Jane Steele(44)
Clattering on the stairs interrupted us, and in tumbled Kitty Cate. She had turned twelve in June and moved with that coltish energy of girls who are about to shoot up like fireworks; her great wiry corkscrews of hair were flecked with snow, and she held a golden ribbon.
“Look at what Mr. Frost done give me, mum,” she exclaimed, waving it. “’E said as it would bring out me eyes.”
Tilly’s mouth wrenched to one side. “Judge Frost done give that to you? In the street, like?”
“Aye.” Kitty stroked it, studying the colour. “Won’t it look smart, though? I’ve that green frock, when the weather turns, and—”
“Good afternoon, all,” a nasal voice sounded.
Judge Frost stood in the open doorway, belatedly rapping at the wood. Tilly often visited me, “taking the air,” and thus I was familiar with her regular customers; I liked Judge Frost so much less than the others that the figure landed in the negative. He was thin and wispy, with dandelion fluff sprouting from his cheeks and neck and ears. Indirectly, he was useful, as he had caused scores of people to be hanged at Newgate and Tyburn; directly, he was petulant and insinuating.
“Well, and do you like your Christmas gift?” He chuckled, rubbing his hands. “Frills and baubles, purses and petticoats, I’ve a niece myself and she thinks of nothing else. I’ve chosen well, my pet?”
“’Tis lovely,” Kitty said, beaming, and then I noted that Tilly had gone pale.
“That’s to the good, then! Now, you’ll excuse your mother and me whilst we have a little chat?”
Judge Frost had a voice like chalk squealing, and he was directing all his quivery attention at Kitty, who twisted the ribbon in her fingers as she pelted off downstairs again.
Tilly forced herself to smile. “Shall we pass the time in my room?” she husked, linking arms with the judge and shutting my door behind them.
I was left with an anxious feeling like tiny waves across the sea before a squall. I frowned as I crossed my feet on the ottoman, and my eyes fell back to the advertisement: Highgate House. The place seemed like a dream at times, at others a nightmare, but it was mine, I thought again with alarming intensity.
Remember when you ran to your aunt Patience with roses and your ears were boxed for ruining the gardener’s chances at the flower show.
Remember when you visited the horses with carrots, preferring their company because they wouldn’t warn you against hellfire.
Remember when Mamma let you take her hair down before bedtime and the firelight painted it red and gold and copper.
I did not want to remember very much of my life—but when I thought of Highgate House, its shape shifted in my memory that day, its stark lines tangling with ivy and sentiment and something disturbingly like fanatical ownership.
? ? ?
The decision that I would apply for the governess position by creating false references, instructing that replies be addressed to pedigreed London post offices to be left until called for, was made as I walked home through Covent Garden three days later. The market was packed to bursting so close to the holiday, donkey barrows edged nose to tail, the mournful-eyed creatures strapped to their carts with everything from knotted handkerchiefs to braided string. The air bit like an errant pup, and I skirted impossible configurations of cabbages and salted fish, smelling the barnyard ripeness of fresh-killed chickens and the sweet sap of the festive pine boughs.
My plan was nearly formed when gaslights began blinking to life under the Pavilion, and by the time I reached Henrietta Street, it was complete; the fact that the solicitors had named Charles Thornfield next of kin (doubtless due to petty machinations set in place long ago by Aunt Patience) would not be a problem if Charles Thornfield was dead. I did not precisely want to kill him, mind—thus far I had reserved murder for those I had actually met—but I could kill him, and that was a comfort. Meanwhile, my mother left me woefully unprepared; there would be papers to recover, lineage to trace, but the occupation of governess (for which I was eminently qualified) would enable me to spy from within. I had convinced myself that if anyone remained who might recognise me, it would be my own Agatha—and surely I could explain to my old caretaker why I had left, and stayed away, and returned home once more.
After striking the snow and walnut shells off my boots, I ascended the stairs. When I saw no paisley kerchief tied to the knob (our signal she was working), I banged my way into Tilly’s rooms and found her alone with a mug of hot whiskey and honey, sitting at the table next to her place of business, its pillows lovingly fluffed.
“Tilly, I know it’s sudden but—I’m leaving,” I announced breathlessly. “I’m going to try for the job at Highgate House.”
Tilly Cate burst into tears.
“Oh, God.” I rushed to pull another chair over, spreading my fingers over her back. “Tilly, I. What—”
“He’s going to take her.”
“I don’t . . .”
Tilly slumped into my side, her heavy chest heaving. “Judge Frost. That filthy cove’s been after eyein’ my Kitty fer six months and more, askin’ if she takes after ’er mum, askin’ if she likes ’im. I says to ’im, Kitty’s only a girl, but he bullied and fussed and finally no, I says, and he says smug as a cat, I’ll have ye arrested fer whorin’, and then she’ll need a friend anyhow, won’t she? Oh, Jane, I ’ave to tell her . . . I ’ave to . . .”