AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Chapter Nine
“The governess should have use of domestics, who, if you are gentle and kind, are generally ready to oblige you.”
Private Education: A Practical Plan for the Studies of Young Ladies.
Elizabeth Appleton. 1815.
“Mrs Pugh?”
With no response, Isabelle hummed and hawed outside the door to the housekeeper’s personal quarters on the ground floor.
Perhaps Mrs Pugh meant for her to wait inside for their breakfast appointment as Isabelle knew the guests’ morning demands were onerous, from Mrs Craddock requesting coddled eggs in bed, to awakening Lady Bronwen with some light music – for which a footman competent with the fiddle had been called upon.
So she twisted the handle and peered in.
Isabelle had half-expected to be met by a murky cavern with raven-black curtains, a steaming cauldron and maybe a few skeletons in closets, but to her utter surprise, she found a cosy sitting room with a worn but elegant sofa – probably a cast-off from the drawing room – pale-mint curtains, abandoned knitting on a shelf and a small table set for breakfast with a pretty China tea service and more of those delicious cinnamon biscuits piled upon a plate.
Which she’d never been offered before last night.
Mrs Pugh was clearly expecting her, so Isabelle wandered in, but not wishing to sit until permitted to do so – housekeepers could be more particular than their masters – she browsed the modest bookcase, never having realised that Mrs Pugh was an avid reader of…
She canted her head to view the titles.
The Mysterious Warningby Eliza Parsons.
Horrid Mysteriesby the Marquis de Grosse.
The Necromancer; or, The Tale of the Black Forestby Ludwig Flammenberg.
The Housekeeper of Castle Clermontby Bridget Bluemantle.
That last title caused her to halt.
Isabelle snatched the slender book from the shelf, flipped it open and scanned the pages. Some years ago she’d read this, a novel confiscated from a charge who’d been covertly reading it behind Mr. Goldsmith’s Grammar of Geography.
Not that Isabelle could blame the girl, but that was hardly the point.
If memory served – and as per usual in Gothic novels – this tale involved a spectral scoundrel. One who’d assumed the mantle having been stabbed to death after he’d ravished the lady of the house. In cahoots with the housekeeper, the lady had then buried his body in the rose garden, and thereafter the housekeeper had scared away prying eyes with tales of prowling ghoul–
“Put that down this instant, Miss Beaujeu! How dare you!”
Isabelle spun, clutching the book to her chest. “How dare I, Mrs Pugh? This is the same tale you told me that first night. And what’s more, you act exactly like the housekeeper in this novel – foretelling of doom and ghoulish flummery.”
Mrs Pugh pursed her mouth. “You’re imagining matters, Miss Beaujeu. That’s how the mania starts, you know.”
Isabelle flicked to page twenty-five…
“‘“…and if you hear the spectral scoundrel strolling at midnight, ’tis best to stay beneath those blankets… Doomed,” shrieked, the housekeeper. “Doomed so you are.”’”
She snapped the book shut. “Those were your exact words also.”
With a sniff, Mrs Pugh folded her arms and peered at her black boots. “Not that it’s any of your business but…this job can be fair humdrum, so it can. All day long, just checking the linen, ordering the maids about and writing menus.” She mashed her lips together. “So, yes, I… I might on occasion tell the odd tale…just to liven the place up a bit.”
“Well, I…” Isabelle narrowed her gaze. “No, Mrs Pugh, you are far more astute than that.”
A glint lit the housekeeper’s eyes, lips on the verge of waxing to a crescent. “Madog told me you were very good with the young lass last night. You don’t think her insane, then?”
“Not at all. I think her grieving. Mari’s at an age where she’s keen to be treated as an adult and yet is still a child in many ways. She needs compassion and someone to listen to her.”
