Mistress of My Fate (16 page)

One of us three must die!

Oh dear Lord! I paced and wrung my hands; I cried and gripped my head. My mind could not release this notion. I recalled that other occasion when my prayers had been answered, when as a child I had begged so fervently for the friendship of my cousin. This indeed had come to pass. The more I contemplated the possibility that somehow
my desperate wishing may have inadvertently been to blame, the more I trembled. I feared it would drive me to madness! Whenever my eyes alighted upon the spine of Mr. Goethe’s book, I was thrown into a panic, and reminded of my anxieties.

Soon it was too much for my young, foolish mind to bear. I decided the only thing to be done was to part with the book, to bury it in my uncle’s library where I should never look upon it again. In doing this, so too would I bury my shame, and the misguided belief that my will had played some part in this disaster.

I stole away to the library and there tucked it behind some other volumes. Upon turning my back to the shelves, I issued a great sigh. “I shall never again permit that thought to enter my brain,” I swore to myself. “I am a creature of reason. I am made of rational thought.” I shook my head, and then, fearing the idea might steal up behind me, I fled the room. From that moment, I resolved quite firmly to banish such absurd notions and, remarkably, I remained untroubled by them for some time.

It must be said that while I am entirely blameless for the misfortune which befell our house, there have always been others who believed—and still believe—to the contrary. That, at the tender age of sixteen, I had fallen in love with Lord Allenham, and he in love with me, I cannot deny. That dear Lady Catherine came upon a trove of letters which broke her heart is a matter of terrible sadness to me. But neither of these regretful circumstances renders me a murderess. All that you have heard from Lord Dennington and his friends are lies, drawn from the poison well of Sally Pickering.

I knew not what Sally intended when she carried away my handful of treasured letters. I own that the matter consumed my thoughts entirely until my cousin fell ill. Following her death, I assumed they had been thrown upon the fire. But this was not what happened.

Reader, you have seen the monstrous behaviour of which Sally Pickering was capable. A more vicious and untrustworthy slut I have never
met. Indeed, when she had recovered from the illness that stole her beloved mistress’s life, she returned to tend me, but chose for herself how she might perform her duties. The role she had played in my beating had emboldened her. She now wore insolence upon her face when I called for her, and was slow to come when I rang.

I had waited for nearly an hour for her one morning. She came through the jib door carrying Lady Catherine’s mourning attire, the skirts of which had been shortened and the bodice altered to fit me. She regarded me disdainfully as she entered, as if I had paid her an insult.

“You did not come when I rang,” I scolded. “I have waited almost an hour.”

She answered with nothing more than a sneer.

I might have checked her for her impertinence, but I was far too cowed to raise my voice. With her big hands and broad shoulders, she frightened me terribly.

She began to tug at the strings of my wrapper and then pull off my night clothes and cap. Once I was in my chemise and stockings, she took to tightening the laces of my stays, though with such violence that I cried out.

“Sally!” I exclaimed. “You mean to kill me!”

Again, she offered no response, but haughtily continued to dress me, tying on my underskirts and Lady Catherine’s hemmed black petticoat. I regarded myself in the looking glass, wearing her mourning apparel, the clothing that had been designed for her to wear should death come unexpectedly to one among our family. The sight of this caused me to sigh with sadness. I smoothed the skirts and adjusted myself within the bodice.

“Poor, dear Cathy,” I said wistfully, “she has no need of these now.”

“As she has no need for Lord Allenham, eh, miss?” came a wicked voice from behind me.

I was so taken aback by this comment that I spun around and glared at her.

“How dare you?” I shot. “How… How dare you speak in such a way!” I was shaking a good deal, and Sally could see this.

She smirked, unmoved by my outburst, her lip curled in amusement.

“I read the letters, miss,” she announced with pride. Slowly she slid her hand into her pocket and drew out the three wretched packets. In places, my cousin’s tears had smeared away Allenham’s handwriting. My expression fell.

“I wonder,” she taunted, “what would Lord Stavourley make of these? Or her ladyship?”

“How dare you?”

“How dare
you
, you murderous bitch?” she roared. “I reckon there be enough in these to have you hanged!”

I opened my mouth, horrified at her suggestion. What if she was correct? Tears came flooding into my eyes.

“My silence demands a price.” She folded her arms over her round chest. “What have you to pay me with?”

So shocked was I by her proposal that I did not react, unable to move or speak.

She studied me for a moment, before deciding that she would take matters into her own hands. She felt at her waist for the keys to my clothes press and then began to unlock it. She opened each of the drawers and cabinets until she came upon a roll of French lace my uncle had given to me. She swiftly slipped this into her thief’s pocket, and then, quick as lightning, locked the drawers and cupboard once more.

“Now see here, little jade, I shall take from you what I will, when I will it, or you shall know my wrath,” she announced in a hiss.

The tears rolled freely down my face.

“Murderess!” she spat at me, before disappearing down the back stairs.

The matter did not conclude there. No indeed, Sally’s game had only just commenced. In the weeks that followed the funeral, I lived in a constant state of fear. Each night I locked myself into my bedchamber,
dreading that she might find me in my sleep and seek to avenge her mistress’s death. In my nightmares she held a knife to my throat, or smothered me with her wide, flat hands. I slept poorly or not at all, and I awakened each morning to find that the daylight offered no more comfort than the darkness.

I began to seek out my uncle’s company, lingering near to where I heard him, much as I had when a child. Sally would never dare torment me in his presence, and so this provided me with respite. However, she took my absence from my rooms as licence to pillage my belongings. I would often return to find that items had gone missing. She took from me, on various occasions, a lacquered sewing box, a fox fur muff and collar, two pair of gloves and a pair of paste shoe buckles; enough to have had her hanged at the assizes. Fortunately, she failed to locate the little net purse I possessed. Embroidered round with flowers, it had been the first article I had sewn as a girl. More importantly, it contained what small monies I owned: a sixpence from a Twelfth Night cake, and enough coin to permit me to pay for a letter, or pass into the hand of a servant or beggar. This I had stowed in a compartment of my escritoire, to which I alone now held the key. I had learned my bitter lesson.

As I lived in mortal terror of Sally, I never dared summon her. At first I relied on Dorothy’s kind assistance, but then she too failed to come when I rang. You see, Sally had a much greater scheme in mind for my harassment. It was at about this time that I believe she began her campaign to turn all of Melmouth against me, and her false words brought many recruits to her cause. I soon found that my linens were not laundered. My chemises, stockings and sheets were not removed. But this was not the worst of it. I was left entirely alone, made to struggle into my own clothing each morning. Each day, I roused myself from bed. There was no voice to beckon me, no fire lit to warm the air. I pulled back the bed curtains and discarded my night shift and cap, only to replace these articles with a soiled chemise. I learned to loosely
twist on my stays and then fasten myself with an unsteady hand into my dark clothing. I was even left to empty my own chamber pot.

So anxious was I to escape the emptiness of my apartments that I could not trouble myself with trifling matters of appearance. I cannot think what my uncle made of me in my unstarched cap and drooping gown. I must admit it was with great difficulty that I held my tongue and told him nothing of the trials I endured. I suffered so terribly; not only was I beset by sorrow for my loss, but burdened with a broken heart, pricked constantly by a remorseful conscience, and fearful for my life. I existed as a prisoner, as a character in my own “dark tale,” surrounded by scheming villains, by those who wished my ruin, protected only by the presence of my uncle, a noble lord. Never could I have imagined such a terrible fate for myself, never would I have believed it possible! It was as if the pages of
The Recess
or
The Castle of Otranto
had unfolded and drawn me down into their Gothic terrors.

The worst of it, the climax of my nightmare, occurred one evening in mid-October, in that time of shortening days and widening shadows. By then, I had come to see a foe in every corner. Every footman who passed through the rooms, every housemaid I spied, even Lewis the butler, I saw as one who might pounce upon me. I searched their expressions for traces of malice; I jumped when I heard their footsteps. With the passing of each day came the growing sensation that I was being encircled by a pack of baying wolves. By then, I imagined that Sally had displayed my letters to the entire staff, and in unison, like a chorus, they sang their condemnation of me.

I had been with my uncle that night. We had sat beside the fire in the blue drawing room, as I read to him from Virgil’s
Eclogues
. As I did so, I could not prevent myself recalling happier times. I reminisced about the evening I had passed in that same chair, listening to Allenham’s rich voice entertain us with
Julius Caesar
. I remembered Lady Catherine’s warm, lively cheeks and how they had turned pink in the Baron’s presence. The thought brought tears to my eyes and I
rubbed them away quickly, hoping Lord Stavourley had not noticed. He had begun to doze in his chair and, at my pause, announced he would retire to bed.

“I shall order you some supper, Hetty, for mourning has turned you thin indeed,” he stated as he rose from his seat and rang for the footman.

It was with great trepidation that I approached the dim dining room alone. I walked unguarded through the empty, half-lit chambers. The windows were shuttered, closed fast like a tomb against the outside. I took my seat where a place had been laid. But for the lit torchères shining against the mirrors, the room was entirely still. I waited for a long while, but no one came to serve me. Now that I was accustomed to such treatment, I rose and was about to creep away when I heard a noise.

From down the darkened corridor came a small figure: Joseph, the hall boy, who under normal circumstances would never have been seen above stairs. Indeed, the sight of him, his untrained gait and his heavy steps, disquieted me.

Unaccustomed to serving, the boy came around to my side and lumped a covered dish in front of me. This was most irregular. The lid was removed and I could see, in spite of the gloom, a plate of fricasséed mushrooms.

Then, feeling around in his waistcoat pocket, he pulled from it a note. His face was most agitated, almost grey in colour.

“Pray, miss,” said he in an uncertain voice, handing me the note. I held it for a moment, not knowing what I should do.

Joseph gazed anxiously about the room.

“Do not eat it…” he whispered.

I regarded him with alarm, my shaking fingers picking open the note. There, scrawled upon the paper, was a clumsy phrase: “An aye for an aye. Murtheress.”

I looked once more at the plate before me, heaped with buttery
toadstools, and then, all at once, clapped my hands to my mouth. I leaped so quickly from the table that my chair fell, clattering to the ground. I did not stop to look behind me. I did not wish to see who peered through the darkened doorway, or how many of them sniggered at my fright. Instead I ran, I fled, howling, through the rooms until I reached the safety of my bedchamber and there locked myself away.

Chapter 11

I cannot describe to you the sort of night I passed. No Gothic tale, no ancient castle or dank dungeon held nightmares as real as mine. I sat awake, fully dressed upon my bed, listening for a shuffle of footsteps or the creak of floorboards. Although I had secured both doors from the inside, I anxiously moved my eyes from one to the other. I awaited the rattle of the handle; a sound I was certain would foretell the approach of my assassin. Eventually, as daylight began soften the dark sky, I drifted off into a shallow rest.

I do not know what time I awoke; it was late in the morning. I did not change my dress. I could not even wash my face, for there had been no water brought to me for some time. As I had done every morning, I rushed from my forsaken rooms to the company of my uncle. He was not in his apartments and so I proceeded through the long library to his study. I was relieved to find him there, though unusually, on that morning, the door was shut fast. I stood for a moment beside it, listening for reassuring noises from within: the shuffle of paper or the clearing of a throat. Only once I had heard those sounds could I settle comfortably upon a chair by the fire. I must have drifted into a sleep, for I found myself awakened some time later by his valet. I must say, the menacing sight of a servant standing over me nearly caused me to leap from my skin! The valet jumped too.

“Miss Ingerton,” he said after collecting himself, “his lordship requires you.”

I smoothed my skirts and rubbed my sore eyes, still dry from the absence of sleep.

It was with some shyness that I entered my uncle’s study. With its glass-covered bookcases and gilt-edged furnishings, it had always seemed to me a rather sombre and masculine place. My uncle did nothing to put me at ease, for he stood flanked by the busts of Homer and Virgil, wearing an expression as solemn as theirs.