “Wait up, sir!” I panted, struggling to keep up.
“There is no time,” he answered brusquely. “You were expected yesterday. We were quite put out.”
“And I explained—”
He shot me a deathly glare, and I wisely kept my mouth closed. He led me to a waiting carriage and left me to fend for myself while he conferred with the driver. I hopped aboard, placing my bag on the floor. After a few minutes, he joined me and proceeded to explain my duties as the carriage rattled down the road. “Have you an education?” he asked, startling me. “Your pronunciation is quite… peculiar.”
My accent may have been more clipped than I realized. “I grew up in Rhode Island, sir.”
“I see. And your education?”
“I attended school and was on my way to receiving my teacher’s certificate.”
He nodded. “The colonel likes someone to read to him before bedtime. You will have a full library at your disposal.”
“That’s… fine.”
“You will be required to perform light housekeeping duties. We do not employ the services of a housekeeper, as the colonel likes his peace and quiet. He cannot abide noise.” He emphasized the next sentence. “Of any kind.”
“Neither do I.”
“And you will kindly refrain from loud colors and the like. Our employer expects a neat appearance at all times and will deduct from your salary if you do not follow instructions. Do I make myself clear, young lady?”
“Will I be the only one in the house?” I inquired hesitantly. “Besides you?”
“I live in the caretaker’s cottage on the property,” he replied with a grimace, as if it pained him to do so. “And, as I’ve indicated, the colonel does not like noise.”
“Why is that? If I may?”
“You may, but I am not sure I wish to answer.”
“It would help if I knew, sir.”
“Very well.” He blessed me with another scowl. “He fought during the Sepoy Mutiny and witnessed some very vile things. That may be the extent of this conversation.”
I knew little about the Indian Rebellion of 1857 and promised myself to find out all I could. “What are his dietary requirements?”
“You may take that up with Mrs. Hutchins. She is the cook and comes four times a week. You will not be required to cook on the days when she is not.”
“But what—”
“The colonel prefers cold sandwiches and tea most days. He is not fond of hot foods.”
That was fine. I could handle sandwiches. “What about fruit? Is he fond of vegetables?”
“No, to both questions. He is fond of salads, cold puddings, and milk. He hates porridge, spicy food of any kind, and will throw the plate at your head if you try to serve it.”
Suppressing a shudder, I asked about his upkeep. “What about bathing and the like?”
“A sponge bath is sufficient. He is not an invalid, miss.”
“Then he is capable of caring for himself?”
“When he feels up to it.”
“Is he under a physician’s care?” I was taking mental notes like mad, wishing I’d thought to bring a notebook. “Any medications I should know about?”
“Miss Gibson,” he said slowly, as if speaking to a toddler. “Your questions pain me. For your information, the surgeon only visits if the colonel requests it. Otherwise…”
“Then I am to figure these things out for myself?” I finished for him.
“You may say that.”
“I forgot to ask your name. Please forgive—”
“I am Mr. Anson,” he provided gruffly, still eyeing with a curious mixture of pity and disdain. “And you did not specify you were an… American.” He ground out the last word as if he had just ingested something scraped from the bottom of his shoe. “The colonel will not be pleased.”
“Why would it be a problem? Has he something against Americans?”
Mr. Anson’s eyes narrowed until they were thin slits in his narrow face. “Colonel Havelock’s experiences with Americans have—shall we say?—been less than satisfactory.”
“I… see. Then perhaps I should—”
“There can be no help for it, Miss Gibson. You were the only one who answered the advertisement.” He let out a troubled sigh. “Colonel Havelock will have the final say. He will either approve of you or he will not.”
That wasn’t reassuring.
As the carriage wound its way through the countryside, I was given a list as long as my arm of dos and don’ts. I was to comport myself as a lady, and never speak out of turn. No matter where I was or what I was doing, I was to answer the colonel's bell. I was to prepare his favorite tea with fresh orange peels and a dash of cinnamon—no sugar. On the days he felt like moving about the house, I was to escort him downstairs to the conservatory and let him sit in the sun for no more than half an hour. “He gets dreadful headaches if he bakes too long,” Mr. Anson warned without a trace of humor. “Be certain he always wears his hat.”
“I will.”
“Oh, and the colonel is not fond of visitors. You will kindly send them away.”
“All of them?” I wondered about relatives. “Does he have no children?”
“No.”
“What about cousins?”
“They are dead.”
“Who cared for him before?”
Mr. Anson’s brows shot up. “The previous girl was dismissed a month ago.”
He did not elaborate and the look on his face warned me I should inquire no further.
My curiosity piqued, I prodded gently until he snapped at me to never mention the girl’s name. “She was young,” he explained with a shudder, as though his recent experience left him traumatized. “Hence, why the colonel requested someone older.” He shook his head at me. “He will not be pleased.”
“I am sure my immaturity will not be a detriment, sir.”
“So you say.”
The remainder of our journey consisted of rules pertaining to the upkeep of the colonel and his preferences for bed linens.
“The bed linens are changed once daily. Always tuck the sheets neatly. The corners should be snug and tight.” Mr. Anson wagged his finger at me. “No creases!”
“No, sir.”
“The colonel will want to know why an American answered his advertisement.” Suddenly, the line of questioning left me squirming in my seat. “Have you no family?”
“I have a sister, sir.”
“And where is she?”
“St. Louis. She is living with my aunt.”
“And why did you not go with them?”
“My mother’s family did not approve of my father. They requested I stay.” I glanced down at my hands, hating I’d bitten every nail down to the quick. “But that’s all right. I will save my money and send for my sister as soon as I’m able to provide for her.”
“So, both your parents are deceased?”
I nodded, overcome with emotion. My eyes watered and I forced the tears back, determined I would not cry in front of this haughty man. “My brother, too.”
“Well, no wonder you sent a reply.” He clicked his tongue. “It’s not so easy, is it? Living on your own.”
“I should say not.”
Mr. Anson handed me a handkerchief. Before I could thank him, he said, “Be certain to tell the colonel. He may take pity on you.”
I blew my nose, tempted to leap out of the carriage. I’d take my chances with the sheep. After folding the handkerchief in my lap, it looked like a crumpled piece of paper. Mr. Anson told me to keep it and continued his lecture on laying out the colonel’s clothes for the day.
“The shirt should be freshly ironed, along with the cuffs. The trousers should have sharp creases and the—”
“Shouldn’t he have a valet if he requires his clothes a certain way?”
“The colonel much prefers a woman to care for his clothing. He wears nothing but the best cotton and wools, Miss Gibson. He feels a valet, though well-trained, simply wouldn’t do the fabrics justice. You understand.”
“Certainly,” I mumbled, not really understanding the logic. “What about a butler?”
Mr. Anson made a strangled sound. “Heaven’s no! A butler? The colonel cannot abide their pretentious snobbery.”
It seemed the colonel couldn’t abide by a lot of things, and I began to wonder what exactly I was dealing with here.
As the carriage drew up in front of my new home, I pondered my own. The place was massive. Gothic even, with its many arches and stained-glass windows. I felt I was about to enter a dwelling where girls in flowy nightgowns disappeared after roaming darkened passageways. And, as I set foot on the graveled driveway, my eyes drifted up to an attic window.
I felt it peering back at me.
