CHAPTER 7.
Once, when I was a child, I used to play a game where I hid from my brother. I’d hide in pantries and cupboards, waiting in dreadful anticipation as he tried to discover my hiding place. I prided myself on my ingenuity and resourcefulness when Joshua ran off crying because he couldn’t find me.
The exhilaration dulled as I grew older and no longer wished to hide. Well, that wasn’t exactly true. I wanted to hide from Colonel Havelock. The man was insufferable. Mr. Anson was a close second. Nearly a month since arriving at Briarwood Hall, the stress of constantly glancing over my shoulder had taken its toll. My appetite waned, my hair began falling out in clumps, and I had lost ten pounds by the time spring revealed her glorious visage.
Mrs. Hutchins was quite disappointed when I refused to touch the roast chicken she put on for dinner. “Look at you!” she clucked in dismay. “What would your mother say?”
I sat, thoroughly transfixed by a platter of raw vegetables. For some inexplicable reason, the sight of stalks of celery and peeled carrots was far more appetizing than a roast chicken swimming in pan gravy. “I’m sorry,” I apologized, nibbling on a radish. “I don’t seem to have much of an appetite these days.”
“I went to a lot of trouble with that chicken,” she informed me resentfully. “At least have the courtesy of trying some potatoes!”
To pacify her, I accepted a plate full of roasted potatoes sprinkled with rosemary and thyme. They were good, but had the consistency of sawdust. Briarwood had put me off food, amongst other… things.
I neglected to inform Mrs. Hutchins the real reason I had lost my appetite was because I was no longer sleeping. After Colonel Havelock came at me with his chair, I’d been terrified of being alone with him. So much so, I left the door open to his room when I brought his trays.
Just in case.
Mr. Anson brushed my concerns aside, berating me for being melodramatic. “He meant no harm,” he chided when I requested he remain in the house for mealtimes. “What did we hire you for if you need a minder yourself?”
“I want to leave,” I told him after an incident in which a large bowl of tapioca pudding was lobbed at my head. “I could have been killed!”
“Nonsense,” chuckled. “Was it too warm? You know how he feels about hot foods.”
“It was lukewarm!”
“See?”
That wasn’t the half of it. Colonel Havelock was a spiteful and petty man, often given to wanton displays of crude humor. Often these remarks would be directed at my person, my uniform, or the fact I wore spectacles. The insults I could live with.
It was the pinching and fondling I could do without.
“He pinches!” I confided after hoofing it across the grounds to the caretaker’s cottage. I rubbed my smarting backside ruefully. “Why didn’t you warn me?”
Mr. Anson offered a tin of hoof liniment, but no words of sympathy. “Think you’re the first girl he’s pinched? Better get used to it, Miss Gibson.”
“What about the other… thing?” I whispered, uncomfortable discussing such a thing with a man. “He touched my—”
“Did he now?”
“You don’t believe me!” I cried. “Think I’d make up something so vile? So, so—”
“Calm yourself, Miss Gibson. You’ll expire of apoplexy.”
I glanced down at myself. I wore a corset, several layers of petticoats, and my uniform. But nothing could eradicate the feel of an old man’s hands upon me. “He didn’t just touch… them,” I choked. “He… he…” I hung my head. “Wives don’t even let their husbands do that.”
“How would you know?”
My head snapped up. He was laughing at me. I was so enraged I threatened to quit on the spot. He hurried to smooth my ruffled feathers. “You don’t want to do that. What would you do for money?” he needled.
“Do not condescend to me!” I shouted. “I’d rather pick up dog droppings in the street than be pawed by that—”
“Look,” he said, walking me out. “Give me time to find a replacement. In the meantime, try to limit your contact with him.”
“How?”
“Regard him as if he were a rabid… weasel.”
“What?!”
“Miss Gibson,” he sighed, squinting at an object in the distance. I tried to see what he was looking at and saw nothing. “Humor the man. He’s old. He’s very set in his ways. And most of the time, he thinks he’s back in Calcutta where such behavior is…”
“Yes?”
“Well,” Mr. Anson said, clearing his throat. “It was a different time back then. His behavior was not frowned upon, if you get my meaning.”
“No,” I mumbled. “I don’t think I do.”
“Very well,” he said, giving me a helpful nudge toward the house. “I’ll check in on you this evening. How’s that?”
“Fine, I guess.”
Of course, the caretaker couldn’t be bothered to leave his claret and roaring fireplace until after I’d put Colonel Havelock to bed. The event should have been classified as an Olympic sport. Convincing a stubborn old goat that it’s time for bed required the art of persuasion, strong arms, and padding in all the right places. When I was through, I had enough bruises to qualify me for a boxing medal.
“What happened to you?” Mr. Anson cried when I stumbled downstairs, my cap askew and a trickle of blood drying on my chin. “Did he strike you?”
I reached up, gingerly probing my left eye. “He wanted another glass of milk,” I replied, still in shock over the violent jab. “I gave him one. He thought I put something in it and refused to dress for bed. I had to sweet-talk him. Even after all that, he refused.” I winced. “He came at me like a rabid… dog.” I brushed past him to find something to put on my eye. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to find a steak.”
“Miss Gibson!” he said, chasing after me. “This is highly irregular. What do you do to provoke him?”
I turned, startled by the question. “I do nothing to provoke him.”
“I don’t believe you. The colonel may be set in his ways, but he’s never—”
“Perhaps it is the sight of my face,” I quipped. “He is not fond of it.”
“Does he tell you that?”
“All the time,” I called over my shoulder. “I am through for the night. You may see to him until morning!”
“That will come out of your wages!”
“I know!”
* * *
After surviving all of that, I ceased to sleep. No matter how hard I tried, I’d toss and turn until the first streaks of dawn pierced my window. I’d stumble to the washstand like a hobbled old woman and peer at a visage that no longer resembled the one I owned. The girl peering back at me was pale, defeated, and could be mistaken for a wraith. My cheekbones hollowed and my eyes appeared sunken. It seemed my very life force was seeping through some invisible wound I could not mend.
I’d lie awake at night, dreading Colonel Havelock’s bell, and wish I were back at the house in Providence with its brick chimney and whitewashed fence. Mama would put us to bed after reading a story, the scent of my father’s tobacco lulling us into a soothing slumber. Eileen would crawl into bed with me, and I’d drift off with the sweet smell of her hair filling my head.
I missed that.
Now, all I had were scratchy sheets and a black eye.
Sleep again eluded me, and I sat up as a thought popped into my head. I was suddenly overcome with a desire to visit the attic. “Oh no,” I said to the tiny voice. “I’m not supposed to go up there.” The voice was persistent, but after stubbornly refusing to obey, it receded to the back of my mind. Surprisingly, I began to feel drowsy and slid back into bed.
Four hours later, Colonel Havelock’s bell rang, and I prepared for another day of fondling.
“You took your time,” he muttered, blinking the last vestiges of sleep from his eyes. He sat up in bed, his bald head covered with a sleeping cap and a smirk curling his shriveled lips. I set the tray on the table and shook out his napkin. “Didn’t you sleep well?”
“No, Colonel,” I said, stifling a yawn. “I never sleep.”
“That’s a shame. You ought to do what I do.”
“And what is that?” I stirred his porridge, making sure it wasn’t too hot. I waited for him to don his robe and sit at the table he used to eat his meals. “The porridge isn’t too hot.”
“It better not be.” He scowled. “Well? Sit down, if you’re so inclined!” he snapped. “I can’t stand a silly chit hovering over me like a mother hen.”
“Is that allowed, Colonel?”
“If I say it is, then it is allowed.” He rolled his eyes, taking a tentative taste of the porridge. “What is this slop? Is this what the farmers feed to their pigs?”
I had just pulled out a chair and was glad I had not taken him up on his offer. “What is the… matter with it?” I asked fearfully, wishing I’d thought to wear a helmet.
“It’s sour,” he complained, holding up the spoon. “Has the cream spoiled?”
“It was delivered this morning.” I swiped my finger in the porridge and took a taste. My mouth puckered. “It is sour!” I snatched up the bowl in disbelief. I always made fresh porridge and threw out leftovers. The cream had still been cold when I added it along with the brown sugar and cinnamon. “This is—”
Colonel Havelock hurled the spoon on the floor. “I do not pay for spoiled cream in my porridge, girl.” His voice was almost a hushed whisper and a warning he was close to losing his temper. “Prepare me another.”
“Right away, Colonel.” I threw everything back on the tray and slammed on the dome. Once in the kitchen, I discarded the porridge and prepared a fresh pot. While it simmered, I tested the cream. It tasted fine. No hint of the offensive sourness that indicated spoilage. “How strange,” I said as I ladled the porridge into a clean bowl. I was about to add the cream and thought of something.
I filled a small pitcher with the cream, loaded the dumbwaiter, and brought the whole thing back to him. “Was it spoiled?” he asked, clearly not in the mood to quibble. He watched as I raised the dome. “Where is the cream?”
“In the small pitcher, Colonel.”
He eyed me suspiciously and held it up to his nose. “It smells,” he complained, wrinkling his nose. “Take a whiff.”
“But it smelled fine in the kitchen!” I took a sniff, immediately recoiling at the stench. “Thank goodness I didn’t add it to the porridge.” I set the pitcher aside and prepared to sprinkle his cinnamon. He grabbed my arm and gave it a painful squeeze. “Sir—”
“You don’t think I’m going to eat that swill, do you?” He took his hand and swiped it across the table, sending the tray and everything on it clattering to the floor. I was horrified. “Now, you have something to do. Kindly clean up this mess and prepare me a spot of toast. Toast can’t spoil.”
“No,” I mumbled, watching freshly squeezed orange juice seep into the carpet. The tea and porridge would have to be scrubbed out with a vigor I did not possess. “Let me—”
For the final coup de grâce, Colonel Havelock spat up all over himself.
