Part 1 (2/2)

Before I could say another word, he cracked his whip. In seconds, the coach vanished into the rain.

With a sigh, I lowered my head and pushed open the heavy gate, then latched it behind me. The rain came down harder. The wind sent volleys of leaves flying against my face, as sharp edged as small knives.

Frightened by the creaking and groaning of tree limbs over my head, I walked faster, almost losing my shoes in the mud. They were thin soled, meant for city streets, not country lanes. I supposed I was meant for city streets as well, for I did not like the vast sky above me. The endless fields and the distant hills made me feel as if I were the only living person in this desolate place.

I was tempted to turn around and walk back to the road. Perhaps another coach would come along, warm and crowded with pa.s.sengers, and take me back to London's familiar streets.

But I kept going, fearing Miss Medleycoate would not accept me. Had she not been happy to see me leave? I did not want to end my days begging in the street.

Finally, ankle deep in mud and soaked by the rain, I came to the top of a hill. Below me was a gloomy stone house, grim and unwelcoming, its windows dark and lifeless. Except for a dense grove of fir trees, the gardens and lawn were brown and bare.

A writer like Miss Emily Bronte would have been entranced by its Gothic appearance, but I hung back again, suddenly apprehensive of what might await me behind those towering walls.

It was the rising wind and icy rain that drove me forward. Exhausted and cold, I made my way carefully downhill to the house. In the shelter of a stone arch, I lifted an iron ring and let it thud against the door. s.h.i.+vering in my wet coat and sodden shoes, I waited for someone to come.

Just as I was about to knock again, I heard footsteps approaching. The door slowly opened. A tall, thin woman dressed in black looked down at me. Her face was pale and narrow, her eyes were set deep under her brows, and her gray hair was pulled tightly into a bun at the back of her head. With a gasp, she pressed one bony hand to her heart. ”It cannot be,” she whispered. ”It cannot be.”

Fearing she was about to faint, I took her cold hand. ”I-I'm Florence Crutchfield,” I stammered. ”From London. I believe you're expecting me.”

She s.n.a.t.c.hed her hand away and looked at me more closely. ”For a moment I mistook you for someone else,” she murmured, her voice still weak. ”But now I see you bear no resemblance to her. None at all.”

Without inviting me in, the woman said, ”We were told you'd arrive tomorrow.”

”I beg your pardon, but Miss Medleycoate said I was to come today.” Panic made my heart beat faster. ”She said I was to come today,” I repeated. ”Today.”

At that moment, an old gentleman appeared in the shadowy hallway. The very opposite of the woman, he was short and round, and his cheeks were rosy with good humor. In one hand he held a pipe and in the other a thick book. ”Come in,” he said to me, ”come in. You're wet and cold.”

To the woman he said, ”This poor child must be our great-niece Florence. Why have you allowed her to stand on the doorstep, s.h.i.+vering like a half-drowned kitten?”

”You know my feelings about her coming here.” Without another word, she turned stiffly and vanished into the house's gloomy interior.

Puzzled by my aunt's unfriendly manner, I followed my uncle down the hall. What had I done to cause Aunt to dislike me almost on sight?

”As you must have guessed,” my uncle said, ”I'm your Great-Uncle Thomas, and that was my sister, your Great-Aunt Eugenie. I apologize for her brusqueness. I'm sure she didn't mean to be rude. She, er, she...”

Uncle paused as if searching for the right words to describe his sister. ”Well,” he went on, ”once she becomes accustomed to you, she'll be friendlier. Yes, yes, you'll see. She just has to get used to you.”

I didn't dare ask how long it would take Aunt to get used to me. Or how long it would take me to get used to her. Indeed, I felt I had escaped Miss Medleycoate only to encounter her double. Which was neither what I'd hoped for nor what I'd expected.

”And then of course,” Uncle went on, ”we really did expect you to arrive tomorrow. I'd have sent Spratt to meet you if I'd known you'd arrive today. A misunderstanding on someone's part, but, well, what's done is done. I am very happy to see you.”

Uncle led me into a large room lit by flickering firelight and oil lamps. Rain beat against its small windows, and the wind crept through every crack around the gla.s.s panes, but I felt cheered by the fire's glow and my uncle's smile.

”Here, let me have a look at you.” Uncle grasped my shoulders and peered into my face. ”Goodness, Eugenie, have you noticed how much she favors the Crutchfields? Blue eyes, dark hair-she could be Sophia's sister.”

My aunt frowned at me from a chair by the hearth. ”Don't be absurd. This girl is quite plain. And her hair is a sight.”

Busying myself with my coat b.u.t.tons, I pretended not to have heard Aunt. I didn't know what Sophia looked like, but I was quite ready to believe she was much prettier than I. Aunt was right. I was plain. And my hair was tangled by the wind and wet with rain and no doubt a sight.

Uncle took my sodden coat and settled me near the fire. ”You must be tired and cold,” he said. ”You've had a long, muddy walk from the road.” He picked up a bell and rang it.

A girl not much older than I popped into the room as if she'd been waiting by the door. She was so thin, she'd wrapped her ap.r.o.n strings twice around her waist, but the ap.r.o.n still flapped around her like a windless sail.

”Nellie,” my uncle said, ”this is Florence, the niece we expected to arrive tomorrow. Please bring tea for us all and something especially nice for Florence. Then build up the fire in her room.”

Darting a quick look in my direction, Nellie nodded. ”Yes, sir, I will, sir.”

As she scurried away, Uncle turned back to me. ”First of all, permit me to say how sorry I was to learn of your father's and mother's death. To think they died on the same day. So tragic. So unexpected.”

”Sensible people do not go out in boats,” Aunt said, and then, with a quick glance at me, added, ”Death is usually unexpected. That is why we must endeavor to live righteously. When we are summoned, we will be ready. As Sophia was, poor child.”

Ignoring his sister, Uncle patted my hand. ”We'll do our best to make up for the years you spent with Miss Medleycoate. You'll have a happy life here at Crutchfield Hall, I promise you.”

I did not say it, but the prospect of a happy life with Aunt seemed uncertain at best.

As Uncle drew in his breath to say more, he was interrupted by the arrival of Nellie, who carried a heavy tray. In its center was a steaming teapot, which was surrounded by an array of sliced bread, cheese, and fruit, as well as milk and sugar for the tea and jam for the bread. Somehow she managed to set it down on a low table by the fire without rattling a teacup in its saucer.

I hadn't eaten since breakfast, and my empty stomach mortified me by rumbling at the sight of so much food, more than I'd ever seen at the orphanage. At that establishment, we received one cup of tea served lukewarm and weak, a slice of stale bread, and a dab of jelly.

Nellie's eyes met mine again, but she didn't linger. With a nod, she left the room, her feet scarcely making a sound.

Uncle offered me the bread and jam. ”Don't be shy,” he said. ”Take as much as you want. Walking in the cold sharpens one's appet.i.te.”

While we ate, I looked around the room. Despite its darkness, I saw it was well furnished with chairs and sofas and shelves of books. Oil paintings covered the walls. Some were portraits of long-ago men and women, their faces grave in the firelight. Others were landscapes of forested hills and gra.s.sy meadows. A marble statue of a Greek G.o.d stood in the corner behind Aunt's chair, peering over her shoulder as if hoping for a biscuit.

”And now, my dear,” Uncle said, ”tell us about yourself. Do you play an instrument? Sing? Draw? What sort of books do you enjoy?”

”I'm sorry to say I don't play a musical instrument,” I told him. ”Neither do I sing. Indeed, my talents in music resemble those of Mary Bennet in Pride and-”

”How unfortunate,” Aunt cut in. ”Your cousin Sophia played the piano and the violin. She sang like an angel. Such talent she had, such grace.” Her voice trailed away, and she sniffed into her handkerchief.

”You were about to say something more,” Uncle prompted me.

Embarra.s.sed by my inferiority to Sophia, I murmured, ”I was just going to say that I draw a little. Not very well, I'm afraid.”

With a worried look at Aunt, I hesitated. ”As for books,” I went on nervously, ”I love Mr. d.i.c.kens's novels, and also those of Wilkie Collins. I've read all of Jane Austen's books, but my favorite is Pride and Prejudice, which I've read five times now. I adore Wuthering Heights and-”

”Do you read nothing but frivolous novels?” Aunt cut in. ”I have read the Bible at least a dozen times, but I have not read Pride and Prejudice even once. Nor do I intend to. As for Mr. d.i.c.kens-I believe him to be most vulgar. Wilkie Collins is beneath contempt. And the Bronte novel is quite the worst of the lot, not fit for a decent young girl to read.”

Her tone of voice and stern face silenced me. I fancied even the clock on the mantel had ceased ticking.

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