What will they think of me?
When we stop again, my companion says, "Here we are." She's smiling again, encouraging. She opens the door and descends from the carriage, beckoning me to follow. But I shrink back, feeling a fluttering in my chest like moths trapped behind my breastbone.
I've made a mistake. I should never have agreed to this.
The coachman is unloading my box. Mrs. Lunt has climbed the steps and is tugging at the bell. A tall gentleman in a frock coat appears in the doorway and speaks to her in a voice too low for me to hear. She passes him some papers from her bag.
What are those papers?
The gentleman comes to the door of the carriage and looks at me from under dark bushy eyebrows. "You must get out now." His voice is polite, but not warm.
He must be Mr. Woodville, my new employer. Why is he not greeting me, welcoming me?
Something is wrong.
I hold tight to the seat, my heart bumping in my chest. Over my employer's head I can see, lurking in the doorway, a servant in shirtsleeves and canvas apron, his arms crossed over his broad chest. Mr. Woodville nods and the servant unfolds his arms and takes a step forward. Surely he doesn't mean to—?
I will not be dragged from this carriage.
Somehow my feet carry me down to the ground. Next to me is a low railing surrounding the lawn. I could easily step over it, walk away across the grassy space, away from all these staring faces.
But I can't.
For a moment we stand, frozen, then Mr. Woodville coughs and Mrs. Lunt moves towards the carriage. I go to speak to her as she brushes past me, but without looking at me, she gets in. The door slams, the wheels start to turn, and she has gone, leaving me behind.
***
In the misty light, a weight of stone looms over me, the house looking even more forbidding now I can see it properly.
Mr. Woodville forms his lips into a bland smile. "My name is Mr. Sneed."
Mr. Sneed? Not my employer then. Is he the butler?
He has a slight cast in one eye and I try not to stare at it, addressing myself to his necktie, neat between the points of his stiff collar.
"Will you take me to Mrs. Woodville, please?"
He regards me gravely. "Mrs. Woodville? There is no Mrs. Woodville here."
My mouth dries.
"But isn't this her house?" Despite myself, my voice quavers.
"No, this is Wildthorn Hall."
"Wildthorn Hall? But I'm supposed to be at the Woodvilles' ... they're expecting me." I look from Mr. Sneed to the servant, then back to Mr. Sneed.
He smiles again. "We have been expecting you."
This is a horrible mistake. But he said they were expecting me. How can that be possible?
Blood drums in my ears, darkness slides in at the edge of my vision.
A hand touches my arm and my sight clears.
"Please come with me." His grip on my arm is firm.
I want to run, but my legs won't obey me.
I glance at my box.
"Don't worry, John will bring that in."
I walk up the steps, past the stout heavily studded door. In the porch I stumble on the coarse mat, but Mr. Sneed's arm prevents me from falling. My feet carry me through the inner doors past twin suns rising in stained glass.
Inside, I find myself in a wide vestibule tiled in black and white diamonds that dazzle my eyes. A vaulted ceiling arches overhead. Directly in front of me is a set of tall double doors. The vestibule is empty apart from a polished table that holds arrangement of wax flowers under a glass dome. The colours of the flowers have faded; they look pallid and damp, like flesh.
Mr. Sneed presses me on. Our footsteps echo on the tiles.
We go down a corridor on the right, the tiles replaced by a narrow strip of green matting. After passing several shut doors, we come to a halt outside another one. Mr. Sneed holds up his hand. "Please wait." The door closes behind him, leaving me standing outside.
Now, now I must flee. Before it's too late.
But the burly servant, silent as a cat, has come up behind me and leans against the wall, watching me.
I hear a jingling noise and a young woman in a blue dress and an apron appears out of the gloom. A bunch of keys hangs on a chain from her belt. Under her white cap, her complexion is sallow, as if she rarely goes out of doors. Ignoring me, she nods at the servant, then knocks on the door.
Mr. Sneed appears. "Ah, Weeks. Come in." The door closes behind her.
I can hear voices, but not what they are saying. Then the door opens again and Mr. Sneed calls, "Come in." I hesitate and the servant shifts his position. I find myself crossing the threshold.
***
Immediately my eye is drawn to the elegant desk by the window where Mr. Sneed is standing, looking at two or three pieces of paper lying on its polished top. He studies them, leaning down and frowning, as if the writing is hard to decipher.
The young woman, Weeks, waits, her hands clasped in front of her, eyes cast down. The room is quite large but it feels airless. I can't breathe. A distant ringing begins in my ears, making my head swim. I sway slightly.