Chapter Six
Chapter Six
I open my eyes. I’m standing in front of the weathered old walls of St Sidwell Manor. For a moment I’m not sure that I’ve slid. The house looks the same with its mullioned windows, curvy Dutch gables and square chimney stacks, but then I become aware of the heat. I’ve left winter and arrived in summer – and it’s glorious. The skies are a rich sapphire colour, and the breeze is sugar-scented. The smell of the gardens is so delicious, I want to fill my lungs with it. I inhale, but my breath barely travels further than my chest. It’s as if I’m being held in a vice. I become aware of my dress, which is tight and uncomfortable. It’s suffocating. I wiggle about and try to expand my ribcage to give me some room. But I’m well and truly trapped, like a caterpillar in the claws of a bird. I look down to see that I’m wearing a long black dress embellished with little round buttons, and lace-up boots. Beside me, on the gravel, is a tatty brown suitcase and a round hat box. If I’m the lady of the house, why am I in a black dress with luggage? Have I been to a funeral? I reach up and discover that I’m wearing a hat. It’s small and discreet, not the hat of a great lady.
I look at my hands. They’re elegant with long fingers and pretty nails. In my normal life I don’t have elegant hands – I chew my nails when I’m nervous. Cordelia Pengower is clearly not a nail-biter.
Just then the front door opens. An austere-looking man in a tailcoat steps out. He glares at me, then lifts a watch from his waistcoat pocket and makes a great show of examining it. ‘You are late, Miss Swift,’ he says.
Miss Swift? Who the hell is Miss Swift? I’m meant to be Cordelia Pengower. I panic suddenly. I’ve slid into the wrong body. How has this happened? The locket was supposed to link me to Cordelia. But I’m Miss Swift. This is not at all what I expected. But now is not the time to reflect on the provenance of the locket, or on the law of attraction and the higher intelligence that have also been at work to bring me to this time and place, and body. I will work it out later. For now, I have to go with what I’m given and trust powers greater than myself. Anyway, I’m on for an adventure and maybe Miss Swift will enable me to complete my mission. I put out the desire to be transported back to 1895 and I trust that that part of the slide has succeeded.
I pick up my suitcase and hat box and walk quickly towards him over the gravel, my boots scrunching on the stones. ‘Mrs Pengower is expecting you,’ he tells me in an imperious tone. I’m relieved to hear that Mrs Pengower is in residence. That’s a promising start. I’ve slid to the right era at least. ‘She will be surprised that the governess is late on her first day.’ Ah, so I’m a governess. Well, that makes sense. The position will give me the opportunity to observe. This is looking more positive. The butler slips the pocket watch back into its pouch and sniffs. ‘I might tell you that you are fifteen minutes late. It is now a quarter past three.’ He looks at me down his long nose, a haughty expression on his face. I notice the nasal hair in his large nostrils, like spiders hiding in caves, and the broken blood vessels on his cheeks. He has hooded, watery eyes, so pale it’s as if the colour has been washed away, leaving but a trace of blue.
‘I apologise for that,’ I reply, hastily thinking of an excuse. ‘I was delayed at the station. There were no cabs. I had to wait.’ I hope that I sound plausible.
I’m relieved to see that I do. He’s satisfied. He leads me inside and closes the big door behind us. I see a mirror hanging on the wall and seize the opportunity to look at the woman I have borrowed for this slide. I’m astonished to see how lovely she is. Well, this is going to make my slide more pleasurable, for sure. I’m not a beauty in my real life, but Miss Swift is truly gorgeous.
Gripped by my new face, I stare at the reflection in amazement, my pink lips parted prettily. My brown hair is tied up beneath my hat, but tousled strands have come away from the pins and are loose about my rosy cheeks and slender neck. My nose is small and straight and delicately freckled. My hazel eyes shiny and bright, more green than brown, and I gaze into them, searching for myself behind them, for I’m in there somewhere, looking out. If it wasn’t for the butler, glaring at me from the hall, I’d trace my fingers over every contour of my face and bask in my beauty.
‘Come along, Miss Swift,’ he calls, an edge of impatience in his voice. ‘Mrs Pengower has already waited fifteen, now eighteen, minutes.’
I follow him through the hall. It’s the same magnificent hall that I know, only there’s no fire in the grate, and there’s a generous display of white flowers on the refectory table – cow parsley, roses and lilies. They’re spectacular, bathed in the beams of sunlight that stream enthusiastically into the room. I linger a moment to admire them. I’m struck by the energy in the house. It’s soft and full of joy. So different from the energy in the present, which is heavy and sad. I’m curious to find out what happens to Cordelia’s boy and wonder how long I’ve got. I need to find out what day it is, but I can’t ask the snobby butler, who turns to me again and says impatiently, ‘Do come along, Miss Swift.’
Just then a man comes skipping down the stairs in riding boots and breeches, tapping a black top hat against the palm of his hand as if in rythmn to a tune he’s humming. He’s tall with scruffy brown hair, and strong eyebrows positioned low on a wide, handsome face. His sky-blue morning coat is dashing, his gait self-assured, and I assume he’s the children’s father, Mr Pengower, and I smile. He returns my smile, a jaunty curve on his lips. He has a witty expression, as if he’s about to crack a joke, and I warm to him at once. He fits very nicely in this sunny, cheerful hall.
‘And you are?’ he asks, looking me over with intelligent eyes as blue as cornflowers.
‘Miss Swift, sir, the new governess,’ the butler informs him.
‘Ah, good, good.’ Mr Pengower carries on through the hall and out of the front door, slamming it behind him. I expected him to introduce himself. But he seems in a hurry and, as the master of the house, I suppose he takes it as a given that I know who he is. He has left me a little dazed, however, and the hall too, for it seems to reverberate in his wake as if a strong wind has just swept through it.
Cordelia Pengower is in a small sitting room situated down a wide corridor. It’s a pleasant room with a high ceiling supported by a spine and ribs of dark wooden beams, a large, open fireplace and those typical Tudor windows overlooking the garden. The walls are papered in blue-and-yellow flowers and the flouncy curtains, which hang on sturdy poles, are a shiny blue damask and break luxuriously onto the floor. It’s a happy room, bathed in sunlight, and Cordelia looks very happy in it. She turns and smiles at me with such charm and grace that I’m caught off guard; I hadn’t expected the miserable soul haunting the Talwyns’ home to be so radiant with joy.
‘Miss Swift, how delightful,’ she says.
Her beauty is startling. She is indeed the woman in the portrait. The likeness is undeniable. I wonder again how I slid into Miss Swift’s body when I was holding a locket that clearly belonged to Cordelia Pengower. It doesn’t make sense.
I curtsy, which is what I imagine I’m expected to do. ‘Madam.’ I return her smile, but not too much. As a governess, I assume that I’m born into a good family, but I won’t be her social equal. It’s important that I remember that. As friendly as she may be, she won’t like her superiority challenged. I must know my place. I’ve learnt, through my previous timesliding, that human nature doesn’t really change, whatever era I’m in. Cordelia Pengower is my boss, and I must treat her with respect. And I must behave like a Victorian woman, and not like a modern girl in fancy dress.
‘I trust your journey was not too arduous,’ she says, and her voice has a warm tone to it, like a flute played low. She’s stunning; the bones of her face are well defined, her blue eyes wide-set and very bright, like tanzanite. Her skin is almost translucent and flawless. And her hair, swept off her face and falling in waves over her white lace blouse, is the colour of sundried hay. She is mesmerising and her graceful manners make her lovelier still.
‘Not arduous at all, thank you, madam,’ I reply, careful not to say too much in case I give myself away. Although, the last thing anyone would expect is a visitor from the future. I think I’m quite safe. At worst she would think me eccentric.
‘Come, let me introduce you to the children. They are upstairs in the nursery with Gwen.’
Cordelia talks to me as we climb the stairs and I listen and learn so that I can copy her and pass myself off as a Victorian woman. She asks after my mother, who apparently is a widow. Not knowing anything about Hermoine Swift, I have to make up the answers. Aware that I’ll get Hermione into trouble if my lies are too elaborate I answer her questions briefly and allow her to do the talking. I need to find out as much as I can about Cordelia and her family. I still don’t know how long I’m going to be here. It’s imperative that I find out today’s date, and fast.
Cordelia tells me how very lucky she is to be so blessed as to live in this enchanting house with such lavish gardens. She stops on the landing and we look out of the big window at the ornamental garden below. There’s a paved path that cuts through it with perfectly trimmed balls of hedge on either side like giant green hedgehogs slumbering contentedly in the sunshine. Tall, leafy trees shimmer in the distance and I look forward to walking there. It’s all so beautiful. ‘When my husband and I moved in here, upon the sad death of his father, I took it upon myself to transform the gardens into a paradise. I had such a vision for them. That was eight years ago. How much one can achieve in so little time. Everything grows very fast here, even my children, as you will see.’
We continue up to the first floor and down the corridor, past the bedrooms where Ulysses and I slept, and on to what I assume is the children’s part of the house. Our skirts rustle as we walk, and I try not to look ungainly. Cordelia’s gait has a charming bounce to it, which makes her long blue skirts rustle ever more vigorously. Through the windows I get to see further glimpses of the gardens: borders of purple delphiniums, a wistful iron gate, big terracotta pots of hydrangeas, a statue of a boy playing a flute, all bathed in the languid light of late afternoon.
I can hear children’s laughter as we approach the nursery. ‘I hope they are behaving,’ Cordelia says. She arches an eyebrow and gives me a sidelong glance, and a smile. I can see that she’s joking. I sense she’s indulgent of her two boys.
‘They sound like they’re having fun, which is what children ought to be doing,’ I reply and she nods in agreement.
She opens the door and I see two small boys. The older one is playing with a train set on the rug. The little one has made a den out of blankets and chairs and is peeping out, like a hamster from its burrow box. When they see me, they fall quiet. The older boy jumps to his feet and the little one emerges through blankets. The nursemaid gets off her chair and curtsys. ‘Ma’am,’ she says to Cordelia.
‘This is Master Robert,’ says Cordelia proudly, patting the taller boy on the head. He’s a fair child with his mother’s colouring and good manners. He looks at me gravely and doesn’t smile. He appears very serious.
‘Hello, Master Robert,’ I say. ‘I am Miss Swift, and I’m going to be your governess. How old are you?’
‘I’m eight,’ he replies. ‘I shall be nine in October,’ he adds, and I can see that he’s impatient to be nine. I want to tell him not to rush through life. That every moment is precious. His little brother, who stands beside him with a mischievous look on his face, has few moments left. As I lay my gaze upon him, something catches in my chest, for his eyes shine with sweetness and innocence, and I’m immediately saddened by the future that lurks in the wings like an ogre, poised to steal him away. The weight of knowing is too heavy for me to carry but carry it I must if I’m to do my job well.
‘And this darling little thing is Master Felix.’ Cordelia reaches out and draws the boy to her skirts. By the affectionate expression on her face and the tender way she strokes his hair, I think Felix must be her favourite. ‘He’s six and growing so fast. He wants to catch up with his brother.’
‘I am sure he does,’ I say, but my voice is tight. I clear my throat and take a breath. I must compose myself. I’m not here to save him and change the past, I’m here to save his mother in the present. Felix appraises me with curiosity and grins, proudly displaying a missing front tooth, the first of his milk teeth to go, I assume. I can tell already that he’s a character.
‘And this is Gwen,’ Cordelia continues, and Gwen smiles at me shyly. She’s a voluptuous girl with a pretty round face, and big round eyes to match, the colour of peat. Her curly brown hair is pinned up in a bun on the top of her head, but strands have come loose about her hairline in a sweaty frizz. She wears a long cotton dress with puffy sleeves beneath a white apron stained with earth. I imagine she’s been playing with the children in the garden.
‘Pleased to meet you, miss,’ she says, and gives me a shallow bob.
‘Gwen is very fond of Master Felix, aren’t you, Gwen?’ says Cordelia with a laugh, as Felix wriggles away from his mother and puts his arms out for his nursemaid, who gathers him into her apron. ‘He used to sneak off and sleep in her bed, didn’t you, darling?’ she adds. ‘But he’s a big boy now. Big boys sleep in their own beds.’ She turns to me. ‘I do not allow the boys to come to my room at all. If they need something in the night they find Gwen, or you. Is that understood? I do not want this rule broken under any circumstance. It is not appropriate for boys of their age to be knocking on their mother’s bedroom door.’
I nod. ‘That is very clear, Mrs Pengower,’ I reply.
‘Now, let me show you your quarters. Then I’ll leave you to familiarise yourself with the place. I don’t need to tell you your duties; you have come highly recommended. Indeed, I was very impressed with your letters of recommendation. I have no doubt that you’ll turn my little rascals into proper gentlemen.’
‘That’s my intention, madam,’ I reply. But their education is the last thing on my mind.
My ‘quarters’ are on the first floor, close to the nursery, and are very cosy. They comprise of two rooms: a bedroom with a robust-looking four-poster bed, and a pretty sitting room next door where Cordelia says I might find some peace. Both rooms have fireplaces, but it’s too warm to light them. In fact, it’s so hot, it’s stifling. I’m grateful that the windows have been thrown wide open, but there is no breeze. The air is still and heavy. I don’t know how these women tolerate the heat with all the clothes they have to wear. I can feel the sweat trickling down my back and my drawers are sticking to my legs. I don’t think I’ve ever been so uncomfortable. The bathroom is a short distance down the corridor. I’d like to fill the tub with cold water and lie in it like a hippo.
‘I would very much like you to join us for dinner when we do not entertain guests,’ says Cordelia, hovering in the doorway. ‘We are few, my husband, his brother Mr Cavill, who is unmarried and lives here with us, and I. We often invite my mother-in-law, Mrs James Pengower, for she is a widow and on her own, and Mr Bray, the foreman at Mr Pengower’s mine and a dear friend, to dine with us. You will give the table balance and, I hope, refresh the conversation.’
‘Thank you. I would very much like that,’ I reply.
Cordelia is in no hurry to leave. She looks at me intensely and I sense an eagerness in her. ‘I do hope you will be happy here, Miss Swift.’
‘I’m sure I shall,’ I reply. I’m surprised by this sudden glimpse of neediness. ‘This room is beautiful,’ I add, because I feel I must reassure her.
She smiles, pleased. ‘It is, is it not? I did not want you in the attic with the servants. I am glad you like it. If anything is not to your liking, you must tell me at once, is that understood?’
‘Of course.’
I realise from the way Cordelia is treating me that she’s keen for me to be a part of the family. I imagine the servants won’t take kindly to that arrangement. I remember the novels I read as a teenager, Jane Eyre and Agnes Grey , written by the Bront? sisters, and how common it was for a governess to fall between two stools. On the one hand they are of a higher social standing than a servant, but on the other hand they are not on the same level as their employers. They earn money just as the servants do, but the servants resent them anyway.
‘Very good. I believe it is important to speak plainly. This is going to be your home, Miss Swift. It matters to me that you’re happy in it.’ She lingers a moment longer, as if reluctant to go. I wonder whether, being in such a remote part of the countryside, she’s lonely and starved of female company.
I see that my suitcase and hat box have been brought up and placed on the bed. She notices me glancing at them.
‘I will let you unpack,’ she says. ‘Gwen will introduce you to the rest of the household and show you where everything is.’
‘Thank you, madam,’ I say and watch her leave, her skirts swishing merrily as she makes her way down the corridor. I was not expecting her to be so friendly. There’s a surprising vulnerability beneath the veneer of poise, which has made her instantly likeable. Her beauty led me to believe that she is a woman both confident of her power and happy in her skin. But her neediness has revealed that she’s not quite as confident or as happy as she first appeared. I shudder suddenly at the knowledge of what is to come. How long have I got? How long until Felix goes missing? I open the suitcase and hope to find a clue buried among the clothes and toiletries.
I’m relieved to see a letter placed on top. It’s addressed to Miss Hermione Swift, Seaview Cottage, Topsham, Exeter, and is unsealed. I pull it out of the envelope and open it. It’s dated 30th May, 1895, and is from Cordelia to Miss Swift, confirming details of her position. I notice the date of arrival is specified on the last line: Wednesday 19th June. I take a breath – I have eleven days, counting this one, to find out what happens to the boy. That is way too much time. I wish it was the evening of his disappearance so I could lie in wait in his bedroom and watch, then slide back and tell Cordelia what became of him. But timesliding is not an exact art. I put out my desire and trusted that the law of attraction would draw me to the moment of his vanishing. It has brought me to this moment now. What on earth am I going to do here for eleven whole days, and in this tight corset? There’s nothing I can do but go with it. I shall put my trust in the universe and hope that it knows what it’s doing. There’s no such thing as coincidence, so there must be a reason for my early arrival, and for sliding into Hermione Swift. No doubt I will find out soon enough what that reason is.
Another thought crosses my mind. I assume that whoever takes Felix will creep into his bedroom in the middle of the night and bundle him away, and that I will see it happen from my clever hiding place, most likely behind a curtain. But what if I don’t recognise the perpetrator? What if I’m unable to follow them because it’s too dangerous and I risk being seen? I can’t put Hermione Swift in danger. I have a responsibility to her. I warm to my argument, but it makes me go cold. What if the events of the night are not what I expect, and they turn out to be more challenging? I realise then that I cannot pin my hopes on that one night. I have to find out who takes Felix before it happens. Maybe that is why I have slid back eleven days in advance of his disappearance. Because I need this time to investigate. I must explore every eventuality, for Cordelia’s sake. I feel a little sorry for poor Hermione, who is unknowingly lending me her body for almost two weeks. I decide not to think about that and focus instead on my work.
It is at times like these that my history degree comes in handy. If it is 1895, I know that Queen Victoria is on the throne – she still has six years before she dies. The Liberal Earl of Rosebery is on the point of resigning as prime minister and will be succeeded by the Marquess of Salisbury, who is Conservative. Oscar Wilde, at the height of his fame, has been convicted of gross indecency and imprisoned. I imagine his plays are still being performed in London.
I open the hat box and find what appears to be a black top hat, nestled in purple silk. I guess it’s for riding. I haven’t ridden in years, but I used to ride as a child when my grandmother signed me up for an equestrian club in the village. I think it was an attempt to help take my mind off the trauma of losing both parents, and in such a violent manner. I’m not sure if it did any good, but it might come in handy now. I hope I can remember how to do it. Eleven days is a hell of a long time to pretend to be what I’m not.
I put the clothes away in the wardrobe and chest of drawers. I could do with some hangers, but they haven’t been invented yet. There are hooks in the wardrobe and I have to make do with those. It doesn’t take long; I don’t have many possessions. I clearly wore my most elegant dress today in order to make a good first impression. It’ll do for church. I imagine a good Christian family like the Pengowers will go to church on Sundays and I’ll be expected to dress smartly. The only alternatives I have are a few blouses and skirts. I suppose those are what I’ll wear when I’m with the children. The black shirt and jacket must be for when I’m on a horse. There are petticoats and nightwear – it’s all so unfamiliar, I wish I had a manual that told me what everything was for. I suppose I’m just going to have to work it out from the hours I’ve spent watching period dramas – or wing it.
Once again, I stare at myself in the mirror, keen to familiarise myself with my new shape. This time it’s a full-length mirror, standing by the window on little wooden feet. It’s a strange thing to inhabit someone else’s body, yet it feels normal. I’m still me inside it. Me, Pixie, looking out.
I examine myself from every angle. I’m slim. In fact, my figure is the quintessential hourglass shape, and I’m taller than in my normal body. I unpin my hat and smooth the stray strands of hair off my forehead. I think I’m going to enjoy being Hermione Swift for a while.
I look out of the window. Below are the gardens, lush and green in the early evening light. Hazy in the heat. The lawn is mown into tidy stripes and the topiary clipped into balls. The yew hedges are manicured, the borders ablaze with flowers. How different it is from the white, winter garden I’ve slid from.
I finish unpacking and return to the nursery. Gwen is by the window, engrossed in something going on outside. The children are playing together on the rug and she’s not watching them. She jumps when I say her name. She puts a plump hand to her chest and gasps. ‘Oh, dear God, you startled me, miss.’
‘I’m sorry, Gwen.’
She laughs it off. ‘You settled in, then?’
‘I am, thank you.’ I need to find out what my duties are and realise that Gwen can help me. I sweep my skirts out of the way and sit down on a wooden spindle-backed chair. ‘Tell me, Gwen,’ I begin breezily. ‘Have the children had a governess before?’
I hold my breath, expecting her to frown at my strange question, but she simply plonks herself down on one of the other chairs. She lowers her voice. ‘Master Robert didn’t like Miss Archer,’ she tells me gleefully. ‘She only stayed six months and then left. He’s a sensitive boy, you see, and she was very strict. Mrs Pengower wouldn’t have it.’
‘Is Mrs Pengower a loving mother?’ I ask.
‘She’s soft. Mr Pengower disapproves. He wants his boys to grow up to be men. Master Robert is a gentle boy.’
‘And Master Felix?’
‘Master Felix likes to be with me,’ she says, lifting her chin. I can tell that she’s proud of their bond, and possessive of it, perhaps. ‘He’s too little to have a governess. He still needs his nurse.’ Her expression softens as she looks at him playing in his den. ‘Master Robert is ready to be moulded into a young gentleman, but Master Felix is still a child. Your job is to teach Master Robert and leave Master Felix to me.’
‘Of course, I know that,’ I reply, and she smiles, pleased to have staked her territory.
‘And what was Master Robert’s routine? I would like his life to be as consistent as possible.’
‘Miss Archer got him up at six. He practises the piano before breakfast at seven and has lessons until lunch. He rides out most afternoons. He loves horse riding.’
‘And how long have you worked here, Gwen?’ I ask.
‘Four years,’ she replies. ‘Master Felix was two when I arrived. In those days he used to sleep in his mother’s bed, but she put a stop to that about a year ago. He’s good most of the time, but occasionally he creeps upstairs to my bed. I can’t turn him away. Not my sweet Master Felix.’ Felix hears her talking about him and leaves his game to sit on her knee. She draws him against her generous bosom. ‘Why don’t you let Master Robert here show you his bedroom?’ she suggests, looking at Robert, who doesn’t appear happy to have to stop his play. ‘Go on, Master Robert. Be a good boy and show Miss Swift the rest of the house.’
‘Thank you, Master Robert,’ I say and watch him put his wooden soldier down and get to his feet.
‘I will show you Felix’s and my bedroom first,’ he says solemnly and leaves the room. I smile at Gwen, and she smiles back. She seems pleasant enough, if a little dreamy.
Robert leads me down the corridor. We get to the L-shape corner, and he opens the door to the room where I found Cordelia crying. ‘This is Felix’s bedroom,’ he says.
‘How charming,’ I reply as I look around. I feel a moment’s sadness at the memory of the woman crying by the window. It’s no wonder that her poor soul gets trapped in here. It has changed little. There’s the same single bed with its carved wooden frame, the same fireplace, even the same chest of drawers and sturdy wardrobe. But the walls are papered with little yellow flowers and there’s a rocking horse by the window. The room is full of childish things – books, toys and trinkets, the usual paraphernalia of a little boy’s bedroom. Gwen needs to teach him how to keep his room tidy, I muse. ‘Show me yours, Master Robert,’ I ask.
He opens a door on the opposite side of the corridor. The room is much the same as his brother’s, but with blue walls and two large windows looking out onto the stable and carriage block, a harmoniously proportioned, red-bricked building with a tall clock tower capped by a lead dome and weather cock. I can see one of the stable boys standing by the wall, smoking idly. In a tweed cap and brown jacket, his black hair curling about his neck, he cuts a surly figure. He’s lost in thought until someone calls him, then he drops his cigarette to the ground and saunters back through the giant archway, beneath the clock tower, and disappears.
Robert shows me his possessions. He’s proud of his books and the way they’re neatly lined up on the shelf in alphabetical order. He tells me that he likes to ride, play tennis and swim in the sea. He also enjoys history and writing poetry. I sense he’s a quiet child who enjoys his own company. ‘Shall I show you the rest of the house?’ he asks.
‘I would very much like that, Master Robert,’ I tell him. Although I have already been in this house in the present, I need to familiarise myself with it in this time as quickly as possible if I’m to find out what’s going on.
Robert shows me around with enthusiasm. No longer the solemn little boy, but a child full of self-importance. He knows many of the characters in the portraits and reads out their names and dates with gravitas; they are Pengowers, and he’s clearly pleased to be descended from them. He tells me who built the house and when, and how Queen Elizabeth herself came to stay and that the stairs had to be widened especially to accommodate her dress. ‘That is why it is as it is,’ he says, taking me down it. ‘On account of the Queen’s dress. I am sure Queen Victoria will visit too,’ he says loftily, ‘but we won’t have to widen the staircase. I would think it is wide enough for her dress.’ I decide not to deflate his hope by telling him that the Queen is an old lady now and unlikely to go anywhere. Robert is full of information, and I imagine that he must be a pleasure to teach, for he’s alert and interested in everything.
When we get to the dining room he goes and stands beside the antique carved fireplace surround. The walls are covered in wood panelling upon which hang gilt-framed portraits and landscapes. He grins at me. ‘Shall I show you something special?’ he asks.
‘Are you going to disappear up the chimney like Santa Claus?’ I ask.
He laughs. It’s the first time I’ve seen him laugh. ‘I’m going to show you a secret hiding place where priests used to hide. Did you know that Queen Elizabeth killed Catholics?’
My curiosity is piqued. ‘Are you telling me there’s a priest hole in here?’
‘This house is full of treasures, Miss Swift. Come and I’ll show you.’
I go and stand beside him. He waits a beat, enjoying the suspense, and then puts his hand on the relief carving of a rose and presses it. To my delight, a hidden door in the panelling to the left of the fireplace springs open. Robert pulls it wide to reveal what looks like a stone pit.
‘Where does it lead to?’ I ask, intrigued.
‘A room. There’s nothing in it. No bones of dead priests.’
‘What a horrid thought!’ I exclaim.
He laughs again. ‘I would not want get stuck down there. No one would find me and I would starve to death. It’s a hole, you see. Papa said there would have been a ladder there once, but there’s no ladder now. There is no way out.’
It crosses my mind that Felix could fall down there by accident and never be found, but I discount the theory because surely this would be one of the first places they would search after he goes missing.
‘Papa says there are likely to be other tunnels and secret hiding places in the house. This one was discovered by one of the housemaids when she was polishing the wood. She pressed so hard the door popped open. She nearly fainted with fright.’
‘I can imagine.’
‘Shall I show you the rest of the house? We can look for other priest holes if you like. Papa will be very pleased with me if I find a new one. He says the house is riddled with them.’
In showing me the house, Robert omits the servants’ side and their sleeping quarters on the second floor. I imagine, to him, those areas don’t exist. The servants move about the place as ghosts, unseen, unheard, quietly going about their business. For me, the servants are of great significance. Felix does not disappear on his own accord. He’s taken, and I need to find out why, where and by whom. I know that I won’t be able to prevent the abduction, for I mustn’t alter the future. That is the most important rule for a timeslider – to be mindful of the Butterfly Effect, the theory that comes from the Chinese proverb ‘the flapping of the wings of a butterfly can be felt on the other side of the world’ that every tiny action can have a far-reaching effect. When the time comes, I should leave this place having disturbed nothing.
Robert leads me outside. It’s a beautiful evening. The sky is a great expanse of blue, the clouds that float in it like candyfloss, moving slowly on the breeze. Robert shows me the gardens. They’re magnificent. Cordelia has a gift for beauty. Her inner playfulness and charm have manifested this glorious place. There are flowers everywhere, and shrubs and trees and fountains and statues and secret walled gardens and arboretums and grottos. Mayflower adorns the hedges with its frothy white blossom and cow parsley grows in abundance beneath an avenue of lime trees, like heaps of exquisite lace. Dappled light shimmers on the grass where daisies and buttercups grow, and butterflies flutter through the sunbeams with tiny insects and bees. It’s a paradise and I wonder whether Bruce and Olivia Talwyn will be able to restore it when spring comes. I’m particularly struck by the quiet. There’s no drone of airplanes overhead, or the whizzing of cars in the lane. Only birdsong and the lazy humming of bees.
Robert does not introduce me to the groundsmen, nor, when he shows me the stables, does he present me to the grooms. He does, however, stop to talk to the coachman, who doffs his cap and greets me cheerfully in the stable yard. He has grey whiskers and sage-green eyes, crooked teeth and an engaging smile. ‘Mr Grantly at your service, madam. I have just the mare for you, Miss Swift,’ he tells me, his enthusiasm infectious. ‘She’s gentle but bold. This young lad here likes to ride fast, don’t you, Master Robert?’
Robert laughs. ‘If Miss Swift is anything like her name, she will want to ride fast too.’
Mr Grantly looks at me and his eyes twinkle. ‘You see, he’s a clever boy is Master Robert.’
‘I’m going to take great pleasure in teaching him. I enjoy a child with a quick mind,’ I reply, rather enjoying the part I’m playing. I’m settling in well, I think, and I can tell that Robert is warming to me.
‘Oh, he’s quick, all right.’ Mr Grantly ruffles Robert’s hair and Robert grins proudly.
Just as we set off, that surly stable boy I saw smoking by the wall comes through the archway, leading a horse by the reins. We catch eyes and he holds my gaze. He has an arrogant look and I find that it is I who averts my gaze first. ‘Come, Master Robert,’ I say, putting my hand on his shoulder. ‘What else have you got to show me?’ I smile at Mr Grantly. ‘Good day.’ The coachman doffs his hat once again. I glance at the stable boy to see that he’s still staring at me. His eyes are very dark, almost black, and they’re not friendly like Mr Grantly’s. I lift my chin and walk away, but I can still feel his gaze on my back. I don’t like him. I don’t like his energy. I sense he’s resentful and devious.
I ask Robert his name. ‘Mr John Snathe,’ Robert replies. I’d better watch out for John Snathe.
I sit with Gwen at the table in the nursery while the children have their tea. Felix is sweet, playful and endearing. He loves Gwen, who must sit next to him otherwise he cries. He’s very attached to her and she to him. She looks at him with adoration and laughs at everything he says, however banal. Robert finds his brother annoying and snaps at him impatiently. They are typical brothers with their petty jealousies and annoyances. Gwen defends Felix with an indulgent smile. ‘He’s only little,’ she says, which I imagine excuses him for every misdemeanour.
Later, after the children have gone to bed and I’ve read to them both, I leave them with their mother, who has come to kiss them goodnight. ‘Gwen tells me that Master Robert gave you a tour of the house,’ she says before I leave the room.
‘He showed me the priest hole in the dining room,’ I tell her.
‘This house is full of secrets,’ she says, eyes brightening. ‘One never knows when one is going to find another surprise. Those Elizabethans were an ingenious lot.’
‘I suppose they had to be. Those were dangerous times, for both Catholics and Protestants, depending on who was in power.’
‘How glad I am to live now,’ she says and, knowing what the twentieth century holds, I’m inclined to agree with her.
I watch her sit on Felix’s bed. He snuggles up against her and she rests her cheek against his hair and inhales the sweet smell of him. It’s clear that she loves him very much.
I leave them to share this moment in private and return to my bedroom to change for dinner. As I survey the few clothes that Hermione owns, an image floats into my mind of travellers in the modern day lugging enormous suitcases full of fashion around crowded airports. At least I won’t waste hours rummaging through my wardrobe trying to decide what to wear.
I’m pleased to find the house has running hot and cold water. I run a cold bath and wallow in it luxuriantly. It’s a relief to be naked and free after the tight-fitting corset. I’m not free for long, however. I dress, having learnt from un dressing in which order the items of clothing go on. I slip into the long white shirt, which I believe is called a chemise, and a pair of white drawers that reach my knees. It feels strange not to wear knickers, but they haven’t been invented yet. I can hardly bear to put on stockings. It’s too hot. I wonder for a moment whether I can get away with bare legs beneath my skirts, but I don’t want to get anything wrong on my first evening. I step into the crinoline and spend far too long figuring out how to fasten the corset, which goes over the chemise. There’s a white lace blouse to wear over the corset. It buttons up to the neck. There are so many little buttons that by the time I’ve finished fastening them, I’m sticky with sweat again and could do with another bath. Finally, I pull on the long blue skirt and cinch it in at the waist with a belt. Trussed up like a Christmas turkey, I can barely breathe. I’m not sure how I’m going to survive eleven days like this.
I appraise myself in the mirror. I might be boiling hot in all these clothes, but I certainly cut a dash. The corset makes me stand erect, with my shoulders back, and I know that I look feminine and demure in it. Satisfied that I’m sufficiently elegant, I make my way down to the drawing room at eight. I hear voices wafting up from the hall and feel nervous for I’m about to be formally introduced to Mr Pengower and his brother, Cavill, and I’m aware that as the governess I’m highly fortunate to be permitted to join them. I hope I don’t put my foot in it.
When I enter, two men get to their feet. I recognise Mr Pengower from earlier. The other must be Cavill. Cordelia, in a pale yellow gown that reveals the milky skin of her décolletage, and a dazzling array of jewellery, is seated in an armchair. ‘Ah, Miss Swift,’ she says, her voice soft and warm. ‘You have yet to meet my husband.’
I smile at Mr Pengower and am once again pleasantly surprised by the lively expression on his handsome face. ‘I had the honour of meeting him earlier,’ I tell her and put out my hand. He looks at it and frowns. Aware that I have just made my first faux pas, I hastily withdraw it and nod my head.
‘Ah, you are mistaken, Miss Swift,’ he replies, watching me with curiosity, as if I’m a rare bird. ‘I am Cavill, Mr Pengower’s brother.’
‘I am Mr Pengower,’ declares the more solemn-looking man. He does not smile but appraises me with condescension. I should have known – he has the bearing of the master of the house with his cold, dark eyes, serious face and sweeping black moustache. His hair, the colour and texture of a wild boar, is thinning. His brow is furrowed and his ruddy skin coarse, as if he’s constantly worried. Cavill, with his clear, untroubled eyes, tousled hair and smooth brow, has the bearing of a man who takes life lightly and with humour.
‘I do apologise, I assumed …’
‘Of course, you did,’ Mr Pengower interrupts gruffly, glancing resentfully at his brother, as if he’s only too aware of his superior good looks, and annoyed at being reminded of them.
Cavill chuckles and I’m struck by the charm in the lines around his mouth and fanning out at his temples as he smiles. He’s clearly amused by the misunderstanding. ‘It was an easy mistake,’ he says. ‘I do have the air of a man weighed down by responsibility and obligation.’ He’s joking, of course. Mr Pengower grunts. He is not so amused.
‘The only responsibility you have seems to be towards your horse,’ Mr Pengower replies with a sniff.
‘Do you ride, Miss Swift?’ Cavill asks, ignoring the resentment in his brother’s voice.
‘I do,’ I answer, and hope to God that I remember.
‘Good, then you can help me instil in the boys an understanding of how to take command of a horse and to have it do his bidding.’
‘Certainly.’ I’m much less confident than I sound. Cavill is staring at me intensely and I’m disarmed. His blue gaze has a way of penetrating straight through a person, like a laser. Does he see something in me that looks out of place, or is he just entertained by my ineptitude? I’ve been here a matter of minutes and I’ve already put my foot in it, twice.
‘Please sit down,’ says Cordelia. I do as she asks and sit beside her on a chair upholstered in pale blue silk.
The lofty butler appears with a tray of drinks. I take a crystal glass and thank him, although he doesn’t look me in the eye. ‘Thank you, Symons,’ says Cordelia. I take a small sip of wine and remind myself to be careful not to drink too much and let down my guard. I must remember who I am.
Cordelia smiles at me warmly. ‘I want you to feel at home here, Miss Swift,’ she says quietly. ‘It is important to me that you do. You see, we have more in common than you can imagine.’ Her smile broadens and there’s a whisper of collusion about it. ‘I do so want us to be friends,’ she adds softly. I wonder what it is that we have in common besides being women.
Mr Pengower goes and stands in front of the empty fireplace and hooks his thumbs in the pockets of his waistcoat, giving a glimpse of a fine gold watch on a chain and a paunch. He’s of a sturdy build with a barrel chest, a thick neck and short legs. He lifts his chin and appraises the room with an imperious gaze, as if he’s about to launch into a speech. Cavill flicks up the tails of his coat and perches on the sofa. His eyes shift to me and he gives me a jocular smile, as if he’s aware that his brother is pompous and is tacitly apologising for him. Mr Pengower asks after my impressions of the house, visibly pleased by my enthusiastic response. He then proceeds to enlighten me on its illustrious history, without knowing that his son has already done so. I listen – Mr Pengower is a man who is used to being listened to.
I watch Cordelia. She’s not looking at her husband but gazing into the middle distance, lost in thought. There’s a subtle smile upon her lips, as if she’s thinking of something pleasant. I imagine she’s heard this speech before, maybe many times. Ivan Pengower does appear to be a man who loves the sound of his own voice. ‘The exterior of St Sidwell Manor was altered in eighteen hundred by John Nash …’ On he drones and I try to look interested, for this soliloquy is for my benefit. The history would be interesting were it not for his self-important and monotonous intonation. There’s something very unappealing about him and I wonder what inspired Cordelia to marry him. Perhaps she didn’t have a choice.
I’m acutely aware of Cavill. He has a charisma that his brother does not. It’s powerful and I can’t help but be drawn to it. I catch his eye more than once and am embarrassed to be caught looking at him. But he is looking at me, too. I can feel the intensity of his gaze, burning through my clothes. There is between us an undeniable frisson, and I’m excited by it. I’m very far away from Pablo. Very far away from my world and the disastrous love affairs I’ve had. And I’m beautiful. That in itself is a novelty. I’m not at all surprised that he’s looking at me. None the less, I mustn’t allow myself to be drawn into a flirtation. I’m not here to enjoy a romance, but to save Cordelia Pengower’s soul. I focus my attention on the boorish Mr Pengower and try to ignore the magnetic allure of his brother.