Chapter 11
I surface from a deep sleep to discover my room is bathed in shadow.
I’m lying fully clothed under the coverlet, and my head feels like it’s full of sawdust. All the fear and anxiety I had about living here must have taken its toll, and I dropped off out of exhaustion.
But it’s strange that I can’t remember actually lying down.
Did I meet Charlie?
Or did Dr Dryden show me straight to my room?
It doesn’t seem to matter. Any foreboding I may have felt upon arrival has melted away, and my limbs are loose and floppy. I feel nothing but an all-pervading sense of calm.
As I haul myself into a sitting position, I notice my tattered brown suitcase has been placed on top of the wardrobe. I yawn and rub my neck. That was clever of me to unpack before having a nap.
In the hallway, a clock strikes the hour, and I count the chimes: six o’clock. I yawn again and feel so relaxed and sleepy that I almost curl up underneath the covers again.
Then I jerk upright.
Dr Dryden said we were all going to have supper together at six thirty.
You need to get washed and changed, and tidy your hair, girl!
It will not do to be late. You are lucky to be even having supper with the doctor and his son!
Aunt Ivy’s voice sounds in my head and is a stark reminder that I’m a servant of sorts in this house.
I can’t start taking liberties and acting like I’m Lady Muck.
Dragging myself out of bed, I slide over to the mantel in my stockings and, after a few false starts with the matches, light a couple of candles.
A washstand near the window holds a jug of water, and I pour some into the basin and splash my face half-heartedly.
The ice-cold slap to my cheeks makes me gasp aloud, but at least it forces me fully awake.
Unbuttoning my dress, I shiver in my stays and drawers and quickly open the wardrobe to take out a fresh dress. They were all laundered before I went away, thanks to Aunt Ivy. So at least I can appear neat and clean at supper, if somewhat dull.
But my half-a-dozen drab dresses are not hanging in the wardrobe. Instead, there are a row of stiff taffeta ones in greens, greys, and blues—muted colours, nothing showy, but they look brand new. I finger a sleeve uncertainly. Where are my clothes? Whose dresses are these?
The hallway clock strikes the quarter hour, and unless I want to wear my old ill-fitting dress with its patches and tacked-on hem, I have no choice but to pick one.
Taking out the green dress, I slip into it and fumble with the row of side buttons.
The dress hugs my figure and doesn’t droop or sag in front.
It’s like it was made for me. I’m taller than average, and my dresses are typically hand-me-downs from much shorter Aunt Ivy.
I have to alter and lengthen them with extra material, so to have a dress fit me perfectly like this is wonderful.
All I can conclude is that this is the previous governess’s room, she had the same figure as me, and she left her clothes behind. I can ask Dr Dryden about it at supper, I think as I dive into my bird’s nest, retrieving hairpins, then hastily brushing, coiling, and repinning.
Looking in the mirror when I’ve finished, it’s hard to believe I’m the same woman who walked through the door this morning.
I hope Dr Dryden likes me better now. But as soon as the thought enters my head, I send it packing in disgust. It’s one thing to put on someone else’s dress, but quite another to be thinking of your new employer removing it.
Daylight has disappeared completely by the time I’ve put on my boots.
Taking one of the candles, I step out onto the landing.
Vaguely I recall that Charlie’s room is next to mine.
Should I wake him for supper? I creep softly over to his door and put my ear to it, but there’s no movement or sound from within.
My hand hovers over the doorknob, but a twist of something in my gut makes me decide it’s best not to.
I descend the staircase, feeling a little spooked by the pressing darkness. There’s not a single lamp lit. Am I here alone? Perhaps Dr Dryden and Charlie went out for supper after all? That’s probably the case, so it’s grilled cheese on toast for me.
When I reach the end of the staircase, I lift my candle into the black yawning mouth of the hallway and gulp.
But there’s nothing for it. Hunger is gnawing at my belly like a beast, and I need to eat.
Taking a deep breath, I start moving down the hallway towards the kitchen.
But as I do, a lamp begins glowing on my left, then another on my right until the entire hallway is bathed in soft yellow light and there are no scary shadows on the wall.
The lamps are comforting, but the fact that they’re turning on by themselves is not.
However, the workings of a house like this is beyond me.
Perhaps the gas fittings are playing up.
Passing the dining room door, I stop in my tracks, surprised to hear the low rumble of Dr Dryden’s voice. So he is here. Upstairs, the faint chime of the clock striking six thirty reaches my ears. So I forget all about the grilled cheese, knock, and enter.
The dining room table is beautifully laid with white linen, gold-plated cutlery, and an arrangement of pink roses; there’s even a lit candelabra.
Dr Dryden is in evening dress, his hair slicked back, standing by the table with one hand resting on a chair, staring at his pocket watch.
My heart quivers. He looks so handsome and debonair that a sliver of drool starts to edge its way out of my mouth.
I suck it back in. I’m starving—for food—that’s all.
He looks up as I enter. ‘Ah, Miss Hughes, there you are. Do come in and join us.’ He pulls out the chair he’s holding, and feeling slightly dazed, I walk over and sit at the top of the table.
Only when I’m seated do I realise he’s said ‘us’ and there are three place settings. ‘Is Charlie still upstairs, sir?’
Dr Dryden takes the chair on my left and looks over at the far corner of the room, where the candelabra doesn’t reach.
A figure emerges from the shadows, and my skull prickles in shock.
Charlie is not the young boy that I’ve been imagining and that Aunt Ivy has had me believe.
He’s a grown man in his early twenties and handsome as sin.
Pale face, slicked-back dark hair—a younger version of his father.
‘You can’t be Charlie,’ I whisper.
‘I assure you I am. Good evening, Miss Hughes.’ He dips his head slightly, walks over to the other chair, and sits down. My eyes are fixed on him in disbelief as he draws a white linen napkin from its engraved brass holder. He glances at me, and his lips quirk in amusement.
I clench my fists, feeling a sudden flash of anger towards Dr Dryden, who appears to be playing a cruel joke on me. For what purpose, I don’t know.
‘Would you like some wine?’ Dr Dryden gestures to a crystal decanter full of ruby liquid.
I shake my head, too upset to speak.
‘Are you all right, Miss Hughes?’ he asks gently.
I can’t even look at him. The way he was talking on the stairs made me think that Charlie was a sick young boy that needed my care and attention.
And from the intense way he’s been staring at me ever since my interview, I thought that perhaps he might be considering me as a woman rather than a servant.
And then that thought got stronger in my mind, and I started picturing us as a family, that I could be his—
I’ve got it completely wrong.
Dr Dryden is gazing at me, and I compose myself with an effort.
‘I feel like I’ve been hired under false pretences, sir,’ I say stiffly.
‘You made me believe your son was 10 years old, but he is not and seems a little mature to need a governess. I’m not sure what is going on, but I think it best that I leave tomorrow morning, first thing. ’
Trudging back to Aunt Ivy’s with my suitcase is not how I pictured my second day of employment going, but I can’t stay here. I can’t adapt to this odd situation.
‘Shall we have supper first and then discuss it?’ Dr Dryden lifts the lid on the nearest cloche, and a delicious smell of roast beef hits my nose. Underneath the other cloches are steaming roast potatoes and fresh, hot green peas. My stomach folds in on itself, and I almost groan out loud.
‘You like your roast beef well done, I think I remember you saying?’
Losing impetus after my outburst, the sight and smell of food are my undoing. I nod weakly, saliva gathering in my mouth.
Dr Dryden begins to heap meat and vegetables onto my plate and I start eating, albeit suspiciously, watching the pair of them.
‘Gravy?’ Charlie holds a small white jug aloft, his dark eyes glinting.
I nod and he pours a thin stream of brown liquid over my roast beef. It’s perfectly cooked, though a little more rare than well done for my liking.
The men take some slices of roast beef, the pinkest ones, and leave the vegetables.
‘You are quite right to be upset, Miss Hughes,’ says Dr Dryden, helping himself to the gravy. ‘I apologise for not mentioning my son’s age at our interview.’ He smiles placatingly. ‘Charlie has been ill for many years, so he has missed out on a proper education. There is much he doesn’t know.’
I swallow my mouthful. ‘But what am I supposed to teach him? Not algebra, surely?’
Charlie snorts. ‘I like her, Papa. She’s funny.’
Dr Dryden shoots him a look. ‘As I said, there is much he doesn’t know. I am sure there are many subjects in which you could tutor him.’
‘And vice versa.’ Charlie smirks at me, and my blood runs cold. There’s something abnormal about him that I can’t put my finger on. And apart from being extremely pale, he doesn’t appear to be that ill or weakly.
‘Well, that was the appetizer,’ mutters Charlie when he’s cleared his plate. He dabs at his mouth with his napkin. He studies me as I continue to eat, and I feel like I’m being sized up. For what, I don’t know.
‘Nice dress you’re wearing,’ he remarks. ‘It looks like Miss Pinkerton’s. Or was it Miss Murphy’s, Papa?’
‘I can’t recall,’ replies Dr Dryden gruffly.
‘Who were they?’ I pop the last piece of succulent gravy-smeared beef in my mouth and chew contentedly. It’s a pity I’m leaving as wherever this food came from, I could get used to it. I can’t remember the last time I had such a good meal. Actually, I don’t think I ever have.
‘My last governesses,’ says Charlie, dragging my attention back to him.
‘Oh. What happened to them?’
He shrugs, and his lips turn up at the corners; they’re curiously bloodless like the rest of him.
There’s a moment of terse silence, as if he’s waiting for something. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle, and time seems to stand still. Something is very wrong.
I start to get up from the table, but before I can, Charlie grabs hold of my arm. ‘Not so fast. There’s still another course.’
How dare he! I attempt to snatch my arm away, but his grip is like iron. ‘Let me go please. I don’t want any pudding.’ But he doesn’t remove his hand.
I look to Dr Dryden for support, but he’s sitting there impassively. ‘Please tell your son to take his paws off me.’
‘It will be easier for you if you don’t resist, Miss Hughes,’ he says, sounding resigned.
Before I can ask him what he means, Charlie none too gently pushes up the sleeve of my dress, and I stare at him.
His eyes are black, obsidian discs; he licks his lips and opens his mouth, baring ivory-white fangs, curved and dripping with some kind of clear liquid.
I try to make sense of what I’m seeing, but I can’t.
But with those teeth, whatever’s about to happen to me isn’t going to be good.
Panic intensifying, I try to yank my arm away more forcefully. ‘Charlie, no! What are you doing? Sir, please, help me! Sir!’
But there’s no reply from my employer; he simply sits there, watching me struggle.
To my horror, Charlie leans forward and skewers my forearm with his razor-sharp fangs.
White-hot pain roars through me, and I scream and thrash against him with all my might.
But it’s in vain—he’s too strong. Charlie licks at the blood pouring from the wound, then begins sucking with long greedy pulls, making horrible grunting noises.
I scream loudly, an animalistic wail, and Charlie growls in annoyance. His free hand whacks at my face with a sickening blow, and my head slams against the table. Then I know nothing more.